REID

I shake the jacket from my arms as soon as I step through the big wooden door. I know from experience the halls in the building radiate heat. This building is one of my favorites.

Moss covered exterior everything you expect from a hundreds year old campus.

I jostle the watch on my wrist, shaking it free from my sleeve to see the time. Early. Alright, knowing Bronwyn she’ll stroll in not a second sooner than she’s meant to.

Which means for me, I’ll do the pleasantries after.

That’s fine. I have no real plans today besides the usual. I’ll do some reading. Finish some school work. Austin will probably drop by to talk about the newest "love of his life." Maybe Bronwyn will want to grab dinner while she’s in town. She can be the vessel by which my mother receives her update on my life. Not much to update on. Sorry, folks.

The room is mostly empty, for now. I’ve been to enough of these to know it never lasts. I catch a glimpse of a few people I know. Give them a smile and nod but make no more effort than that. I’m about halfway done with the most recent reread of Metamorphosis, I’d much rather focus on that while I wait.

I had a lecture in this hall last year, and there wasn’t a time I didn’t sit in the same seat. Third row, center-right, fourth chair.

Occupied.

I’m standing off to the side, not yet ascending the stairs to find an alternate, instead making note of the woman occupying what is more of an idiosyncratic preference than any real right of possession.

Her hair is bright, and warm, and I can’t be sure if the light is hitting her differently or if it’s the illusion my mind wants me to fall for. A mental spotlight landing on her as she fidgets with a couple books in front of her. Straightening them like she’s waiting for something. I guess she is. I haven’t seen her before. I would remember.

I can’t kick her out of my seat, I wouldn’t even if I could. The idea of disturbing her feels intimately wrong.

Seats are beginning to fill, and I’ve lost time in this thought that goes nowhere. It’s two strides before I’m on the landing for the third row, slipping by a few people who had been eying that same spot. Maybe for the same reason.

We’re separated by an empty chair. One it would be too easy to slide into, but I have no rush to make an introduction. She fiddles again with her sealed copy of my aunt’s book, and I think she might just be here for class credit. Fair.

The pages brush across my thumb as I fan through them, flipping to the recent bookmark. Removing the pen from its place as a page holder and tucking it behind my ear waiting for it to be of use.

There’s movement beside me. Small and virtually unnoticeable. But I notice it. I notice her.  

I can feel it. The smallest flap of a butterfly’s wing and I wonder what kind typhoon she might cause. She’s watching me, I think she is. Either that or she’s waiting for someone. Checking her watch frequently, but it's a lot more methodical than just the annoyance of someone not arriving on time. No. She’s timing something.

She’s timing me.

I brush my thumb against my lip so I can turn another page.

When I move, she moves. She is watching me. Timing me. Tracking me. For what purpose I can’t begin to imagine. I won’t be able to keep up this façade much longer, and fuck it. I don’t want to.

As soon as I look at her, I can’t contain the smile that broadens across my face. As if in recognition, but I’m sure we don’t know each other. Though I suddenly have every intention to change that.

Her eyes widen as I turn to face her, perhaps in concern that I’m about to blow her cover.

"If we’re going to be sitting next to each other, I should introduce myself. I’m Reid." I extend my hand, the appropriate means of introduction.

"Arden." She offers the two syllables and five fingers as she slips her hand into mine like it’s fit there before.

"Your fingers are ice cold, Arden," I say. Bringing my left hand to wrap around hers for warmth. I’ll admit it now to myself, and later to the lined pages of my journal, it’s as selfish as it is anything to want to connect us. But I release them. And she interlocks her hands and drops them in her barely covered lap.

"I’m told it’s my weak Florida blood, I’m still adjusting to the weather."

Who the fuck would tell her that. Her handshake wasn’t weak and I can’t imagine anything else about her is.

"Maybe, but there's no shame in a good pair of gloves."

"But I'm trying so hard to do the cool-Cambridge-girl look. You don't think I'd immediately out myself a non-local?" she asks, with a blend of genuine curiosity and self deprecating humor.

I can’t take my eyes off of her, or rather, I don’t want to. She speaks so vibrantly, her hands moving with every word. Despite the way the thick blonde locks of hair fall in her face you can see her eyes, piercingly blue and direct. Latched on to me.

I just shake my head with a laugh. Cool-girl. I have a suspicion that what makes this girl cool is the same thing that makes her fucking stunning. I doubt I’ve even had a glimpse of it yet.

"Number one, there's no prize for frozen fingers. Number two, something tells me you don't have to try that hard. And number three, I'll let you in on a little secret-most people are non-locals; it's a college town, after all. No point in being too proud for a pair of gloves."

There’s a smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, and then she does it. Her question is all the invitation I need to slip into the seat between us. The one reserved for this moment.

"What are you reading?"

"I’m glad you asked," I’m so fucking glad she asked. "The Metamorphosis. Have you read it?"

I slide it along the table and shift my body so I am now the one able to watch her. And I do.

Her long fingers run through the pages, as her mind runs over the words. But it’s where she notes the page numbers and annotation log I have on the inside cover that has her stopped. I’ll answer the question I see she wants to ask.

"Page numbers." I offer up, as our arms brush against each other and she leans into it. My finger runs down the list as I explain the short hand I’ve used for years in annotations, and she’s looking at it like I’ve just given her a key.

Watching her flip between the pages, asking me what merits a reference, she’s soaking it up. So much that she didn’t bother hiding her own notebook full of tick marks. The ones I am now certain were logging my page turns.

Either she doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. But I do. Increasingly by the minute.

"What about you?" I ask, prodding for information. She’s clearly interested in literature, probably a grad student like others in attendance. And yet… "You're sitting here waiting for Bronwyn, and yet you have an unread copy of her book in front of you. Are you here for class credit, or maybe an unrealized fan?"

"I HAVE read it!" Her response is immediate, almost as if she was offended. As she pulls another copy from her bag, one that looks not too dissimilar from my book.

"It would feel like fraud sitting here otherwise, like I'd be taking the seat from someone who appreciated it more. I mean, I haven't read this copy. I just bought it to have it signed."

Little does she know just whose seat she’s stolen; I’ve never been happier for the thievery.

While I only catch the briefest glance at the pages before she slams her hands down to shut the cover, my fingers recognize the feeling of a loved book. The same way my mind recognizes hers.

Have you ever had that feeling of recognition in a person? Where you know them from a place that you have no reason to associate? That’s the only way I can describe this. There is a familiarity in her that feels like somewhere I’ve been, and I know exactly where.

Her hands land on top of mine as she protects the contents of the novel. She’s speedy with an apology, the idea that they are personal notes, as if that should disinterest me. Fuck if I’m not more interested than before. But I’m willing to earn her secrets.

"No matter how much I want to know what you wrote, I don't expect any part of you that you don't want to share." I hand her back her book, and I see as her eyes shift from where they were watching my hands, and land on my mouth.

She does something then, I’m not sure she is aware of, a tell if I ever saw one. And I have no need to keep my own interest hidden as she sinks her teeth subtly into her bottom lip.

"Although, Arden, I did show you mine." I haven’t said it yet, but it’s clear there’s a shared interest between us. You don’t just watch someone reading for sport.

My focus on her is broken quickly. I don’t try to reserve the what the fuck expression that must be obvious as I snatch my book back just in time as a cup lands right where it had been.

A coffee landing in front of her, and fuck, a hand landing on her back.

She was waiting for someone.

Fuck.

Fine.

Annoying. Misunderstanding, but fine.

I shift back in my seat and separate us where we had inched closer. The intimacy in thought shared as she flipped through the pages of my book scanning it for my notes.

The possessive way his hand drapes over her chair, as he drinks from the cup he just put  in front of her. She offers me an introduction, one I don’t want, to the man whose familiarity is more than an indication of their relationship.

        This should start any minute, and her boyfriend seems relatively impatient waiting. Time to extract myself from this conversation.

"Bronwyn is wonderful, I saw her when she was here before speaking about her last book. Be sure to stay for a bit when she's done. She does a meet and greet."

Back to my seat.

Back to my book.

Not before she tosses out what feels like an obligatory "catch you after" as if I needed the ego boost. I don’t.

Do I normally misread a situation? Never.

Did I misread this one? Fucking massively.

And yet, I notice the second she glances back to me, ignoring the man in her ear.

***

I stand the second the applause fills the room, thinking about the most direct way down the few stairs and out the door. I’m not going to prolong the inevitable here with more chit chat that can lead nowhere. Worse, it could lead somewhere. No matter how interested I might have been, fuck, how interested I am, I’m not about to make a move on someone who is clearly entangled with someone else. I still have some self-respect.

The stairs are crowded as I wait to maneuver my way out. I turn back at just the moment to see Arden as he leans down to kiss the top of her head.

Enough, Reid. 

My right hand phantom playing ivory keys against my thigh. The same arrangement of notes that they always do when I’m trying to distract myself.

She lands next to me on the stair. I should walk away, but a little civility never hurt anyone. Especially as she’s looking up at me like she’s waiting for something.

“Did you enjoy the lecture?” I am curious what she thought. I’ve seen Bronwyn speak a dozen times, she’s always impressive, but I know what to expect. And after seeing Arden’s book, I’m well aware her attendance today was meant to feed her soul more than any GPA.

“I really did, I’m going to go get in line now to have her sign my book.” She’s beaming at the thought, how easy it would be to make the introduction, but I don’t need to wrap myself up in this anymore than I have. I know how I am. I know what I want. But more importantly, I know what I don’t.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. It was great to meet you, Arden. Maybe I’ll see you around.” The path clears, I offer her a compensatory smile, no need to hide it, and make my way towards the exit.

“Wait,” she calls after me, “I’m not in the graduate program, I’m never on this part of campus, just for this. Well technically, I’m not really supposed to even be here. Kind of one of those all’s-fair-in-love-and-war things. So you won’t see me around, not unless you want to.”

If I want to? Ha. Little does she know just how much I “want to.” But that doesn’t matter. She’s standing in front of me, and without direction from my brain my hand moves to rest on her shoulder. Her breathing is quicker than mine, maybe that’s just her, maybe it’s nerves. Either way, I won’t be figuring it out. I drag my hand down the length of her arm, wanting it to linger on her finger tips, but I release it. It’s best to be clear. Perhaps we could be friends, but it certainly didn’t seem like friendship she was imagining when her eyes dragged over my mouth. And it wasn’t friendship I envisioned when I watched her teeth sink into the flesh of her pink bottom lip.

“It was great to meet you. I know this is college, but I don’t get involved in complicated situations. Though perhaps next time save your boyfriend the trouble of running out as soon as it’s over and just let him stay behind.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s just a friend.” Ha. Sometimes, I really fucking hate college. People hate labels. Trading clarity for freedoms. It’s a trade I refuse to make now.

“I know well enough what just a friend means. I’ve been just a friend, and like I said, I really prefer not to get involved if you’re already involved. No matter how much at this moment I want to.”

Her hand pressed flat against my stomach, as if to halt me where I stand. Planting her feet like she needs the added stability. I can feel it flex, twitch, I don’t step out of her reach because frankly, I don’t want to be out of her reach. That doesn’t change the fact that for all the compromises I will make, this isn’t one of them.

“Reid,” my name forms on her lips and I want to step forward, step into it, to hear what she so desperately needs me to hear. “He’s not my boyfriend, and he is just a friend, in the way the words are meant to be used. Nothing complicated or involved behind them. Just my best fu–, my best friend.”

Her friend. Her best friend? Do I believe that? I want to, even if I don’t. Unsure what that story is, not needing to hear it, I do my best to take people at face value. That is, after all, what I expect from them.

Her eyes look pleading in some sense. Earnest.

I take a deep breath, and she releases her hand from where it served as a barricade. Smiling with me as I urge her forward in line.

I see Bronwyn ahead, meeting students and signing books. It would be too easy to duck behind the podium and skip the line, but I’d rather wait. Using each minute of delay with Arden to learn something new.

“So,” she says, “who did you need to flirt with to get a ticket to this show?” she asks after telling me the rather masterful saga of her pseudo-courtship with poor Tyler, the TA. I can’t help but laugh, imagining just how that played out.

“All’s fair in love and literature, Arden.”

She seems to agree.

It’s the realization that she’s younger, that takes me back. I had assumed, incorrectly, that she was here as a grad-student. She’s eighteen. She’s fucking eighteen. On the list of things I do, 1. Complicated relationships and 2. Teenagers don’t rank. I am more focused on people who are more focused. But in speaking to her, you wouldn’t know. She carries on with the knowledge and personality of someone who is well out of high school. So we take another step forward.

Before I know it, I’m wrapped in the warmth of a hug from my mother’s sister. The same woman who gathered the hundred or so people here. Arden doesn’t hide her surprise. Not fully understanding what she’s seeing play out. Not knowing her mouth is practically agape.

“Reid! I knew I saw you but was worried you were going to sneak away like last time.” Bronwyn says, and Arden’s eyes widen in curiosity.

I urge her gently forward, “You know I would never sneak anywhere. This is Arden, she’s a big fan of yours.”

I’m pulled from my thoughts when Bronwyn turns to me to ask something, “I don’t know her well enough to tell you yet,” I say honestly. Responding to the question. ‘Have I stunned her into an uncommon silence? I would have no way to know what is or isn’t common when it comes to Arden. But in just the last hour, it feels like common is one of the last words I would use to describe her. “But I hope to find out.” The second half of my answer makes my intention clear.

I’m on the sidelines of this conversation, and see the moment Arden is gifted with the piece of news that hasn't been made public. Little does she know what's sitting on my bookshelf at home, and it gives me an idea.

***

When we step outside, the cool autumn air is refreshing. But I note the shiver up her spine. Of course she’s cold. Her Florida blood.

I’m unsure what her plans are for the day, but the rest of my day has been decided by this encounter.

“Do you want to take a walk with me?” I ask, hoping that her best friend isn’t expecting her anywhere. Her answer is packed with eagerness.

“It’s only about four blocks from here, but I know you’ll love it.” She smirks at me in reply.

“Oh yeah? What makes you so sure you know what I’ll love?” Challenging me on my claim. To be fair, I don’t know. I don’t know her. But I have every fucking intention of changing that. I take my jacket, and help her into it.

“I’m not sure, yet, but I think I will soon.”

“Aren’t you going to be cold?” she asks, as I untuck her hair from the collar. She asks, maybe even feigning concern, but she’s settling into it. And fuck, if I don’t love the way she looks cloaked in something of mine.

It’s practically primal the feeling that kicks in. When a woman is dressed in something of yours. And this, fucking does it. Knowing that when she hands it back, it will have the lingering scent of her shampoo. The image of her short skirt barely past the length of my average jacket. Her legs covered in some version of tights that do nothing for warmth. Her Florida is showing. But it’s far from weak.

“Maybe, but I’ll be fine. It’s a short walk, and by the looks of it, you haven’t mastered warm layers yet. We’ll have to practice.”

And practice we will.

***

Her skepticism as I push open the door labeled RESTRICTED is endearing. She doesn’t know me, yet, but I’m not one for breaking rules. It’s cute she thinks I might be. But what’s behind this door is something that if I was a rule breaker, could fall under the earlier notion of “all's fair in love and literature.”

        The walls are lined with shelves, and she blends into it. Not in a way that I could lose her. But that she’s meant to be here. I know her from here. Even knowing she’s never been here.

There’s a corner table protected by the shelves around it, creating a sense of privacy, intimacy. As she shimmies herself free of my jacket to sink into the wingback chair, I drape it over the back, not ready for her to return it to me yet.

I take the seat across from her, the scrabble board beneath our hot cocoas waiting to be played.

She drags her tongue across her lip to clean away the whipped cream that clung to it. “Looks good,” I say. And she really fucking does. And I have to take a slow steadying breath to focus on anything beyond her mouth.

“Do you like scrabble?” I ask, inclining my head. She presses her lips together and a smile breaks through.

“I don’t like scrabble, I LOVE it, but this has been such a nice day, it would be a terrible shame if it ended poorly when I inevitably kick your ass.” That is something I would like to see, but instead of letting her stretch her literary muscles, I’d much rather play a version of this game where just sitting at this table will deem me victorious.

I clear the plates to the side, making room for the game and dump the tiles out between us, explaining the rules. She might think this is ridiculous. It might be ridiculous. But for someone like her that seems to walk the line of what she will and won’t share, this feels like a direct path to get to know her. And that’s what I want.

“...we play until we run out of tiles, or I know everything about you, whichever comes first.”

“We might be playing for a while then...” she says, softley. Her sincerity peeking through.

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” Really fucking hoping for.

“What about points?”

It takes all I have not to outright laugh. Points are not the point of this game. Not to me. But for someone like her, someone focused and determined, points and goals are always at the forefront of your mind. They were once at the forefront of mine. Now, despite all my plans and focus, there is only one thing I can focus on. And she’s sitting right in front of me.

“We can track points the same way you do in normal scrabble, but I’ll tell you now, Arden, I won’t need to keep score to know if I’ve won, because if I walk away from this table knowing you more than I do now, it won’t matter how many points I have.”

She pulls a sheet of paper out, as if she doesn’t quite understand just how serious I am being.

As I play my first word, she does quick mental math to tally up the points. I reach across the table, and slide the paper towards me.

Blank, ready and waiting to be filled.

“How about I keep score, and you can just focus on kicking my ass.”

Her eyes narrow on me, but it just makes me smile, knowing that I have zero fucking interest in keeping track of any number that isn’t her phone number, her birthday, or anything else that let’s me know her.

I draw a line down the center of the page, Reid Jennings gets reduced to RJ on the left.

“What’s your last name?” I ask.

“Bancroft, with a B.”

I add AB in the right column, cap the pen and tuck it behind my ear, waiting, eagerly, for her to play her first word. For her to play all the words. And I can’t fucking wait.

“Alright AB, you’re up.”