This Is Falling(62)

“Well, I do date his brother, and they can both be pretty stupid. Honestly, I wouldn’t worry about it,” she says, leaning back in to look over her hair in the mirror.

“Right, okay. I won’t worry about it. Poof! Look at that, I’m not worrying. Suddenly, I have no troubles. Good advice,” I’m being a little bitchy, but Cass isn’t really feeling the seriousness of what I’m saying.

“Well, now you’re just being mean. I’m going to class. Try to fix your attitude before I get back so we can go to his game tonight. Your parents still coming for the tournament tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” I sulk.

“Hey, why don’t you go to the gym or something? Get your mind off of things since you don’t have a class this afternoon,” she says, pulling her backpack from her chair.

“Maybe,” I say, still not willing to be cheery.

“Whatever, I’m done helping you. See you at four.” I love Cass’s brand of tough love, and in most ways, she’s the perfect friend for me. But right now, I just want someone to want to help me spread rumors about Nate on the Internet.

After Cass leaves, I try just kicking my feet up at my desk and watching TV. I used to watch soap operas with my mom. I was really into Days of our Lives. What’s amazing is how I haven’t watched it once since I’ve been at McConnell, yet here I am, able to tune in and know exactly what’s happening in the storyline. Jack is dead…or is he? Jennifer is dating some doctor. And Hope is looking for someone on an island. Yep, all caught up.

Maybe Cass is right. Maybe I should check out the rec center. They had some great tennis courts, and it looked like they had pick-up games going on a lot. Maybe I could get back into it…just a little.

It takes me a while to pull my racket out from the bottom of my trunk. It’s still buried under the thick winter coat I have yet to use. I haven’t swung it seriously in two years, but I could still beat my dad. So maybe there’s still something there.

I change into a pair of cotton shorts and a thin T-shirt, then grab my iPod and lock up. If no one is there, I’ll just put my racket in a locker and try out a few of the machines. Nate’s been gone since early this morning. I know, because I waited outside our door for his to crack open, and then I hurried inside before he could notice. He lingered in the hallway for a while, which made me feel…nice. But it didn’t last long; that unsettled feeling moved right back in again.

“Oh good. I guessed right. I was about to give up,” Tucker says from the bench outside our dorm building. He looks like he’s been running, and the fact that he’s waiting here—for me—suddenly has my stomach churning.

“Wha….were you waiting for me?” I’m a little freaked out, and I can feel my left eye starting to twitch.

“Uh…I…yeah. I was. I’m sorry. That’s creepy isn’t it? I was out running and then I sort of found myself here, and then I started to think, ‘huh, I bet she lives here,’ and then next thing I know I’m sort of sitting here for a while playing with my iPod. Sorry, I…hmmmm. Yeah, just sort of did this. I don’t know.” He looks nervous and embarrassed, which actually sets me a little at ease.

“It’s okay. I was just surprised by it. I’m heading out…actually?” I scrunch my shoulders, trying to feign disappointment. I don’t want to hurt Tucker’s feelings, but I also don’t want him hanging around my building. And I really don’t want Nate seeing him hang around my building.

“Oh, yeah. I mean, I was just running by. Where you headed? I’ll head back with you.”

Great. “I’m just going for a quick workout. Try and get a few swings in,” I say, holding up the racket.

“Need a partner?”

He’s persistent. But I don’t think he’s really threatening, and I do need someone to volley with. I was dreading the idea of working in with a group of strangers. I’m not sure how much Tucker knows about tennis, but I’m willing to give him a try. And it will get us moving out of here, away from my dorm and farther away from the ball fields I know Nate is at for most of today.

“So, what made you pick art history?” He’s making small talk during our walk to the courts, and I’m grateful he’s carrying the conversation, because I can’t think of a single thing to say.

“Well, I’m one of those big undecideds. Duh duh duh,” I sing dramatically. “Anyway, I took a variety of electives this semester to try to figure out exactly what I want to do. I really like art, but not necessarily the creation of it. I’m more into the appreciation—and I think I can tell a story from a work of art. You know, sort of help interpret what the artist meant for the masses? God, that sounds arrogant, huh?” I have been leaning toward a degree in art history though, and I even went so far as to look into internships with the Oklahoma City Museum of Art.

“Actually, I think that sounds amazing. Your answer the other day? That was awesome. I’m a second-year art history major, and I’ve been helping out in Gooding’s class, trying to earn brownie points. I think you’d fit right in,” he says. I watch as he rolls up the cord on his iPod, tucking it in his shorts, and then I realize I’m staring at his very toned arms for way too long. Our eyes make contact for a brief second, and I recognize that flash of flirtation in his gaze again. Oh god. No, this is NOT flirting!