Wrecked(39)

It’s crowded, and Tamra, insistent, presses close. “Oh, so you’re saying this is somehow my fault?” she hisses into Haley’s ear. Finally, angry. “For your information, nobody ‘ditched’ anybody. She wandered off. The rest of us all managed to stay together; what’s up with her? So if you want to know what sucks, I think it sucks that she didn’t come to me before reporting everyone and dragging us into some investigation.”

Haley stops scraping. “It’s all about you, isn’t it? Unbelievable.” She tosses the now--empty plastic plate onto a tray, pushes past Tamra, and exits the dining room. T, thankfully, doesn’t follow. As Haley walks quickly through the throng of students in the lobby, her phone sounds again.

Haley? Please.

She moves to one side, begins typing a quick response — coming—and feels someone tap her shoulder.

Eric something--or--other, who lives on the floor below her. She barely knows him.

“Hey. Did that guy ever catch up with you?” he says.

She presses send. “What guy?” They begin walking toward the door.

“I don’t know him. He was leaving a message on your whiteboard. I was a few doors away and told him you were at breakfast.”

Haley sighs. Richard has been texting plus leaving her voice messages. She’s ignored them all. “Light brown hair? Blue eyes? A little taller than me?”

Eric hefts his pack a bit higher on his shoulder. “I don’t know. He was wearing a baseball cap. No clue about his eyes.”

They step outside and separate as Haley heads toward the dorm. Of course. She could only avoid Richard for so long. Eventually they were going to have to talk. Figures he might actually come by. Didn’t Carrie call him a stalker?

She scrolls back in her mind to his last text. He’d asked to meet her at the math lounge. Neutral territory, he’d called it. He said they could talk right after his tutoring shift. This afternoon, in fact. Weird that he’d stop by while she was at breakfast, when he’d suggested meeting later. And him not a morning person.

But Eric didn’t say “the guy” was looking for her. It might not have been Richard.

Haley picks up the pace. For the first time in a long time, she’s running.





. . .


He sees them across the crowded room. They enter as a pack, tentative in the dim light. He recognizes the one from class.

He skirts the wall, avoiding the crush of bodies, to reach them. They stand, transfixed, at the entrance. They look nice. All dressed up.

Her face lights, relieved, when he approaches.

“You came,” he says.

She laughs. Says something he can’t hear.

He lowers his head, ear close to her mouth.

“This is crazy!” she says loudly.

He nods, looks up. One of her companions, tall, dark eye makeup, stares at him.

“You brought friends,” he says, staring back.

“I’m Tamra,” she says.

“Brandon Exley.”

. . .





18





Richard


Quadratic equations. Really? Did this kid even graduate from high school? But that’s what Richard’s explaining for the umpteenth time to some hapless freshman when he hears a shuffle near the lounge entrance and Haley enters.

He’d just about given up hope that she’d show. She’d never answered his text suggesting they meet. She’d never answered any of his texts. But here she is, her eyes darting in his direction before she beelines it to her regular chair by the ficus. She makes a big show of unzipping her pack, pulling out a fat textbook.

The nanosecond the clock registers four, he abandons the still--confused freshman—“Good luck,” he mutters to the next tutor—shrugs into his jacket, and crosses the room. She looks up. Which he takes as encouragement. He’d half expected the big book to become a missile aimed at his head.

“Want to get a coffee?” he asks quietly.

She nods, collects her stuff. Follows him from the lounge, retracing their earlier descent to the basement snack bar, their steps echoing in the stairwell. She doesn’t speak, and he follows suit. He’s determined not to say the wrong thing. Even if that means saying nothing at all.

They get coffee, no brownies today, and automatically move to the quietest spot at the farthest corner of the room. He leans forward, elbows resting on the table, both hands wrapping the warm mug. He waits.

“By any chance,” she begins, “did you drop by my room this morning?”

He smiles. “No. Thought about it, though.”

Her eyes narrow, questioning. “Thought about it?”

“Yeah. When you didn’t answer my forty thousand texts and voicemails, I considered leaving gifts outside your door.”

A corner of her mouth turns up. She’s fighting the impulse to smile. More encouragement.

“What sort of gifts?”

“Not flowers. Too cliché. And not chocolate. Too predictable.”

“For the record: chocolate is never unwelcome. You can’t go wrong with chocolate.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I make you mad. No, I was thinking something a little more creative. Can you guess?”

Something about her expression suggests she’s not in the mood to play games. “Just tell me.”