Until the Day I Die(25)

“What the hell,” he says, looking me up and down with his squinty, sexy movie star eyes. He’s wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt that says SHAWARMA-RAMA with the same horrific drawing of a pita with meat spilling out of it that’s on the side of the truck. I don’t really care about the shirt because his jaw is covered with stubble the color of warm cinnamon that I immediately imagine rubbing my nose against.

“What did you do that for?” He picks up the dispenser and puts it on the steps of his truck. It looks like I’ve dented it.

I stammer out an apology as he gathers the rest of the dispensers from the picnic tables. But he can’t open the door with his arms full.

“I’ll get that.” I jump up and open the door. He stomps past me, letting the door slam behind him. I wait, not sure if he’s coming back.

Then the door opens a foot or so, and a sinewy arm covered with cinnamon-colored hair holds out something wrapped in foil. It smells fantastic, and I take it quickly, before the door shuts again. I eat the whole thing standing up, in about four bites, tahini sauce and chicken juice dripping all over my tank top. It seems Paul Newman’s made up his mind to hide in his shawarma truck, so what the hell. Why shouldn’t I go for it?

But then, just as I’m wishing I’d torn a few napkins from the dispenser before I chucked it at the truck, the door opens and he clatters down the steps. I execute a surreptitious wipe of my chin on my shoulder.

“Sorry about that,” he says gruffly.

“Me too. I’m sorry too.” I dip into my wallet for my hundred and hold it out to him.

He squints at it, then laughs. “I don’t have change for a hundred. But don’t worry about it—it’s on me.”

I stuff it back in my wallet. “I mean, I don’t blame you for not wanting to serve me. It’s late. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a student and have the responsibility of providing those amazing pitas to twenty-eight thousand students and faculty, give or take. That’s really intense. And classes haven’t even started yet. I mean, whoa.”

I mean, whoa? Could I sound dumber? Not to mention, I can’t believe how much I just said to this guy. I don’t talk this much to people I’ve known for years.

“You have no idea,” he says.

I blink at him. He and I are the same height, approximately, about five feet five. The physics of kissing this guy would be perfect, requiring just a minimum amount of effort. Just the slightest angling. The slightest push to enact the logic of Newton’s third law . . .

“You want to get a drink?” he asks.

I do, but I’m feeling overwhelmed by the idea of objects colliding from equal and opposite forces—and then kissing.

“You don’t like beer?” he says.

I don’t, but I’m not about to tell him that. And I really want to go with him. So, so much.

“I’m eighteen,” I say.

He makes a pfftt sound. “I know a place we can go. It’s no problem.”

“You’re legal?” It’s a dumb question, but, aside from the spyware thing I just did back at the dorm, I’m generally a rule follower, and my brain needs all the facts. Especially if I have to factor in a potential ride in the back of a police cruiser.

“Hell no.” He grins, revealing nothing more than a set of regular teeth and gums and slightly chapped lips. But somehow, together it’s more. Together it forms this magical, incandescent something.

“I’m Rhys.” He offers his hand. “Not R-e-e-c-e. R-h-y-s. It’s Welsh.”

“You’re Welsh?”

“Grandfather is.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Shorie.” We shake.

“Oh.” He looks slightly confused, like everyone else who hears my name for the first time. “S-h-o-r-i-e?”

Oh my God. We are spelling names. Equal and opposite forces. “Yes. Exactly.”

I think about a couple of things: No one knows where I am. I have no idea who this guy is. He is extremely good looking, but good genes and symmetrical facial features do not preclude the possibility of someone being a killer and/or rapist. But also, they do not preclude the possibility of someone being Mr. Right. Someone who spelled my name correctly on the very first try.

Also, Mom made me take self-defense classes my senior year, in preparation for going away to college. Not only did I not hate them, I ended up being kind of good at getting wrist control over an opponent. Especially one just my height.

“I should probably let my roommate know where I’m going,” I say. There’s a little tremor in my voice, which makes me blush. Good thing it’s getting dark.

“Sure.” He glances at my shoulder, my clavicle, where the yellow lace bra is creeping out of my shirt, then looks over at the truck and ruffles his cinnamon hair. It sticks up adorably, and I want to smooth it so badly. “I’ll just lock up.”

He disappears while I text Dele.

I met a guy and we went out to get beers. I’m safe so don’t worry. Shorie

The text reads like I’m a forty-year-old woman instead of a bubbly college freshman reveling in her boundless new freedom. But truth be known, I’ve never been bubbly or reveling or any way most girls are. I’ve been myself for eighteen years. I guess there’s no reason to stop now.

Dele’s reply zooms back to me. Three lines of smiley faces with heart eyes. I put my phone in the pocket of my pants as Rhys clatters down the steps and locks the door.