Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(12)

My mind races as I talk to my sister, though. What does this mean? Why did he send me a friend request?

I sigh. Better question is: Why am I being so dramatic? I don’t let myself think about Facebook for ten minutes. When I finally hang up, I tell myself I should start on homework. I should definitely not think about Blake Reynolds. And I do close the other tab without watching the interview.

But that brings the Facebook tab to the forefront. The request is still pending.

Confirm. Ignore.

Those are my choices. My heart is still beating at an accelerated rate, and I’d like to pretend I don’t know why. The truth is, there’s a part of me that’s following my mother’s wishful thoughts. A rich boyfriend would make things a lot easier for me. If I were the kind of person who could let someone take care of me, that is.

But if there had ever been any chance of that—and there never was—I bashed that over the head for good today.

Confirm. Ignore.

I should just ignore him. Ignore this. He’s nothing but a distraction, and I don’t need more distractions.

But instead of clicking ignore, before I let myself think what I’m doing, I click “send a message” and type out a short sentence.

Does your dad know the meaning of the words “age appropriate?”

He responds a few moments later. He doesn’t ask why I want to know. He knows his life; it’s obvious why I’m asking.

Of course he does, Blake writes. He just didn’t believe it applies to me. And then there’s a box with a question mark—undoubtedly some emoji that my computer is too old to decipher. It could be a smile. It could be an eye roll. It could be anything, and I’m not going to find out what it is. Because I don’t have the money. And—I tell myself—because I don’t care.

It’s not very convincing. I turn away from the computer instead and go make dinner.

The request is still waiting when I come back.

Confirm. Ignore.

I close the tab.

Confirm. Ignore.

Two days later, I still haven’t responded to Blake’s friend request. I don’t know what it means and I don’t have the time or the energy to think about it. Truth is, I’m a little too attracted to him to allow myself any closer. And yes, I understand that Facebook friendship is to real friendship as cigarette lighters are to intercontinental ballistic missiles. But somehow, this seems to represent a line. If I cross it, it will lead to…

Admittedly, whenever I try to map out the progression, it never seems terrible. Step one is Facebook friendship. Step two is unreadable emoji. Step three is probably going to be occasional head nods in each other’s direction, not the destruction of the world as we know it.

But my feelings aren’t logical. Every time I tell myself to accept the request, I cycle back to that memory of Blake looking in my eyes and telling me that I’ve never been invisible to him.

And yes, my attraction makes a little too much sense. Blake has symmetrical features and meets generally accepted standards for masculine appeal. In addition, he’s rich, smart, and powerful. I can tell myself that it’s ridiculous as often as I like, but I’m fighting years of social programming. Even a hint of interest on his part is enough to spark my subconscious desire.

That’s precisely why—logically—I want nothing to do with him. Television and books have all led me to hope, to believe that magic happens. Experience tells me that fiction is fiction and that hope leads to disappointment. Even assuming that he liked me, we’ve already proven that we’re too different to get along in reality. Nobody will ever take care of me but myself, and I can’t let myself believe anything else.

Friendship with Blake is not safe. It’s not even Facebook safe.

I slip into a seat in the hall for the class we share a minute before lecture is scheduled to start. Blake always sits in the third row. Not that I’ve looked for him before; it’s just that he’s the kind of guy that I can’t help but notice.

I’m taking out my notebook when there’s a rustle beside me.

“Hey.”

I swallow at the sound of that voice and turn my head. Blake is tall—so tall I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He’s standing beside my chair. I have nowhere to run, as I’m locked in place by the little desk arm in the theater seat. And it’s just as well, because running away right now would be ridiculous.

“Mind if I sit next to you?”

I do mind, actually. Next comes duck emoji and, according to my mental progression, the zombie holocaust. I wrestle with myself for a few moments before I decide that it’s better not to admit that I care.

I shrug. “Go ahead.”

He sits.

There aren’t many students in the very back row. Blake sits immediately next to me, not leaving an empty seat between us, and that feels weird. It’s a violation of the rules of personal space. When there’s only one other person on the bus, you don’t sit right next to her. Not unless you know her.

And it feels like Blake takes up a lot of room. Even though I can’t point to a single physical point of contact, I can sense him next to me. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t look at me. I can’t even smell him. He’s just…there, being Blake Reynolds, taking up a lecture hall’s worth of personal space in one single seat.

When the professor begins, I have every excuse to ignore Blake. I try to do so. But he’s not ignoring me, and I can’t help but notice him noticing me.