“You want to get a drink at Drip?” I ask abruptly.
“What?” She looks like she didn’t hear me. Or, she heard me, but my words didn’t make sense. Right. Because I’m just her tutor and she’s just a student. We aren’t friends, not really. We don’t do coffee talk. I tell myself to set these boundaries, and then I carelessly knock them down any time I’m within ten feet of her.
I smile to ease the awkwardness I’ve created. “It’s hot as hell in here. Meg said I could close up early, but I know you’re worried about this course, so I thought we could walk over to Drip, grab iced coffees, and talk shop about Lizzy and Darcy.”
“Oh, um, yea. That actually sounds really good.” She smiles in return, and it lights up the room.
The walk to the coffee shop takes all of two minutes, since the writing lab is behind the library, where Drip is housed.
“What’s your poison?” I ask as we dump our stuff at a small table by the window.
“Oh, no, I can get my own.” She reaches for one of her many bags.
“Nah, it’s on me. Trust me: Darcy gets worse before he gets better, so consider this coffee an apology in advance, on behalf of male protagonists everywhere.” Her responding laugh is like twinkling lights--subtle and sweet, and almost fairy-like. Jesus. I’m losing my damn mind here. I need to get my shit together. Phoebe is just a girl I tutor. Nothing more.
“Iced caramel macchiato, please. And thank you.”
“Got it. Be back in two.”
I turn to the counter and after a couple guys from the baseball team get their frappes, it’s my turn. I smile at Ian, the barista, but I’m met with a blank stare. What the fuck? I know he and Knox can’t stand each other, but he and I have always been cool.
“Hey, Ty. Iced Americano?” The words are right, but his expression is off. “I know Phoebe’s order already--iced caramel macchiato.”
There it is. He’s going all Papa Bear over Phoebe, which makes sense. Ian and Mel are super close, and they’ve clearly welcomed Phoebe into their crew. What he doesn’t realize is that I couldn’t be more grateful. She needs people like them in her life--a found family. It’s what I have in my boys, and it’s fucking priceless. So, I ignore his pointed look. I can take it. “Yea, thanks.” I tap my card and stand to the side while he takes care of the next person in line.
Drinks in hand, I walk over to the table where Phoebe’s sitting, slumped over her book, pencil tight in her grip. I slide her drink onto a clear space on the small, cluttered table and she looks up. “Thank you.”
“No problem. And it’s way nicer in here than the lab today. They should have the AC fixed by tomorrow morning. At least, that’s what Meg told me.”
“Great. If I miss even one session with you, I don’t think my grade can handle it.”
“Phoebe, give yourself way more credit. All I’m doing is proofreading and asking you the right questions and quizzing you.”
She nods. “Yep. And those are the things I can’t do. Now, if you ever need a charcoal drawing of something, or perhaps a set of ceramic mugs? I’m your gal.”
“Is that what you carry around in all those bags of yours? Clay and charcoal?” I tease.
She blushes. Shit. Just when I thought she couldn’t get any more adorable. “Pretty much. I should leave them in my car, I know, but a lot of this stuff is sensitive to sun and heat, so I schlep it with me all day long. This bag is for my clay class,” she tells me, holding up a gray canvas bag that’s stained and well-used. “And this is just my regular art stuff.” She gestures to a purple-printed backpack. “And this,” she holds up an orange-patterned bag like a trophy, “this is paint and glue and clay and stuff for the kids at the childcare. We have tons of supplies there, but somehow half of them end up in my bag, or at my dorm, or they’re dried up and I need to hit the dollar store for replacements.”
“You like it there?” I know she does. She leaves directly for work after our meet-ups and she’s always in a much better mood on her way out than on her way in.
“I do.” Her face lights up the small corner we’re sitting in, and the sunshine streaming through the window has nothing on her smile. “The kids are so sweet. I have school-aged kids, mostly five-to-ten-year-olds. They’re still so impressionable, you know? Like, the world hasn’t gotten the chance to tell them how much they suck yet, right?” There’s that twinkling-light laugh again. “They all think they’re the absolute best at painting and drawing and crafting, and you know what? They are. Because, at that age, being good at something just means you like it, you know? Like, it brings you joy, so that means you’re doing it right.”
I take a sip of my drink. “Yea, I know what you mean. There’s something magical about that age, about feeling like you can do anything. Then middle school comes and ruins everything.”
“Ha! You are so right. Oh my god, I wanted to be a dancer when I was little. My mom signed me up for every dance class she could find and I wore my mismatched leotard and tutu with leg warmers and twisted my hair into not-quite-a bun,” she gestures to her head, “a look I still rock, by the way. I thought I was hot shit, right? I freaking loved to dance. I’d practice all the time. We’d be standing in line at the grocery store, and I’d be going through the positions with my feet. Then, maybe fifth grade? Oh, these mean girls were too much. I switched studios because we moved and these girls came in with their perfectly-matched leotards, and brand-new shoes, and smooth, sleek up-dos. They took one look at me and pegged me for the hot mess I was. But I didn't know I was a hot mess, not until that moment. I was crushed. I lasted maybe two weeks and then I quit altogether.”
“Get me their names. I’ll hunt them down and make their lives a living hell,” I deadpan, and she laughs.
“Yea, no. But thanks? And you know what it taught me?”
I shake my head no, because I don’t, and also because I could listen to her talk for hours about anything.
“That being a hot mess isn’t a bad thing.” She points, asking me to take in her messy hair, her face free of makeup, but smudged a little with charcoal or pastels or whatever. There’s no salon-perfect manicure on her nails--they’re actually tinted green from the project she’s been working on, and she’s wearing two different earrings--one is a tiny silver hoop, and the other is a gold stud. Accidental or purposeful, it’s cute as hell.
“It’s not a bad thing at all,” I tell her. If she were anyone else--or if I were--I’d reach across this tiny, messy table and brush my knuckles against her soft cheek. I’d have held her hand while we walked here. I’d text her before falling asleep at night. She calls herself a hot mess, but she’s perfect to me. In the few weeks she's been coming to me for help with her lit class, I’ve gotten to know her, beyond her pretty face and slight curves. Yea, I was attracted to her that first day on the quad--no apologies, she’s beautiful.
But she’s also kind, and funny, and scatterbrained, and has very strong opinions about '90s cartoons and what constitutes country music (and what doesn’t). She works her ass off, no matter the task--at the daycare, in her art classes, and even with Jane Austen and her crew of the Georgian era’s lovelorn.