She laughs as though that’s absurd. “Not even close. Just curious. And chatty. I’m an art major, actually. With a concentration in art therapy. That’s what I want to do--be an art therapist. I would never major in English.”
“Good to know.”
She shrugs. “I mean, I don’t hate books or anything, but ugh. Just the thought of having to read all those novels. And write all those papers? Can you imagine? Oh, is this where my bio lecture is?” she asks, pointing to the industrial-looking building on our left.
I reach for her schedule, our fingers brushing, and I shiver at the contact. There’s no doubt about it. Phoebe James has more of an effect on me than I want to admit. Needing distance, I clear my throat and look up at the three-story structure. “Yea, it should be on the first floor. And the labs are on the second.”
“What’s your major?” She turns her gaze toward me again, and I notice a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
“What?” I try to focus on her words, keep my head in this stupid tour, but all I can think about is the way it felt when her hand brushed against mine. Jesus.
“Your major. What is it?” she asks.
I can’t resist. I break out into a smile, though it’s not an altogether friendly one. “English.”
I expect her to blush. Or stammer. Or maybe apologize. But instead, she laughs.
Phoebe throws her head back and laughs like it’s her job. Like she’s just remembered the funniest punchline ever delivered. Like a pack of kindergartners who just heard the word underwear.
And I scowl.
Which makes her laugh even harder.
“You ok over there?” I ask.
“Me? I’m a hot mess on my best days, Ty. But for our purposes? Yes, I’m just fine.”
A hot mess on my best days.I can’t examine those words too closely. I can’t take her in my arms and make it better. She’d probably slap me, and with good reason--we just met. I’m not supposed to know anything about her. I’m not supposed to care about her. I’m not supposed to know about the very worst moments of her life. I refocus myself because we’re almost done. Another five minutes, and I’ll never have to see this woman again. “Good,” I say. “Ok, last stop is ahead. This is where your Intro to Lit class is.” She stares up at the old stone building, and I get the sense that she wants to say something, wants to continue our conversation, though god knows why. I haven’t exactly been welcoming. And I can’t afford to start now.
“Alright, that covers everything on your schedule. And the dining hall is right next to your dorm, so...you should be good.”
“Yea, thanks,” she says, more out of social custom than any actual sense of gratitude.
“Just doing Gabe’s job.” I shrug, quick to dismiss appreciation I haven’t earned.
“Well, I appreciate it,” she says. “I guess I’ll see you around?”
Despite years of etiquette being drilled into me at boarding school, social niceties don’t always come easily to me. So, instead of responding with an appropriate answer likeyeaorsounds good, I say, “Not likely.”
And she just stares. I can’t blame her. Which, of course, prompts me to dig a deeper hole. “You’re a freshman, and I’m a junior. Your major is art, and mine is English Lit. We don’t really run in the same circles.”
Absently, she fingers the gold chain around her neck, then musters a polite smile. “Okay, then. I guess you’re right. Well, thanks for the tour.” She fumbles around in her bag, likely searching for her phone, and I almost tell her to stop. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say her name, to apologize. To tell her I’ve been a jerk. To ask for a do-over.
But I don’t do any of that. I watch as she gathers her things and taps out a text, just as I see Knox approaching. No doubt, he heard about my plans from Whit and decided to run interference.
“Ty, dude. What the fuck are you doing?”
“A favor,” I answer, just as Phoebe looks up at me. I don’t miss the flash of hurt on her face at my words. They can’t come as any surprise; I’ve hardly been hospitable, but still. Feeling like even more of an ass, I let my latent manners kick in. “Phoebe, this is Knox Gallagher, my best friend, and one of the guys I live with. Knox, this is Phoebe James. I, uh, was doing Gabe a favor by showing Phoebe around when he got behind.”
We stand there awkwardly, staring at each other.
“Well, I should get going,” she says. “Thanks again for the tour, Ty.”
“Yea,” I say lamely.
“See you around,” she repeats, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it, and I can’t blame her. And that’s a good thing. I walk away, following Knox off campus, knowing it’s for the best. My mission has been accomplished. And Phoebe James is officially none of my fucking business. Maybe if I repeat it enough, I’ll actually start to believe it.
Chapter 2
