“So,” he smiles at me. “I'll make you a key tonight?”
I’m so tempted to say yes, but accepting help is still so hard for me. I’m not used to relying on people—I’m used to being let down. Ian would never do that, but...well, I thought Knox would never hurt me, so maybe I’m not the best judge of character.
“Can I think about it? Let you know in the morning?”
“Of course,” he says, stepping behind the register when Phoebe, our friend and favorite customer, shows up for her midday caramel macchiato. “Take all the time you need. No pressure.”
* * *
My phone tellsme it’s 3 a.m., but that can’t be right. Rose slept maybe two hours, before waking up and demanding food. We nursed, though she’s never hungry at that hour, but she never went back to sleep. She hasn’t pulled that move since she was about three months old. And now, of course, she’s wide awake and wants to play. Her chubby, dimpled little hands are clapping against my eyes.
“No, baby, no peek-a-boo. It’s time for night-night,” I say for the thirtieth time, though I know it’s futile.
I’ve tried everything—another warm bath, more boob, singing, laying her down and walking away.
Nothing worked. And I’m exhausted. And I need to be up in a few hours. I haven’t cleaned up after dinner or switched the laundry.
Scooping up my phone, but keeping it out of Rose’s grasp, I text Ian.
Willa:Congratulations. You have two new roommates. :)
I thought I could do this alone, but if Ian is willing to lend a hand, I’m not going to be foolish enough to turn him away.
For just a second, I let that romantic part of my brain kick in and wonder how different things would be if Knox hadn’t turned us away with his cruel words. Would he walk into her nursery now and take over so I could get some sleep? Would he know the magic formula for getting a baby back to bed? Would he fold laundry and wash dishes? Would we crawl into bed together later and lose ourselves in each other’s bodies?
I stop those thoughts as soon as they start. They’re futile, and they only make me sad. Rose shields my eyes again, so I give in. It’s 3 a.m., most people my age are passed out right now, and I’m playing peek-a-boo.
I’m exhausted. But I’m also lucky.
* * *
Knox
I step inside Drip and the smell of freshly ground coffee beans hits me. Because of course it does—I’m in a coffee shop. The requisites are all accounted for: strong coffee; dim lighting; chairs that look comfy, but aren’t; and a barista with a scruffy beard, dark-framed glasses, and a beanie. Yep. Drip checks all the boxes. But all of that barely registers. Because lately, when I walk in here, I barely smell the coffee. All my brain can focus on is the sweet, faint scent of her perfume. I don’t remember the name, if I ever knew it to begin with. It was probably something like Midnight Cherry Blossom or some shit, and it was far from fancy. It was the kind you get at the smelly candle and lotion store at the mall, and there are probably five hundred people on this campus who wear that scent daily.
So yea, it’s entirely likely that some random girl just took a shower, lathered on some lotion, and hit up the coffee shop before heading to class, leaving the sweet smell of synthetic cherry blossoms in her wake. But all my muddled brain can tune into is the fact that this place—this stupid coffee shop—smells like Willa.
As if driven by a primal need for caffeine, I wave to Mel, the barista I actually like, and ignore Ian, the barista I loathe (and also the one with the beard and the glasses and beanie) and step into line. Minutes later, Americano in hand, I park my ass on the overly stuffed, and yet, still hard-as-a-rock chair nearest the window. It’s the weekend after Thanksgiving and I’m trying to get a jump on a paper that’s due next week. No one’s home at The Chapel, but it’s too quiet to study, so I figured a change of scenery would help. The library was also too quiet, so here I am, sitting in a coffee shop, trying to write a paper, and having flashbacks to the best week of my life.
An hour later, I have three words written and all I’ve managed to do is wallow in the past and waste my own time.
Which is why, when my buddy Zack texts to meet up at Wolfie’s, I don’t hesitate to say yes.
Twenty minutes later, I walk into the bar and join a bunch of guys from Kappa at the back booth.
The music is too loud, the beer too watery, and the drinks too weak, which is a sure sign that I shouldn’t be here. Something just feels off. I’m terrible company, and I should probably Uber my ass home. But the trouble-seeking part of my brain tells me I need one more drink, so I order a shot of whiskey and a beer. I down the shot, grab the beer, and make my way around the bar to see who showed up to have a good time.
A couple guys from Booker’s hockey team are here. They’re not drinking since it’s mid-season, but they’re relaxing and chilling. I spot Ollie, Kozlow, and Bergeron and something tells me to hang there and shoot the shit.
But I don’t.
Because suddenly I’m accosted by a tiny torpedo named Mia. She launches all 110 pounds of herself at me and I catch her, smiling. We hooked up at a Halloween party. She was on the rebound from a long relationship, and I’ve been on the rebound for a year and half, so we had a good night together. It’s not gonna happen again, but I can buy her a drink.
“Mia. How's it going, gorgeous? Did you have a good holiday?”
“I did. A really good one.”
“Awesome. What are you drinking? I’m buying.”
