I don’t think I’ve felt that relaxed in years, if ever.
“Jersey, huh?”
His words barely register because I’m too busy looking at the way his ab muscles flex under his t-shirt as he leans forward to grab my lunch bag.
“You said you moved here from Jersey. In January, right?” he repeats. “Were you near the beach or the city?”
“Neither. I was near the cows. But we only lived there for a year or so. Before that, I lived in Ohio for a couple of years.”
“Sounds like youmoved around a lot.”
“Yea, I don’t think I’ve lived in any one town for more than a year or so,” I shrug.
“Damn. I’ve lived my entire life here in Maryland. I’m heading to school in a couple weeks, but that’s not even out of state. Won’t matter, though. My three best friends are already up there. They’ve got a house, so that’ll be cool.”
“That sounds like fun,” I say, because it does. I’m not one for best friends; it’s hard to form relationships when you move so much, but the idea is nice. “What are you majoring in?”
“No fucking clue.” He laughs. “Ok, that’s not exactly true. I just don’t have the direction my friends do, you know? Like, they all know exactly what they want to do, and I’m back here, a year younger, finishing up school, and I still don’t have a solid plan. I like to work with my hands, but I have no actual skill set. And my guys are all at school, so I guess a four-year degree is my ticket out of here. I don’t hate math, so I thought maybe econ or business, but now I’m kind of leaning toward psych. I’m kinda fascinated by what makes people do the things they do, you know? And I’ve spent enough time with therapists that I feel like I should have an honorary degree. But who knows? I could get to school and discover an untapped passion for computer systems. I’m a work in progress. What about you?”
I smile shyly. “I’m one of those solid plan people you were talking about.”
He smiles back. “I don’t doubt that for a minute. You look like you have your shit together, Willa Forsyth.”
He couldn’t be further from the truth, but I don’t tell him how wrong he is. I’m glad he thinks that. I hope everyone thinks that. It’s all part of my plan to move forward. To get the hell out of here, to get away from my dad, and not repeat my mom’s mistakes. And if people think I’m a mess? If they see me as any less than totally capable, well, that’s a risk I just can’t take. “Yea, I guess,” I tell him. “I’m going to do a nine-month program to become an esthetician.”
“A what?”
“An esthetician. Basically, I’ll give facials and skin treatments. Some for relaxation, but also for medical purposes.”
“But you have to, like, touch people’s faces?” He looks grossed out at the prospect.
“Yea, I mean, that’s the job. But that doesn’t bother me. There are far ickier healthcare jobs.”
“Jesus. Like foot doctors? Christ. I couldn’t handle one day of that shit. This is me, officially crossing anything remotely medical off my future career list.” He punctuates his words with a sweep of his arm and a flick of his wrist, like he’s wielding a giant pencil and slashing a mark through imaginary words on an invisible page.
“That’s probably for the best,” I say smiling at how freaked out he is. I’ve never been squeamish about body stuff. It just is what it is.
“Alright. Enough about feet and the future. What did you bring me for lunch?” he asks, a teasing glint in those beautiful brown eyes.
“Not much, considering I figured I’d be eating alone,” I say, holding back an eye roll. Knox isn’t my usual type of guy, or at least not the type I usually talk to. He’s bold and funny and flirty. I like it. I shouldn’t, but I do.
“You didn’t plan on me, huh?” he quips.
“Not even a little bit,” I say honestly.
“When it comes to me, Willa, learn to expect the unexpected.”
“Noted,” I tease, though it won’t matter. We’re not friends. And we can’t be. And we certainly can’t be more. He’s going away to school and I’m going to start my future.
He rifles through my rumpled lunch bag. “Alright, we’ve got PB&J as promised. Some carrot and celery sticks, but no ranch. What the hell? You got a rabbit you’re feeding?”
“No, just trying to eat healthy.”
“This is not healthy. It’s pet food. Oooh...but there’s more.” He digs to the bottom of the bag and finds the last item. “Oreos! Wait. Scratch that. Oreo. As in singular. Who the hell only eats one cookie? Are you some sort of sociopath?”
“No, I’m practicing restraint,” I lie.
“Packing one Oreo is not restraint. It’s sadism.”
