settling on my face where he wipes away an errant tear. “You don’t have to shut me out, Liv. I’m not going to judge you or think any less of you.”
“It’s not that I’m afraid you’ll judge me.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
“That you’ll leave.”
His gaze shifts between my eyes, questions mingling with something else that makes my toes curl, and my heart beat rapidly.
“Or I’ll leave. It seems like there’s always something that pulls people apart.”
“I haven’t eaten at Dick’s in so long.” Rose’s voice grows louder, and I twist, spinning away from Arlo and my truths that I’m not even sure of. I feel something toward him, a pull, a connection, but what I’m not certain of is if that’s stemming from loneliness, or if he has any feelings for me besides the platonic ones I know we share.
Rose appears wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. “Are we ready?”
I nod, reaching for my shoes. “Yeah.”
Arlo
When we pull up, Liv leans down from where she’s seated in the passenger seat to grab her purse from the floor. “They made a drive-up restaurant in this cold and rainy city?” she asks.
“That will be your last complaint. Just wait.” I tell her.
We pile out of the car. Rose says a joke that I can’t hear over the symphony of sounds: car engines, the nearby road, the many people who are taking advantage of the dry weather and best burgers in the city.
“You guys want deluxe burgers?” I ask.
Rose nods. “And fries.”
“Go grab a table, and I’ll get food.” I head toward the long line, reaching for my phone as it buzzes.
Paxton: Going to the gym tomorrow morning at 6. You in?
Me: Yeah. Are you at the house tonight?
Paxton: I’m heading to Candace’s, but I’ll meet you there.
Me: You better not be late this time. I don’t care what she’s offering.
He sends me an emoji that flips me off.
Me: None of that, either.
“Hey, do I know you from somewhere?” the question is asked as a girl bends forward in an attempt to see my face better. “Oh my god, I know you!”
She doesn’t know shit.
“You’re Arlo Kostas. You play for Brighton. I was at every home game this year.” She giggles, pushing her blonde hair over one shoulder and looking at her friend, who is much shorter and has purple hair. “He’s a football player,” the girl explains to her friend whose eyes light up.
I smile, feeling better than I should because someone recognizes me. It’s a bizarre feeling when this happens, especially when it’s somewhere besides the campus or a college party, but my ego needs this after my shitty practice.
“Gosh, you’re so much bigger in person. I didn’t realize how tall you are. And your arms are like the size of my waist.” She strokes her hand down my bicep. “Can I get a selfie with you?”
I haven’t even said yes before she’s pulling out her phone and leaning in close to take the picture. Then she asks her friend to get in the frame.
An older couple is behind us, and they clear their throat to encourage us to move forward as the line shifts. The blonde smiles at them. “Sorry.” She turns to me. “Thank you!” She looks at the pictures and then back at me. “We’re also juniors at Brighton.” She smiles a bit brighter.
At the beginning of last year, I would have said freshmen are the most eager for one-night stands—that was before I met many juniors. Junior year is tough for many, leaving students to navigate the precipice of their first year in their twenties like they have something new to prove to the rest of the world and themselves. They are the ones who start working out, joining groups that discuss poetry and ethics, looking for a casual hookup because their moms are starting to talk weddings and babies and all the permanence in the foreseeable future, while also making sure the degree that they’re going into massive debt for is what they want to spend the rest of their lives doing. These pressures and heartbreaks they’ve experienced along the way have introduced me to some juniors who are happy to have sex and leave all the emotions behind.
A window opens for them to order. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
They both smile. “You can join us if you want?” the blonde offers.
The word ‘no’ formulates so fast that I barely have the sense to deliver it with an excuse. The girl’s pretty—beautiful, actually.