Guess who won the lucky draw this year.
I take a long swallow of coffee. Check my schedule. Bide my time. “I’m still waiting on a couple of players to get back to me.”
One. I need one player to get back to me.
Truth be told, I hadn’t tried that hard to contact him.
As in, at all.
Brook finally leaves. I look over the draft I’d started for the Valentine’s Day article, trying not to let my disappointment bruise me. I’d finished half of it so far, and what I’d written had been hitting all the right beats. A review of all the off-campus restaurants offering Valentine’s Day specials, I’d managed to work in snappy descriptions of each one. For a tiny Italian bistro: Get a pizza these deals! A local Mexican cantina: Want to add a little spice to your Valentine’s Day? And an all-night pancake house: Don’t go bacon hearts, grab two-for-one strawberry waffles!
I think Rylie may be rubbing off on me.
Not that any of these food-related puns will see the light of day, now that Brook’s handing Melissa the article on a platter. While I’m stuck babysitting some spoiled sorority brat.
A surge of bitterness rises in my throat. I check the time. My next class isn’t for another thirty minutes, but waiting around here will make me more upset. So I power down my laptop. After bundling in my winter gear, I grab my things and walk out the door.
It’s snowing when I step outside. Normally, I’m all for the magic of snowfall—how many rom-coms have I watched where the couple kisses while white powder slowly settles over them? Too many to count—but today, I fall victim to the overcast morning and inches of slush I have to trudge through.
“Stupid snow,” I mutter into my coffee mug, wrapping my hands around it so the warmth radiates through my gloves. “Stupid Brook. Stupid Melissa. Stupid Valentine’s Day.”
I curse each and every single thing that adds to my mood. The wintry breeze that smacks the tail of my scarf in my face. The ice underfoot that my boot skids on. The sophomore that dares ask if I’m okay when I slip. All while ignoring the thing I’m actually miffed about.
Which is that Ashton dumped me. And months after the fact, it still affects my day-to-day. That as much as I want thoughts of him gone, he’s constantly on my mind.
I stop at an intersection where three branching sidewalk paths converge. Dusting packed snow off a bench, I perch on the edge, sipping my coffee. I tug off one knitted glove with my teeth, fumbling to peruse my phone with quickly chilling fingers. Ashton hasn’t updated any of his social media pages since last week, so I wonder what he possibly could have been doing this weekend. Driving down the Amalfi Coast? Exploring ancient ruins? Hiking the summit of Mount Vesuvius? Kissing some Italian floozy while I kissed Pete?
We agreed that the summer of our junior year, we’d study abroad. We’d worked towards it these past two years. Or, I had. Because when I put my mind to an idea, I plan accordingly.
Before I turned sixteen, I nabbed a job at our hometown Starbucks to scrape enough money to buy my first car. The next year, I’d pinched pennies to take a photography class, although by then I’d started dating Ashton. He’d wanted to spend all our time at his parents’ country club. I took an awful lot of golf ball pictures that summer. The next summer, the one before our freshman year at Lakewood, I’d also snapped golf shots, but at least it had been with a brand new top-of-the-line DSLR camera I’d saved for and purchased myself.
There’s a hefty sum now in my bank account that had been set aside for an Italian summer. This summer. The one Ashton and I had originally arranged to spend together doing all those typical touristy activities—minus the floozy, because stupid Kennedy, I assumed he’d be kissing me.
Instead, Ashton decided to throw our plans away. That despite our shared goal, he’d rather go it on his own. Without being tethered to a girlfriend back home. Leaving me with no boyfriend and a large sum of money to go nowhere.
“Stupid Ash,” I mumble, but there’s no edge to it. I swipe at an errant tear and tell myself that sniffle is from the cold.
And because there’s not enough rain—or snow—on my parade this morning, Spencer Armstrong drops down on the opposite side of my bench.
I slip on my cool mask, putting my phone back in my pocket. “There’s another bench right over there.” I point to it.
He grunts. Which, in big dumb jock speak, must translate to ‘I don’t care’.
I pointedly ignore him, drinking my coffee. His words from Saturday night simmer in my head, reminding me that I’m angry at him. That I don’t like him. That I hope the snow on the bench, which he hadn’t even cleared off before plopping his large frame down, melts into a wet spot on his stupidly toned butt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I note his bare hands. His cotton hooded sweatshirt. Sneakers where there should be water- and weather-proofed footwear.
I tug my hat over my ears. Curl my toes in two layers of cozy socks. Stick my nose into my scarf. Because I refuse to comment. I’m mad at him.
But as I hunker into my wool peacoat, my curiosity—fantastic for a journalist, not so much for someone trying to give the silent treatment—gets the best of me.
“Aren’t you freezing?” I ask him.
He
