“So essentially we are doomed,” I said wryly. Lana’s parents were married, but Uncle Louis was hardly ever home, too busy golfing or out on his boat. I guess I understood because no one liked being around Lana’s mom. She was mean to everyone but hardest on Lana, constantly criticizing everything about her. Lana wasn’t ever thin enough. Her blonde hair had too much brown in it. Her grades weren’t good enough. She didn’t speak well enough. It was amazing that the eating disorder was the only thing Lana developed.
She shrugged and moved a few more pieces of food around her bowl. Not one piece had made it to her mouth yet.
“Do you ever think part of our problem, Lana, is that we spend more time talking about boys than anything else? How is this different than high school?”
“The guys are better looking?” Lana asked, more of a statement than a question. “When we were in high school, you never talked about boys.”
“I didn’t?” I thought back to our many discussions, and they all seemed devoted to who was dating whom. If only we got tested on the social status and habits of our classmates. I’d have aced that test.
“Nope. It was always Noah for you. You weren’t interested in anyone else. It’s no wonder that the real Noah is screwing up your head big time.”
“Do you think I shouldn’t spend time with him?” She hadn’t said a word of warning, and I had been waiting for one or a dozen.
“No, actually I think spending time with him is a good idea. It’s like the pictures you take in rooms with too much light.”
“Overexposure?”
“Right. It will show you how real and flawed he is, and then, when he dicks you over again, you will finally give up on this fantasy and move into the real world.”
“Ouch,” I said. I knew Lana was hurting, but I didn’t need to be a passive punching bag.
“I’m not trying to be mean here.”
“No?” I loved Lana but she had a little of her mother in her, and sometimes, when she was hurt and angry, it leaked out. I braced myself.
“No. It’s just that…” she paused to look up from her food, “…it’s easier to have a relationship with someone who isn’t there than someone who is.”
“How did this discussion become all about me?”
“Because it’s easier for me to talk about fixing you than fixing myself,” Lana admitted.
“All right. If subjecting myself to your amateur psychoanalysis is going to make you feel better, get it out,” I motioned for to continue. “Just eat a few cucumber slices between criticisms, please.” Lana made a face but took a whole mouthful of food. After she had swallowed, she deliberately wiped her mouth with her napkin before continuing.
“You haven’t picked a major because you’re afraid to commit to anything. You won’t take classes at the FAC because you’re afraid to admit how much you love photography. You won’t date. You’ve only had a few hookups and with guys you don’t even really like. They are safe for you.”
I felt like I was being dissected right there on the QC Café table. I was cut open from throat to stomach, and all my insides were laid bare. I looked around to see who was staring at the trainwreck happening at my table, but the crowd was oblivious to how Lana was wielding her psychological scalpel.
I wanted to place my hand over her mouth and tell her to be quiet.
“I’m the same way,” Lana admitted. “I keep picking guys who are bad bets because they do what I expect them to screw me over. That way, it’s never my fault when the relationship fails.”
“I’m not sure what the practical application of your discoveries is,” I said, hurting for both of us. I wished I could make our lives bright, colorful, and delightful as my tilt shift photographs.
“Well, if I knew that bit of information, I wouldn’t have to go to school for six more years to be a licensed psychologist, would I?” Lana said.
“Thanks for nothing. I’m supposed to meet Noah at the library to study.”
She shrugged. “It’s all part of the desensitization plan. More time spent with the real Noah will inevitably result in disappointment and then cure.”
We spent the rest of the lunch eating in silence. Apparently Lana’s analysis of me made her hungry. I guess I could suffer through some hard truths if it meant Lana would stay healthy.
***
Noah was waiting at the library entrance, his backpack slung over one arm. Cecilia, a tattooed pixie of a girl, was languidly waving people in. I wondered if she lived there, given how often she was in that chair. She definitely exceeded the ten hours of mandatory service.
“Hey, Grace.”
“Noah.” I realized I was more than a little frustrated with him. He was making me confused and off balance with his determined pursuit but talk of friends only.
“How was your Stats &Methodology course this morning?” Noah asked. I was surprised he remembered but then I recalled he knew my entire schedule.
“I didn’t realize that there was so much math involved in psychology,” I told him.
“It is a science course.”
“I know, and apparently there is a lot of statistical analysis of raw data and stuff. I think I need a degree that has no math.”
“English literature,” Noah said.
I grimaced. That sounded almost more painful that math. “Do you have an answer for everything?” I asked. There was no heat in my question, and I knew the response; he held himself with such utter confidence.
“Yes,” he replied, but gave me a wry grin to signal I wasn’t to take the answer seriously.
“Do you have a place here you like to read?” Noah asked me.
I did, but I wasn’t ready to share it with Noah. It was a retreat. “Not really. You?” I asked.
“Definitely.” He took my hand. “Follow me.”
I let Noah lead me through the library. He seemed to know several people, bumping fists, nodding his head, and giving hearty pats on the shoulder to guys that would’ve left a bruise on me. Given that this was Noah’s first year here, the breadth of his acquaintances surprised me, but maybe some of these guys had been to his house or one of his fights.
He led me to a reference section that housed architectural and design books. I rarely came up onto the third floor. It was usually noisy and occupied by students there to socialize rather than study because there was a lounge area with four upholstered chairs and two short sofas arranged into a cozy square. A guy with short reddish-blonde hair, wearing jeans and a white cotton button down, was already sitting there, with a huge stack of books and a contraband cup of coffee. He looked up as we approached.
“What took you so long?” He stood and slapped the back of his hand against the back of Noah’s. “Who’s this?”
“Grace, meet Finn. He’s one of my roommates.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. Noah still hadn’t released me, and I could only do an awkward wave with my left hand. Noah drew me down on one of the sofas next to him.
I settled in next to Noah and pulled out my psychology book. Noah grabbed his laptop, crossed one foot over the opposite leg and stretched out his arm on the back of the sofa, which was so short that his fingers were right behind my hair again. I wondered if the ends of my hair were seeking out his fingers, like little sentient beings searching for warmth. I wanted to lean back and rest my head against his hand. I remembered the comforting weight of it as we had walked to the diner and the sure strength when he had massaged my neck at the Delt house. Lana’s theory about overexposure wasn’t working. I tried to focus on something other than my growing physical response to his presence.
“What’re you studying?” I asked Noah.
He grimaced. “My CFA Level 1.”
At my look of mystification, he elaborated, “It’s a finance certification exam with three levels. My first one is in December. When I pass, my next one is in June, and the third is in the following year.”
“Noah’s a finance whiz,” Finn interjected, taking a sip of his contraband liquid. He looked at ease, like he had sat in the chair a hundred times before.
“Finn, are you a student?” I asked. I didn’t recognize him, but he might be an upperclassman.
“Nope, just looking at stuff.”
“Finn’s a house flipper,” Noah explained. “But really, he’s a frustrated wannabe architect.”
“Noah’s only partially correct,” Finn said. “I look through these design books to get ideas on how to make our houses more interesting for buyers. You don’t happen to have your real estate license, do you?”
I shook my head.
“One of our roommates dated my last realtor, and now she won’t talk to me,” Finn said glumly. “I hate the realtor side of flipping.”
“I don’t know anything about real estate. I didn’t even know you had to have a license.” I admitted.
They didn’t ask me any more questions, and we all settled in to study. A few minutes into reading, I felt Noah’s fingers combing through the ends of my hair. I wasn’t sure if he was doing it absently or on purpose, but it was distracting. My physical interactions with other guys may have been limited, but I knew friends didn’t stroke each other’s hair. The hairs of my neck stood up and I felt goose pimples rise on my neck and chase down my arms. Noah noticed my little shiver and pulled out a sweatshirt from his backpack, offering it to me.
Shrugging it on, I tried not to be too obvious about sniffing the fabric. The clean, spring scent that I had associated with Noah floated around me, interfering with my ability to focus on my pages. It took a masterful effort to shut out all the Noah influences and read.
We had all been silent for some time when Finn stood up and said, “I’m hungry. Let’s go eat.” He stretched and his T-shirt rode up, showing some nice solid abs. Did all the guys in Noah’s house do a thirty-minute ab routine? Was that a prerequisite? Like on the application, it asked if you had a steady job, could afford the rent, and oh, by the way, can you do one hundred sit ups in one minute?
“Hey, eyes up here,” Finn said, teasing me. I tried to beat back the blush that I could feel heating my cheeks. I wasn’t even ogling him. His shirt had pulled up and I couldn’t help noticing. Finn had dark markings under his shirt, a tattoo of something winged.
“Wear longer shirts,” I said, but my attention had fixated on Noah. I hadn’t seen him without his shirt off, and his arms were bare of any ink. I wondered if he had tattoos somewhere that I hadn’t yet seen.
“Ooh, I’m being disrespected because of how I’m dressed,” Finn said, interrupting my fantasies of Noah disrobing.
“Knock it off,” Noah shook his head with mild impatience. “I thought you were hungry.” He picked up his books and stuffed them in his backpack. Then he grabbed mine and held it open. I looked at him in confusion, and he shook the bag. Apparently he was going to hold it open while I put everything in.
Noah zipped up my backpack when I was done and took both bags, slinging them over his shoulder. He gestured for me to walk in front of him and they filed in behind me.
“Where do you want to eat?” Noah asked Finn.
“I’ve got Bo’s card,” Finn replied. “We can eat on campus.”
“That okay with you, Grace?” Noah asked.
I nodded. All this time spent with Noah was going to go to my head. I knew I should probably head home, but I wasn’t sure how I’d be able to pull my backpack off Noah’s shoulder. We walked down the stairs, and, as we were headed to the doors of the library, I saw Mike standing behind the reference desk. He stared at me with raised eyebrows, and I gave him a little wave. I didn’t have an explanation for Mike about Noah and me because I couldn’t define the relationship myself.
Outside, Noah walked beside me, and Finn walked backwards, facing us. “What’s your superpower?” he asked me.
“My super-what?”
“Your superpower,” Noah said, smirking. “This is how Finn determines whether he can hang out with you. He classifies people according to their response.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of pressure,” I said. Rearranging my face so it looked like I was deep in thought, I pretended to contemplate the question and then answered, “Invisibility.”
“Not X-ray vision?” Finn teased, I guess referring to my faux-pas of staring at his exposed abdomen.
“What’s the point? You’re already walking around flaunting yourself,” I shot back. It was easy to engage in conversation with Finn. There weren’t any emotional stakes. “Anyway, what about you?”
“Flying,” both of them said in unison and then high fived.
“Really? Flying?” I asked. “Invisibility is so much cooler.”