Page 13 of Maybe You

“You’re not even thirty yet. Way too young to say things like that.”

“Get somebody pregnant at fifteen and you too can gain life experience at an accelerated rate.”

“That’s probably not the life advice you’ll want to hand out, unless you’re itching to be a grandpa in a few years.”

“Theo gets different advice,” he says. “You’re a bit late for high school anyway, but you still have time to get a college student pregnant. Should derail your life almost as effectively.”

“The last time I checked, the kind of people I want to sleep with can’t get pregnant,” I point out.

“The last time I checked you weren’t sleeping with anybody at all. I’d work on that if I were you.”

I avoid his gaze and clutch the strap of my backpack tighter.

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

Jordan sighs and nudges me with his shoulder. “You need to stop hiding.”

I snort out a laugh. “Is this an intervention?”

“It’s advice. Good advice. You should take it.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say drily.

He doesn’t say anything else until we reach the end of the block and stop on the corner of the street.

“Life’s too short to hide,” Jordan says.

I’d reply with something sarcastic, but I’ve got nothing. My brain feels like a sponge that’s been dunked in that sentiment, and now it’s soaking those words in. They keep echoing in my head as I watch Jordan walk away from me, heading to work.

Life’s too short to hide.

Life’s too short to hide.

Life’s too short to hide.

As far as mantras go, it’s annoying as fuck.

Catchy.

But annoying.

It gets stuck in my head, replaying over and over again while I walk to the subway station, while I take the train to school, while I sit in class. It’s still there when I head to the library after I’m done with my classes for the day.

I’m an engineering major. I transferred from a community college in September, so I’m finishing my junior year in a few weeks. It’s a lot of work—a lot of studying—which is fine by me. My keeper principle applies here, too. Keep to myself. Keep busy. Keep my head down.

I grab a quick bite from a food cart on my way to the library and eat while I walk. I have three hours before I have to head home for dinner then get to work on time. I jog up the stairs and into the library, all the while rummaging through my bag for my student ID. My wallet always somehow migrates to the bottom of the backpack. Experience dictates that Monday evenings tend to be busier in the library, so I’m probably already late for the better seats, and by better, I mean the more private ones. The single tables by the windows are always the first to go.

Still, miracle of all miracles, when I step into my usual study hall, I spot a single. A vacant single desk. It’s like a mirage, and I don’t know how nobody else has noticed this yet, but I’m not going to question my good luck as I stride toward the desk.

I’m almost there.

Almost.

Just as I slam my bag on the desk, a laptop lands right next to it.

“Sorry. Taken,” I say before I look up.

Straight at Ethan Russo.

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