Page 38 of Brazen Criminals

I’m totally confused by this guy. I keep replaying the way he looked at me Saturday, the sincerity in his eyes as he wiped the tears from my cheeks, how he sheltered me and helped me up the stairs.

And now he won’t even spare me a glance. Jansen said to give him time, but I’m getting frustrated. Either he wants to be my friend or he doesn’t, but the sometimes-a-friend-but-sometimes-a-brick-wall situation is bewildering.

We set off toward campus together, me not wanting to force awkward conversation, and RJ apparently content with the quiet. My normally easy stride is a little labored, but I’m blaming the dehydration from the crying, not the ice cream. Ice cream gets a free pass.

I follow my favorite campus loop—it’s the best one for people watching. With over 50,000 students, the U is a city in its own right, and I usually like to catch snippets of conversations from different groups as we pass. Today, it’s hardly holding my attention.

About halfway through the run, I’m bored with eavesdropping. Stuck on an empty stretch behind a maintenance building, I work up my courage to break the silence. “I never said thanks, for, you know, helping with Bryce and fixing my phone and stuff,” I start, wincing. Way to exude confidence, Clara.

He shakes his head. “No big.”

“Kind of big, I’m just saying.”

We run for another block before I soldier on. “What did you do to Bryce’s hand?”

He looks away. “I dislocated his thumb. Hurts like hell, but it’s easy to fix.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure where to go from here. I want to ask about Trips, but I feel like RJ isn’t the one to ask. I want to know what RJ found on my phone, but I’m scared of the answer. So my stupid brain dumps out, “What classes are you taking this semester?”

His steps stutter, so I guess I’m not the only one surprised by my brain’s banalities, but such is life, I guess.

He hurries to get his feet back under himself, likely both physically and metaphorically. “I have two upper-level computer science courses, and two gen ed requirements—French and some Anthropology class that’s supposed to be easy.”

“Why French?” I ask.

“It was my great-grandma’s first language, so it felt, I don’t know, right?”

I nod. “I took Spanish in high school so I could visit with my abuelita, my grandmother. After her stroke, English was hard for her, but she still could communicate a little with Spanish. If my dad couldn’t visit, she had no one to talk to. So I tried to learn. I’m okay, not fluent or anything, but even though she’s gone, I still want to keep it up, you know?”

RJ shoots me a small smile of understanding before we turn toward a busier section of campus. A glimpse of connection, and it resets the weirdness somehow. I’m not worried about this budding something anymore. Jansen is right—RJ will take time, but he’s not trying to be a jerk. He’s not Trips.

I listen to the soundbites of a new semester as we cut through the crowds, friends greeting each other, freshmen laughing too loud at unfamiliar jokes. A mower rumbles by, the overwhelming scent of green heavy in the humid air. It tastes like a fresh start, a new beginning, and a homecoming all in one. My feet step lightly the rest of the way home with RJ keeping stride beside me.

Chapter 22

Clara

Sundayatthecoffeeshop is slow. The first week of school flew by, a flurry of new faces, new topics, and the same old job. I had three lunch shifts at the coffee shop, ran once with RJ and twice by myself. I even managed to send in my application for the FBI summer internship program. And, to cap it off, the weather broke. Summer is, sadly, ending.

After the rush of the first week, this stop is killing me. Luckily, I brought my criminal psych book to work, so at least I’ll get that reading done early.

I stare out the plate glass front of the coffee shop and realize with a start that I haven’t gotten any messages or texts from Bryce in a week. Is that a good thing? He didn’t sound like he was giving up, but maybe a dislocated thumb changed his mind?

Note to self: ask RJ if Bryce’s number was automatically blocked once he removed whatever freaky-ass spyware Bryce put on my phone.

A grand total of three customers and two hours later, I finally escape out the door, the bite of the fall air fresh against my face. My phone buzzes, and Emma’s name flashes on the screen. “Hey girl! Last-minute thing. Want to head out tonight?”

“Emma, I have a morning class tomorrow. Ten o’clock on West Bank, bright and early.”

She sighs dramatically. “You are absolutely no fun. We’re planning ahead, then. Next Friday, we are going to find a party and we are going to have fun. No ‘oh, I’m tired,’ or ‘Emma, I have to run for like a bajillion miles tomorrow, can we go now?’ None of that.”

I laugh. “Make it Saturday night and we have a deal. I’m off next Sunday, so I can take the whole day to be a whiny, hungover grandmother.”

“Hooray! I’ll start looking for something amazing. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Sounds good, Emma. Later.”

“Later, girl.”

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