Page 34 of Past the Broken Bridges

* * *

Professor Grey pairs us up in teams of two the following week to work on a new set of prompts for the last hour. Since Sawyer and I were absent from the last class, we get partnered.

I’ve seen her a total of two times at our building since I came to her apartment. Once, when I was coming homefrom another mundane shift at the store, and another time when Sawyer was walking out in a pair of workout pants and matching top that left very little to the imagination. I asked if she was going for a run.

She laughed. Loudly. And then she produced a Pop-Tart out of thin air and bit into the top as she walked away, still giggling at the question with a shake of her head.

Another tidbit of information I tucked away.

Not a runner.

“These are dumb,” she grumbles now, reading over the prompt selections. We’re supposed to pick one sentence a week from the options Professor Grey prints out and turn it into a story. We get twenty minutes to come up with something and then another twenty to share with our partners before spending the final twenty minutes of class having a few people share with the group.

My eyes rake over the choices, realizing they all have to do with love. “It’s Valentine’s Day this week,” I tell her when I see the theme.

She makes a face, her lips twisting down as she taps her pen against the paper. A quiet “Oh” is all I get in response.

I lean back, stretching my legs out. “Not a fan of the commercialized holiday? I thought women loved that shit. You guys get chocolate and flowers and all that other lovey-dovey crap they push on us.”

Her bottom lip tucks into her mouth, trapped by her top two teeth digging into it. She stays like that, contemplative as she circles one of the prompts and says, “I’ve never had a Valentine before. Unless you count elementary school when they used to make everybody bring in those stupid Valentine’s Day cards for their classmates.”

I don’t count that since it was obligatory. Plus, therewere always some parents who went all out with the fancy ones that had candy they probably spent a fortune on. I was lucky if my parents even remembered to get the dollar store versions amid all their other issues.

“You’ve never gotten chocolates from a boyfriend?” I ask.

There’s another moment of hesitation where she plays with the ends of her hair loosely hanging past her shoulders. “No.”

“Huh.” I watch her a little more closely, but the only thing she’s focusing on is the assignment. She only looks up at me when I say, “They’re idiots then.”

Her tongue slowly drags across her bottom lip before her teeth dig into it again. The faintest dots of pink coat her cheeks. “I’ve never… I didn’t really date before.”

The response takes me off guard. “How old are you?”

“Does that really matter?” she snaps, embarrassment in her tone.

I think about it before dismissing it. “I guess not. I’m just trying to figure out how any guy could be dumb enough not to shoot his shot with you.”

Maybe she’s as oblivious as Dawson when it comes to people being interested in her. Sometimes, naivety can be cute. Especially with a face like hers.

Sawyer starts writing in her notebook, only getting a sentence down before bringing the pen to her mouth and staring at the words for a long, silent moment. “Have you dated a lot?”

I could lie to her, but I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of. “Depends on what you consider dating. I had a girlfriend in high school. Two, actually. Last one broke up with me before graduation. It was for the best.”

We were going to two separate schools on opposite sidesof the country. It was never going to work, so we called it. She still reaches out sometimes to see how I am. Half the time, I forget to reply.

“And since then?” she presses.

“Tit for tat,” I offer in compromise. “I tell you something, and you have to do the same.”

She thinks about it, her teeth coming down on the pen again, before nodding.

“I’ve never dated seriously in college,” I answer. “I found it too distracting.”

“But dating casually isn’t?” she doubts.

I grin. “It’s my turn.” The nervousness on her face has me amused, but I keep it simple. “How old are you?”

Her shoulders relax. “Twenty-one. So is casually dating not as distracting?”

---