Page 29 of The Rejected Omega
“—morning shifts at the café, nights at the grill. Eighteen upper-level credits hours, according to Mac.”
“Talking to Dad again, are we?”
“You’re pushing yourself too hard. You're gonna burn out.”
“I don't have the luxury of burning out.”
“That's exactly what someone on the fast track to burnout would say.”
“I can handle myself, Connor.”
I can tell he wants to argue more. Before, he would. But he's still treating me with kid gloves. Like I'm fragile. He pullsout a textbook and starts reading, occasionally taking notes in the margins with his pen. Imagine not having to rent your textbooks. Not like us, indeed.
His fingers are so long and graceful as they slide over the paper to turn the page. I can’t stop staring at him.
I take out my own book and try to study, but the words blur together in front of me. I begin to nod off.
“Take a nap, Birdy. I don’t mind.”
“No,” I grumble.
“What if I promise to work on my English essay while you're napping?”
“Not tired.”
He huffs. “Why won’t you drink the coffee, then? Have your tastes changed?”
If only.
I ignore him and go back to my reading. It’s too easy to fall asleep near him. His scent is a soothing, buoyant cloud filling the room, lulling me under.
Connor drops a book on the table, and I jerk awake. A patch of drool crusts my cheek to the sleek textbook page, and the shadows in the room have shifted.
“Fuck. What time is it?”
“Five till.”
“Oh, thank god. I can’t deal with Francine’s shit tonight. You care if we end five minutes early? I’ve been cutting it close when the lights downtown don’t go my way.”
“Alright. But I get to claim those five minutes later.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
I eye the untouched latte as I gather my things. I want to guzzle down that coffee with every fiber of my being, but I can’t send the wrong message—can’t accept his gifts. I have to keep Connor at a distance, or he’ll find a way to worm under mycarefully crafted armor. I toss it in the trash on my way out the room.
Next week,I’m a little more prepared for Connor. Or so I think, until I walk in the door. He’s fresh from a shower, damp hair curling around his ears, and the scent of soap and clean skin bright in the air.
Again, two coffees sit in front of him. But this time he’s gone for the kill. On a napkin next to my drink is a double chocolate muffin just begging to be eaten.
I blink a few times before sitting down.
“Hello, Alanna.” He slides the coffee and muffin over to me with a quiet glare.
“Hello,” I respond automatically.
“How has your day been?”
“More people kill themselves on Wednesday than any other day.”
