Page 60 of Seeds of Love
“I can give you a ride,” Freddie offers, jingling his keys like some kind of chivalrous car fairy.
I open my mouth to refuse, but he cuts me off. “It’s late, Alex. I’m not letting you walk home alone.”
“I’m a big girl, Freddie. I can handle myself,” I retort, but there’s no real heat behind it. Truth is, the idea of a warm car is tempting. Almost as tempting as—nope, still not going there.
He raises an eyebrow. “Humor me?”
I sigh dramatically, channeling my inner diva. “Fine. But only because I’m too tired to argue. And if you try to lecture me about soil pH levels, I’m jumping out at the first red light.”
The drive is quiet at first, the radio playing some soft indie song I don’t recognize. Probably something about a guy falling in love with a tree. Freddie clears his throat. “So, how are things?”
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. How are things? Oh, you know, just trying to save the world while juggling classes and pretending I don’t have complicated feelings about my ex-best friend turned project partner. The usual.
Instead, I shrug. “Fine, I guess. Busy with applications, classes, and trying not to accidentally set the chem lab on fire. Again.”
He chuckles, and the sound does something warm and fuzzy to my insides.
“GSRI?” he asks. “That’s still the dream?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “What about you? Still planning to sell your soul to the highest bidder?”
It comes out harsher than I intended. I see Freddie’s jaw clench, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.Great job, Alex. Way to keep things light and friendly.
“It’s not that simple,” he says quietly.
I want to argue, to remind him of all the passionate debates we used to have about corporate responsibility and environmental ethics. Of how he was starting to come around to the idea that one person can make a real difference. But something in his voice stops me. He sounds… tired. Resigned.
“Nothing ever is,” I mutter, turning to look out the window.
We lapse back into silence, the streetlights casting flickering shadows across our faces. As we pull up to my apartment, I feel a sudden urge to say something, anything, to bridge this chasm between us.
“Thanks for the ride,” I manage, hand on the door handle.
Freddie nods. “Anytime, Lexie.”
Before I can respond, he’s speaking again.
“Look, I know things are weird between us. But I’m glad we’re working together on this project. I still think we make a good team.”
I stare at him, trying to reconcile this mature, thoughtful Freddie with the guy who broke my heart.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Maybe we do.”
ALEX
NOW – SOPHOMORE YEAR – JANUARY
“And then Sarah said—you’ll never believe this—she said I was ‘emotionally unavailable.’ Can you believe that?”
I stab at my salad, wondering if I can fake a medical emergency. Or maybe start a small fire. Anything to escape his endless monologue about his ex-girlfriend Sarah, who is apparently the next Frank Lloyd Wright and makes a carrot cake that would make Gordon Ramsay weep.
“That’s... something,” I manage, taking a large gulp of wine. At least Bamboo Garden has decent pinot grigio.
“Right?” Dean continues, oblivious to my lack of enthusiasm. “I mean, she’s the one who said she needed space to ‘find herself.’ Who says that? We were perfect together. Did I tell you about the tiny house she designed for her senior project? The window placement was revolutionary. Architecture is such an impressive degree.”
Yes. Three times.
I should have trusted my gut and canceled. But after our drunken hookup during Christmas break—a decision born ofloneliness, too much tequila, and the depressing reality of being one of six students who stayed on campus—I felt obligated to give him a proper chance.
