imogene

What the hell am I doing?

The thought strikes me as I hurtle down the stairs, hardly allowing my feet the chance to touch the steps before I’m off, bursting through the doors and rushing into the brisk, almost-spring air. Even though I’m perpetually self-conscious, the jarring sense of abandonment doesn’t usually come so suddenly like this. I’m reserved; I’m refined; I’m anything but rash.

Yet here I am. I can hardly make it to the sidewalk fast enough before I’m jogging into town, heading towards that park where I know someone’s waiting. Part of it is the excitement of being wanted, being cared about, like getting a letter in the mail or realizing someone’s left breakfast on the table for you. But what’s becoming increasingly unsettling is the magnetic field that surrounds this newcomer, Remy, that draws me to him and makes me ache inside. It’s too soon and too strange, and even though I’ve spent so many years carefully crafting my reservoir of calm, calm is the last thing I am at this moment.

I barely catch the bus before it rumbles to life, pulling out of the stop with a thunderous belch. There’s no time to lose – at least, that’s what it feels like. I hold onto the railing and stare absently out the window, my thoughts racing.

“Nice view?” a low voice asks, close to my ear. I jump nearly three feet out of the way.

“Y-yeah,” I splutter. “Nice view.” When I glance at the speaker, a chill runs down my spine. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not exactly a good feeling, either.

It’s someone I should know. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with the insignia for my school on it, and he’s got a backpack as well, so he has to be a student, probably around my age. He’s got the same lazy smirk that I’ve seen most frat boys wear when they know they’re getting laid that night. I try to recall his name, but come up with a blank – what was it? Rob? Chase?

“Carter,” the frat boy says, offering me a hand. “And you are?”

“Imogene.” I smile at him uncomfortably. His hand is warm and dry, which makes mine feel all the clammier by comparison. I wonder dimly what he’s doing talking to me when I’m obviously not his type or even in any of his classes, as far as I can remember.

“We’re in Psych 101 together,” he tells me, as if he can read my mind.

Oh.

“Right, of course.” That class is at least 100 students large. “I must have missed you.”

“Look, I know this is sudden and all, but...” Now he’s the one who looks uncomfortable. “Do you have time for a coffee? Really quick, just run down to Starbucks or something – ”

“I’m going to meet someone right now,” I blurt, without knowing why. At this point, I’m just trying to escape the encounter unscathed, but I’m fairly certain whatever I try, the situation won’t improve. The languid attitude has got to be a sham, the way he’s shifting around now.

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” This comes out much more defensive than I intend. “Really.”

“This your stop?”

“None of your business,” I mutter, but it comes out far too loud.

The city is flashing by more slowly now, until finally, with a tug under the feet that’s reminiscent of the diminishing tide, the bus screeches to a halt. Passengers get to their feet, and suddenly what was before a fairly roomy space is now tight and crowded. Even before the doors open, people off the side of the road are struggling to board. I glance around for Carter, but he’s disappeared.

I leave almost furtively. I don’t know why I feel guilty; it’s not as if I’ve committed a crime by turning him down, and I would have concluded the conversation a bit more nicely if I’d had the time. Nevertheless, I’m reluctant to go on my way without saying a word of goodbye. I walk slowly, at a leisurely stroll, but there’s still no one behind me. After I check for the fifth time (and run into an old woman who promptly drops her purse), I decide to go back.

He’s still standing there. I don’t know if I’m surprised or not, seeing him puzzle over a map inside one of the bus stops.

“Right,” he says. “Left... right, cul-de-sac, and turn in here.”

For some reason, this makes me smile. “Hi. Sorry about what I said.”

He glances at me impassively, then returns to his maps. “Starbucks should be right around this corner, unless I’m mistaken.”

“You’re holding it upside down.”

Carter does a double take, then bursts out laughing. “God, no wonder I can never do anything right. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” I think about leaving him to his directions, but I figure I should probably at least show him to his beloved Starbucks, lest he lose his way again. He’s still poring hopelessly over the map, so I sigh and approach him again. “I can just show you the way, if you want.”

He looks to me with this mock surprise that makes me regret my decision. He probably knows exactly where it is.

“That’d be great,” he says.

I don’t touch him; I don’t even stand close to him. He’s not bad-looking, to be honest, but from his dirty-blond hair to his scuffed sneakers, he has a decidedly ‘slacker’ look that instantly puts me off. His eyes are a lazy gray-green that don’t make a big deal out of themselves, but his jaw is finely chiseled to match his confident grin. I kick myself internally for giving him the opportunity to make another pass at me, and resolve not to let things go any further than simply bringing him to the café.

As expected, Starbucks is really quite close. There’s no reason he couldn’t have found it himself – it’s fairly obvious now that the whole thing was a ploy, and I’m so disgusted with it I don’t want to say another word. When we arrive, the shop is bustling with activity, the baristas tripping over themselves to get to every order on time. A line of people winds across the floor and every table is already occupied.

“Here you are,” I say. “Enjoy your coffee.”

“You’re waiting for someone, too, right?” he asks, pushing open the door.

“I’m meeting him elsewhere,” I clarify. I’m about to turn and walk back to the park before I waste anymore time, but he grabs my wrist out of nowhere and I end up stumbling backwards, uncomfortably close to him.

“Let me buy you a drink?” he inquires pleasantly.

I wrench my hand from his and begin a steady walk towards the other side of town, still fuming. I’ve barely made it five feet when he’s calling my name again. I decide I’ve had it, and whirl around and shout:

“I’m not going to date you, okay?”

It’s not Carter’s face that greets me. Two wide and slightly confused eyes stare back, and I realize our faces are extremely close, close enough that I can tell these eyes resemble nothing so much as liquid mercury. Blushing furiously, I leap backwards and barely venture to look up again.

“I didn’t even ask yet,” Remy says, with a peculiar expression on his face. Something between a smile and a stare. “...Should I?”

“No, that’s not – ” I shake my head. “I meant... Well, ignore that. Sorry. That really wasn’t meant for you.”

“Fight with the boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend? You mean – ” I’m so embarrassed I can barely speak. “I didn’t know him. At all.”

“Didn’t seem like it,” he remarks under his breath, but I must have imagined it, because in the next moment he’s laughing. “I guess I’m hardly surprised.”

“No.” It comes out as a murmur; I don’t even know what I’m protesting, but it’s making me want to curl into a ball and sink into the ground.

“Just joking, Imogene, don’t mind me.” Remy grins and hands me a piece of paper. “Here, I drew this while I waited. I figured I might as well do something with my art degree.”

It’s a beautifully rendered portrait, smudged on the sides as if the artist were in too much of a hurry to pay attention to the details. The strokes are broad and sure, somehow without being messy. The girl staring back at me has shy eyes, gently curled tresses, and a smile that could have thawed an iceberg.

Two gray eyes stare back at me. I don’t need him to tell me whose they are.