Page 29 of Anything (Mayberry University #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sophie and Austin chose a walk for tonight. Energy buzzes around the six of us as we circle the loop on campus. I missed our crew. Plenty of couples are out here holding hands, but our exuberant group is never intimidated by the previously romantic vibe.
Haymitch rests a hand on Sophie’s shoulder for help navigating.
His baseball cap is turned backward to allow every bit of light down to his eyes.
He’s been trained to notice every movement and adjust his walk accordingly, but she still calls out warnings for him like “Step down!” and “Rock!” I hate that I’ve never offered to guide him.
I almost did a couple times, but I’m too chicken to breach the touch barrier.
My rules are keeping me afloat, even if they are extreme.
I cover an escaping yawn. I didn’t get that nap, and I’m floating in a fog of sleep deprivation .
“I know you have your swag on, Tiguere , but try to keep up,” Mia teases.
Austin glances over his shoulder with a knowing look.
Levi winks at me to explain his speed. Always so charming—he can’t help himself.
“I got a nice surprise this morning,” I say, more mysterious than I mean.
“Oh, did you?” he says.
Against my better judgment, I run with it. “Yes, gifts keep appearing in my room.”
“Mm. Are those … welcome surprises?”
“Oh, very. Well, they’re delicious, I mean. Whoever procures?—”
Amusement lights up his face at that word.
“—them has an excellent record. I admit, the notes in boy cursive are my favorite part.”
His lips press together, but laughter leaks out silently. “Boy cursive?”
Oops. My internal phrase just became external. “Mm-hm.”
“I know someone who went to a classical prep school. They only taught him cursive, poor guy. Never learned print. Now he’s handicapped. Maybe he’s the one”—he almost laughs—“procuring them?”
“Good detective skills, but it’s certainly not a handicap,” I say.
“No?”
He isn’t the least bit insecure—I don’t need to say anything else.
“No, it’s ever so charming.” I suppress the instinct to cover my face. Who am I, Cinderella?
“Lucky guy,” he says.
I read about a study that showed tiredness has a similar effect on the frontal lobe as alcohol. They are definitely onto something.
“Have you thought any more about dancing?” he asks.
He’s so selfless to remember the things I might be thinking about. I want to be more like that .
“I couldn’t stop dancing at home. I kept finding myself stretching, doing piques from room to room. It’s your fault,” I tease. “You made me realize how much I miss it all.”
Earlier today, Mom texted me a picture. As she flipped through old photos in motherly nostalgia, she came across one of my first year of dancing.
My tiny arms stretch stiffly into an adorably atrocious arabesque.
My chubby three-year-old cheeks are bright with deep dimples, my eyes barely visible because I’m smiling so hard.
Am I brave enough? I inch my phone out of my back pocket, open the picture, and hand it to him. The Levi laugh I expect will be too good to miss.
No laugh. Instead, delight engulfs his face. My heart skips.
“You’re so happy,” he murmurs.
As I return my phone—and vulnerability—to my pocket, commotion surrounds us. A1 blue and A2 red flit around campus.
“What are they doing?” I ask him.
“Albert Hall Capture the Flag. Flooders play winner next week.”
He pushes the sleeves of his Henley to his elbows, uncovering the four-inch tattoo on his forearm I’ve somehow never asked about.
He starts to say something, but I pick up his right arm with both hands to read it upside down.
“HSMS.” Something’s wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it.
This arm is incredible. Strong and smooth and covered in veins. There’s a box of Tic Tacs still?—
Ah! I drop it like a hot potato and yank my hands to my chest. What was I thinking?! My knees lock, breath goes jagged. I brace for the worst—for the darkness to pounce, for the memories to claw at me.
But nothing happens. My heart pounds, but I’m still here. Somehow, I’m still here. And Levi stopped with me. Shuffling to catch up to the others, I shake out my hands and then squeeze them together. I peek at Levi’s face—pleasure and amusement. He really has no idea what goes on in my head.
“And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength,” he says, pointing at the letters for heart, soul, mind, and strength.
Those veins poking up through his skin and wrapping around his forearm—I just felt those with my own fingers.
A restless ache washes over me. The way he chose to remember to keep first things first is amazing. He’s amazing.
I want to pray, but I don’t know what to say. I try to release my anxiety, my wants, my fears to God.
I’m always here.
“I love it,” I finally say.
Those eyes. They’re tinged gold-green even at dusk.
“Rock!” Sophie calls for Haymitch.
And then I trip over it.
Levi catches me, steady and brief. I want to relish the spreading tingle of his hand on my skin, but it’s ruined by the claws of fear that lurch at the corners of my mind. Nauseous and woozy, but I’m not dragged under. Again. Why not? My breath shudders out.
Thank you.
I still don’t get it, and I love patterns.
That’s probably why I’ve always liked math.
While I was home and had some brain space, I sat down and charted my freakouts based on recent memories.
Time was on the x-axis, severity of the trigger was y-axis, and severity of the reaction on the z-axis.
I even plotted the 3D graph in MATLAB like an ultra-nerd.
Blue for sound-based reactions and red for touch-based.
I gleaned very little from my well-executed graph, and I couldn’t even show anyone.
Well, I could have shown Mom, but I didn’t.
I proceed with the conversation in rebellion of the darkness still in my mind—and the helplessness to even understand it. “Any plans for another tattoo? ”
Levi looks ahead, maybe to check whether anyone else could hear, maybe to consider whether to tell the truth.
Sophie is discussing her parents with Haymitch. At the front, Mia and Austin laugh about some story. Their fast pace separates them from the rest of us occasionally, and then they pause as we catch up.
“Just one.” Levi hesitates again. “If I get married someday, I want a tattoo as my ring.” His left hand stretches. Then, even quieter, “That isn’t permanent enough, but it’s the best I can do.”
I gulp.
He raises his brows, a smile growing on his lips. I know that look, and he’s not wrong.
I clear my throat, force out a “Good idea,” and run toward Mia’s curls ahead. She throws an arm over my shoulder with a ticked-up eyebrow but no questions. I cling to that simple, solid touch, wrapping my arm around her waist.
Austin slows to trade spots.
Sophie hums the somehow easily recognizable Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme song behind me. She recently found “the Baby Will Smith Show ,” as she calls it, and we’ve been watching it in our suite sometimes. I shift side to side to Sophie’s beat.
“Girl, you are finally lightening up.” Mia shakes me. “Let’s go!”
I send her a wry grin. Must be the delirium.
“Turn it up, Sophie!” Mia says.
Delighted, Sophie moves Haymitch’s hand to Austin’s shoulder and skips to the front with us, boys left in a line behind. She starts over and sings with gusto.
I find the courage to rap along with Sophie, even break out in silly hip-hop moves with my girls, all while working hard to ignore the assumption that Levi is watching from behind.