Page 37

savannah

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

“You calling me a rat, Peter?”

“Is that what that means?” The only other person on campus that I might consider a friend looks at me, slightly horrified. “I definitely didn’t mean?—”

“I’m just joking.” I smile at him and he nods, his shoulders relaxing a bit. He’s always so high-strung, but I find something about it kind of endearing.

“What are you doing here? It’s your day off, no?”

“Sure is.” I strum my knuckles on the counter. “I’m meeting my aunt for a coffee break. Can I get my usual, and a sweet and spicy tea for her, please?”

“She doesn’t drink caffeine either?”

“Maybe it’s hereditary.”

My phone vibrates in my back pocket: a picture of Noah, with only a towel covering his front, and a text that reads, You like what you see? Immediately followed by another one.

Noah: Fucking Maverick Delete that. Or save it for when you miss me, your choice .

“Hello, darling. Sorry I’m late,” my aunt says, brushing a strand of her hair over her head the same way my mom used to.

I quickly pocket my phone as she pulls me in for a hug. I shiver against her coat that holds on to the cold air. “No worries. I just ordered.”

“Go ahead and sit.” Peter calls over his shoulder, filling up the kettle. “I’ll bring your drinks over when I’m done.”

The fire is already going as we take a seat on the empty couch across from the fake logs. We sit for a minute, watching the flames flicker, but the sounds of laptops typing and low conversation begin to feel too loud—especially next to someone who is usually the loudest one in the room.

“How was your weekend?” I ask.

“Good!” She answers quickly, nodding her head a little too enthusiastically. “Busy. I’ve fallen behind on grading, but good.”

“Good.” I eye her suspiciously, and she turns her attention on me.

“How are the rest of your classes going?”

“Not terrible. Surprisingly, my hardest course is a jazz history class—if you can believe it.”

“I can.” She smiles. “And Chloe?”

“Chloe is being Chloe. She’s wearing thirty different hats right now, but you know how she is.”

“God, I love that girl.”

I unzip my coat and pull my legs up under me.

“And what about Noah?”

I blink and thankfully I’m already sitting.

“What about Noah?” I ask.

“I don’t know, that's why I’m asking. After our run in during our last coffee date, I thought something might be going on, especially after seeing the way he was looking at you.”

“How was he looking at me?”

The clinking of ceramic mugs on mini plates surrounds us as Peter places my coffee on the low wood table and hands my aunt her tea.

“Thank you,” she says, and he smiles, dipping his head before heading back to the counter.

“Excuse me?”

“Hmm.” She lifts her mug from the plate as if her last words weren’t a tiny bomb dropped between us.

“I said, how was he looking at me?”

“I don’t know. It was like he was trying to memorize your smile or something.”

My heart thuds heavily in my chest. That was before our date. Well before anything had happened between us.

“And then after reading his report.” She tilts her head, eyes widening like saucers.

“His report?”

“Mmm,” she says around her a sip from her mug. “I might be old, but I’m not blind to the fact that something is going on there. He wouldn’t write about you the way he did otherwise.”

“What do you mean? What did he say?”

“Oh no, darling. I can’t tell you that.” She pats my leg with a smile.

“Well, what can you tell me?”

She takes another slow sip of her coffee with her eyebrows raised, letting me know that she’s stalling. The anticipation begins crawling across my skin. I absently scratch my arm, shifting uncomfortably, and I’m suddenly very aware of how cold the leather couch is beneath me.

“Aunty Lo, what’s going on?” I ask.

I follow her every movement as she sets her coffee on the table in front of her and then leans her elbow back on the couch, far too casually for how quickly my heart is beating. It’s a calming tactic, and I see right through it. She’s trying to appear at ease in hopes I’ll follow suit.

Not my MO.

“I’m moving.”

God. Rip that fucking Band-Aid off, why don’t you? I blink… I think. I’m not sure if I’m even breathing at this point. I sit, frozen, staring at her and waiting for the impact of her words to hit me.

“I got offered a new position at Berkeley, and you know I?—”

“I’m sorry. Berkeley as in, Berkeley, California? ”

One of her jeweled covered hands reaches for mine. She continues talking about the opportunity, reminding me that she never planned on staying in Linden Creek as long as she has.

“So… You’re leaving me.” I can’t make eye contact with her anymore. I’m not sure if it comes out as more of a question or an accusation. I’m not even sure how I mean it.

“I’m not leaving you , Savannah. You know I don’t do well in one place for too long.” Her stack of bracelets jingle when she shakes my hand, trying to get my attention. “I will always be here when you need me. Now, I’ll just be a phone call away.”

“Right.”

“You can come visit me in sunny California during the summer, and I’ll always come back to spend Christmas with you and Leo. Plus, it will make the time we spend together that much more special.”

I exhale, and there it is. The weight sucker-punches me like a fastball to the sternum.

She’s leaving. The woman who isn’t my mom, but who provides some comfort in her absence, is leaving.

She’s my aunt, who chose to live a child-free life.

It’s not her responsibility to ease the ache I carry in my heart, and I would never purposefully make her feel bad for doing what’s best for herself.

She knows me. She knows this will be hard for me— hence the way she’s approached me.

I finally meet her glassy eyes and force a smile. “I’m really happy for you, Aunt Lo.” I nod my head, probably a little too much in an attempt to be convincing, and after a quick hug and an excuse about not wanting to be late for my interview, I take off to my car.

The door hasn’t even fully shut before the first wave of tears rack my body.

If it were possible to explode from nervous energy, I’m positive I would combust right now.

The conference room where I am waiting quickly fills with thoughts that I can’t seem to shut off or make any sense of.

My aunt is leaving. Something is going on with Noah that he doesn’t want to talk to me about.

I’ve decided to tell my dad that I’m dating his star player.

And I’m waiting for an interview that I’ve already subconsciously written off, but if I don’t get it, I’ll be pissed with myself.

A knock sounds on the door, but it is clearly just a courtesy since a man walks in without waiting for my response. A man whose name I’m now realizing I forgot. Love that for me.

“Ms. Alvarez, it’s nice to finally meet you.

” He smiles, making his way down to the end of the long table.

I would have sat at the chair closest to the door, but when Shelly brought me into this room lined with whiteboards, I found a black portfolio and a sleek black pen at the head of the table, and a mini water bottle at the seat next to it.

I assumed I was supposed to sit all the way down here, which is only adding to my annoyance.

I inhale slowly through my nose, knowing full well that I’m letting my uncomfortable feelings about everything else outside these four walls impact my feelings about this interview.

You’re being a psycho. An unreasonable psycho. Reel it in.

I smile at the man—hoping that somehow his name will come to me— and stand, extending my hand to him. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Thank you for meeting with me.”

‘After I bailed on you,’ isn’t said, but it’s implied.

“Of course, of course.” He sits down, opening a portfolio that holds a single sheet of paper.

“Let’s see here.” His posture is relaxed as he leans toward the table, looking over the paper that is either interview questions or my resume—neither of which I feel great about.

“Ms. Alvarez, are you a journalism major?”

“Yes. I’m currently taking entertainment journalism, but in the fall, I’ll be able to take sports journalism, which I know an internship is required for, so I wanted to get a jump start in hopes that I could get in with the team I’m most excited to work with.

” I lift a hand in his direction—and okay, that last part was a lie, but his smile doesn’t change, so I’ll assume he’s none the wiser.

“Well, Ms. Alvarez, I think—” He continues talking, and I try to keep my face neutral, but I’m caught off guard by the continuous use of my last name.

Not that I came in here at the top of my game—because any small inconvenience could really send me over the edge right now—but why does he keep saying my name like that?

He’s a coach; I’m sure he calls everyone on the team by their last names, so it’s second nature to him, but it feels like he’s trying to remind me—or himself—who I am.

His lips are still moving as he writes something down and it dawns on me when he says my name again.

He knows who my dad is. They might not be in the same department, but to some degree, they’re colleagues. And just like everyone else does, he’s put two and two together. This… this is a fucking pity interview .

I can’t get up fast enough.

“I’m sorry, Mr—” Shit, I cut him off and I don’t even know his name. Horrified, I reach over to grab my purse and abruptly stand, which only makes things worse when my full stainless steel water bottle flies off the table and Mr. Nameless lifts his foot, letting out a painful groan.

Shit, again.

“Oh god.” I drop down to the floor, chasing after the water bottle. “I’m so sorry, I?—”

“Is everything alright, Ms. Alvarez?” he grits through clenched teeth.

Please stop saying my name if we both want to get out of here alive. I put my hand on the seat of a chair, using it to hoist myself up off the floor. I push to stand just as he comes forward to help me but the wheels slip out from under me, sending the hard plastic chair straight into his groin.

I drop my water bottle again, covering my mouth with both hands. Mr. Nameless looks like he might throw up. He pales like a cartoon character, and I race to my feet as he folds over, holding his crotch in a very unsettling way.

“I’ll get—” I point to the door, trying to remember the name of the woman at the front desk.

“Shelly,” he coughs out.

“Shelly, yes.” I rip open the door, looking back at him. “I’m so sorry again.”

A clipped nod and another cough are his only response.