Upsy Daisy: A First Love College Romance

by Smartypants Romance

  “Well that certainly is . . . I mean, I . . . that’s not very . . .”

  “I believe you’re looking for the word snobbish?”

  “Yes! And . . .”

  It was snobbish but . . . was it wrong? There were plenty of people that looked down their noses at the way folks from the south talked.

  But I hadn’t thought Trevor would be one of them. Though clearly, if he’d worked to lose his accent, then he must see something wrong with accents like that. With accents like mine.

  Embarrassment—swift and strong and sure—hit me and I released his hand.

  “Daisy?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  He leveled those eyes on me and repeated my name in censure as if I should’ve known better than to try to fool him. He said it like he knew me, like we knew each other and that made me want to open up.

  “You think my accent is—”

  “No. Never think that. Please. Don’t think that.” He retook my hand and stared down at our joined fingers, frowning. “I think your voice sounds like . . . home.”

  He cleared his throat and continued before I could wrap my head around what that could possibly mean.

  “My headmistress was somewhat correct, colorful language aside. There’s a bias against southern accents, especially in the sector that I want to work in, but I love hearing them and . . . sometimes I regret losing mine.” He looked bashful for a moment but then smiled. “My friend Julian has a great ear. He can turn his off and on, but for me it was just easier to learn to say the words the way they wanted them said.”

  I picked at my plate with my free hand, releasing the embarrassment I felt into the air as I willed my heart rate to return to normal.

  “What sector is that—the one you want to work in?” I said, returning us to a safe topic.

  “Finance.”

  “Finance?”

  He looked at me from under those long lashes as if amused by the distaste in my voice.

  “Yes, finance.”

  “Why?” I said, trying to reconcile the image of a slimy hedge fund manager or a corrupt banker with Trevor—who seemed so sweet and caring about folks.

  “Because of that face you’re making right there. Daisy, good people get hurt when they can’t buy houses because they can’t get loans. They get hurt when they’re taken advantage of by an investor that sells them a junk bond, promising some ridiculous rate of return without explaining the probability of that return or how likely it is that they’ll lose their shirts instead of getting money for their kids’ education. They’re hurt when they try to start a business and have to mortgage their house and their kids’ futures and . . .” He trailed off. I’d never heard someone speak so forcefully and so passionately about bonds and loans.

  “Someone gets to be in those positions. Someone gets to be the decider. They get to say who gets a loan to buy their first home or to open start their own business. Someone gets to decide if you’re worthy of your dreams and if you are, how much it’s going to cost you. And since someone has to decide either way, shouldn’t that person be a good person? Someone who wants to be in finance not just because of what it can do for them, but for what it can allow them do for other people? The assholes are going into finance in droves—the good guys need to do it too.”

  My father and mother had often said that it was important for the people who controlled capital to be compassionate.

  I took stock of how Trevor breathed just a tad harder than usual, how a different light shined in his eyes. This. This was what he looked like when he loved something, my mind catalogued dully.

  “It seems like you’ve found your life’s calling.”

  He nodded slightly, still staring down at his hand that was holding mine, or maybe my hand holding his. In a motion that was both familiar and new, I ran my thumb across his knuckles reassuringly, the same way he’d done to me at church. The feeling was still just as strong as before, and he looked up at me, surprise written all over that face.

  Surprised was a good look on Trevor; he looked more boyish.

  Every look was a good look on Trevor.

  He bit his lip and then said, “So what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. What’s your calling?”

  “Ha! Isn’t figuring that out why people come to college?”

  “True, it’s why most people come to college. Well, that and the fact that their parents tell them they have to ‘get out of their house!’” We both laughed and he continued, “But you don’t strike me as most people.”

  “Oh yeah? What do I strike you as then?”

  “You strike me as the type who knows exactly what you want.”

  The way he said it, deep and low while he absently bit his lip, had my insides clenching and I had to shake my head to clear it before I responded.

  He was wrong though; I didn’t know what I wanted. All I knew was what I didn’t want.

  That’s a lie, Daisy. You know it’s a lie.

  Because the truth was I did know what I wanted. I just didn’t know if I was brave enough to admit it. But since Trevor had been so open with me about his dream, I decided to open up about mine for once.

  “You ever wanted something so badly you were afraid to admit it, even to yourself?”

  His eyes bounced between mine, probing, deep, and a little tender.

  “Might do, being a Black man that wants to work in finance and all.” And it struck me in that moment that Trevor still spoke with a southerner’s cadence, that they’d taken his accent but not his dialect and I found that both wonderful and sad. Trevor had already sacrificed a piece of himself for his dream and here I was too afraid to even admit mine.

  “I want to be an entrepreneur. I want to have my own business. Businesses.”

  He smiled as broad as I’d ever seen him smile.

  “Well now, seems you and I may be a match made in heaven. After all, you’ll need a good banker to help jump-start those businesses, right?”

  I laughed at his freshness instead of replying.

  “What kind of businesses will you be starting?”

  I loved that. Loved that he spoke as though it would be, just because I wanted it to be. That belief alone made it possible.

  I groaned. “You’re going to laugh.”

  He shrugged. “I may, if it’s funny."

  It’s funny.

  “Daisy’s Doughnut House.”

  He laughed, surprised and splendid.

  “That’s a mouthful. I take it you make doughnuts?”

  “I do,” I said through a smile.

  “How does one even make a doughnut?” He scratched his chin thoughtfully, playfully, “Are they baked in the oven or . . .?”

  I rolled my eyes. “There you go blaspheming again. Doughnuts are deep-fried. Everybody knows that.” I nudged him with my shoulder and he laughed.

  “I can’t wait to have my first deep-fried Daisy’s Doughnut.”

  “It’ll melt in your mouth,” I assured him. Because my doughnuts were really, really good.

  He stiffened and looked at me wide-eyed. With that deep voice of his he replied, “Oh I have no doubt about that at all.”

  And just like that he had me all hot and flushed again.

  Trevor and I talked for a long time.

  We discussed his favorite book, Shakespeare in Harlem, and mine, Sula.

  He nodded at my pick, replying, “I think Morrison is going to be one of the preeminent writers of our generation.”

  And I fell in love. With those words, not him; with his words about Toni Morrison.

  He revealed his favorite color was brown and challenged my assertion that, “No one’s favorite color was brown,” by gesturing around him at all the families—representing different hues of brown skinned people—and said simply, “Did anyone tell God that?”

  I snapped my mouth shut with a grin, one that only broadened when he said, “Your favorite color is yellow, and it fits you because you light up a room
.” I was surprised and delighted that he remembered. Before I could get too moony, he’d moved the conversation forward.

  “Home fries. That’s my favorite food. I love that they’re simple. And versatile—they go with almost any meal. But mostly they just taste really good and they’re hard to mess up, so I know how to make them.”

  That got me laughing again and I told him I couldn’t name my favorite food for the life of me; there were just too many.

  And we argued.

  First about the sandwiches and then again when he stated that the Delfonics were better than the Temptations.

  I’d actually placed my hand on his forehead to see if he was running a fever, after he’d said it. That move had earned me another of Trevor’s deep laughs, a sound I was coming to cherish more and more. Laughter came so easy with him. Everything came easy, even arguing.

  I’d been debating with my siblings all my life—it was something of a tradition in my house—but it had never been as fun as arguing with Trevor.

  We talked until the sun started to get low and families started to leave. Until it was no longer comfortable to sit, so we laid side by side, Trevor’s long legs trailing off the blanket. And still . . . talking.

  We discussed whether Blaxploitation films were helping or hurting our people. He argued helping because at least those films were employing Black actors and actresses, and giving us a presence on film. I argued hurting, because they just reinforced too many stereotypes.

  We talked about anything—everything.

  When someone from the dining services started collecting the blankets around us, I sat up, surprised that we were alone.

  I knew that people had been leaving but I hadn’t realized we were the very last ones there.

  Trevor looked around equal parts amused and surprised and said, “I guess we’ve overstayed our welcome. I should be walking you home now.”

  He released my hand for the first time in hours, and stood agilely. He extended his hand to help me up, keeping hold even after I stood.

  We quickly relinked our fingers, in the handshake that had been our near constant since we first shook hands in line. He grabbed his to-go plate in his other hand, and we set off on the short distance to Jubilee.

  We were both quiet, walking slower than normal, but finally the building loomed and he stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’ll watch you get in from here,” he said quietly.

  I nodded because I wasn’t sure where my voice had gone. Instead of moving, I turned to stare up at him; the moment felt tense, charged in a way I couldn’t quite understand.

  He frowned before looking down at my fingers still entwined with his. His expression seemed pained as he raised my hand to his and placed the softest kiss on my knuckles. The warmth of his breath and the feel of his lips made my breath hitch.

  “Thank you for spending the afternoon with me. It was . . .” He struggled to choose the right word but finally settled on, “Unexpected.”

  “Anytime,” I said. I paused for a beat, waiting for him to ask about the next time we’d see each other. For him to ask if I had a phone in my room, and if I did, what my phone number was.

  Instead he shifted on his feet uncomfortably and then he looked in my eyes and said, “You should go inside now, Daisy, before it gets too late.”

  I nodded. Disappointment flooded through me. Of course. Hadn’t he called me his friend all afternoon? Didn’t I remind myself not to get too caught up in his flirtations? That was just how he was built.

  I found my voice. “See you around, pal,” I said as I released his hand. For a second his eyes flashed with something I couldn’t place. It looked like anger or maybe sadness. I erased the thought; I was probably just reading too much into things again.

  Like you did this entire afternoon, Daisy.

  I turned and walked up the stairs. I felt his eyes at my back the entire time, until the moment I slipped inside and closed the doors.

  I walked into my room and took a step back in surprise. The lights were on, there was music playing on my radio and Odie and James were sitting on the bed across from mine. Both their heads popped up at the sound of the door opening.

  James jumped up from the bed and ran to me. “You didn’t lock your door, so we made ourselves at home. And I heard you had a very eventful afternoon. Tell me all about it,” she eagerly demanded as rapid fire as ever.

  I laughed, but it didn’t sound natural. Disappointment from how things had ended with Trevor lingered.

  I shook my head, looking at Odie with accusation.

  James’s head bounced back and forth between us. “Don’t blame Odie! She didn’t tell me about your rendezvous—she didn’t have to tell me! It’s the news around here. Roxie Jones, no relation, who lives on the second floor? She told me—she said she saw us eating together in the caf and figured we were stick girls. She said everyone was going on and on about how some handsome, and I do mean FIIINNNNEEE—her words—guy and Daisy were all over each other.”

  I groaned. “We were not all over each other.”

  “She’s right, they weren’t. They were only holding hands,” Odie supplied a bit too innocently.

  I opened my mouth to deny it. To explain to Odie that we’d only been shaking hands, then snapped my mouth shut. She was right. We had been holding hands.

  “Ha!” James said seeing my face.

  “It’s not like that,” I said weakly.

  “Not like what?” James pressed bouncing on her toes.

  “I don’t think . . . it’s just not like . . . we’re just friends,” I said remembering the crushing disappointment I’d felt moments earlier.

  James reared back and cocked her head at me skeptically. “Friends?”

  I took a deep breath, but before I could explain, Odie swept in, throwing me a sympathetic look as she spoke. “Give her a break, James. It’s clear she’s had a long day. Let Daisy tell us when she’s ready.”

  I smiled my gratitude at my endlessly patient friend.

  James grumped, “When she’s ready? We’re her friends, the ones that—you know, figuratively hold her hand through life,” she finished with a dramatic flourish of her fingers.

  Then she threw herself back on the bed.

  “James, you actually do hold my hand sometimes.”

  It was true. She did.

  She threw her hands up. “In a uniform showing of sisterhood! Not as a potential romantic overture! Why would you keep stuff from us? We’re the Daisy pep squad. And I need to be armed when I go forth into the world.”

  “Armed?” I asked wary.

  “Daisy, people talk to me. Okay? I don’t know why. They tell me things. I try to set them right when they share misinformation. So now I will go back to Roxie and let her know that nothing is going on?”

  Her eyes glimmered, curious as ever, and her smile was teasing.

  I shook my head, she was impossible. “I will tell y’all what happened, but I do not need you to defend me.”

  “I do that for free,” James quipped bouncing the balls of her feet against the floor as she propped her head up on a pillow.

  I shook my head and tossed myself onto my bed, having been able to finally make it away from the door where James had accosted me.

  “And I do not need y’all to repeat it to anyone else.” I sat up on the bed and stared at Odie, who nodded in silent agreement, and at James, whose eyes were still all lit up. But she made a zipping motion across her lips.

  I recounted the story quickly, leaving out the more personal details. That felt like too much to share, even with my friends.

  He makes you feel like being just Daisy is enough.

  When I got to what had happened by the stairs, Odie and James were as confused as I was.

  James said that he was probably just afraid and Odie said he was probably a true southern gentleman that wanted to take things slow.

  I weighed both of their conclusion and decided that neither sat right. I felt like there
was a very obvious explanation to Trevor’s behavior that we were missing.

  But it was Odie who finally helped me let the whole thing go. “Daisy, boys are dumb.”

  “Amen,” I affirmed.

  “Amen!” said James.

  Odie lifted her hand in praise. “Amen,” she said.

  Chapter Five

  Trevor

  When my eyes opened at four a.m. Monday morning, it was to a sticky, rapidly cooling pool of embarrassment between my legs. I sighed at my predicament. I’d been sighing a lot since meeting Daisy.

  Inappropriate hard-ons, wet dreams, and daydreams. It was official. She’d turned me back into a preteen boy, and I resented the hell out of her for it.

  No, you absolutely do not. You adore her.

  I didn’t think it was possible to resent someone as sweet as Daisy. Someone as funny and kind. I’d never had a problem striking up conversation with strangers, but I’d never experienced anything quite like the connection I’d felt with her.

  Partly because it didn’t feel like I was conversing with a stranger when we spoke. It felt like—she felt like—coming home. I didn’t really know how else to describe it, as crazy as it sounded. It felt like I was speaking with someone that had known me my whole life and I was just catching them up on what they had missed.

  Daisy was so much more than just her physical beauty; her dry wit made me laugh so hard my belly ached. She loved math just the same as me. She had big dreams, and I could see that her spark matched my own. Maybe even surpassed it.

  Being with her yesterday had been beautiful and it had been torture. I sighed again and hauled myself up. Dread coursed through me as I fumbled around for clean clothes. I was going to have to find time to wash my sheets today since I only had the one set. Extra sheets were a luxury, and now was not a time for me to spend lavishly.

  If I didn’t have to live so frugally, if my life were my own, I knew exactly what I’d spend my money on. I’d ask Daisy on a date, I’d borrow Julian’s car, and I’d take her to eat someplace with real good food. Maybe Swetts, or someplace even fancier.