Daisy and I decided on Fridays at four in the library.
I was eager to have our session wrapped up. I was overheated and in desperate need of some air. I made it as far as the other side of the threshold before my lips moved without my brain’s permission, and I heard myself ask, “Would you like to get out of here? Maybe go on a tour of the campus?”
She was beside me in seconds, her easy smile back on her remarkably pretty face. She laughed. “Well, we can leave but I’ve already been on a tour of the campus.”
I smiled back automatically, because I couldn’t seem to help it when she smiled. “Yes, but you haven’t been on the Trevor Boone tour of Fisk.”
Her pretty eyes meet mine from beneath her lashes. They sparked with curiosity and maybe a bit of humor.
“Well how can I resist that?”
“No need to resist at all,” my mouth involuntarily responded.
What are you doing, Trevor? That sounds a lot like flirting. Get a grip. You cannot flirt with this girl.
“Lead the way, dear mentor.”
God have mercy on me. She should never be allowed to use the words lead, dear, or mentor.
She was definitely gonna notice if she looked down now.
Chapter Eight
Trevor
I held the door open for Daisy, squinting as the light hit my face. I tucked my twitchy hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t grab hers. I was quiet—my mind working to justify asking Daisy for any extra time. On the one hand, it was selfish, and I knew that. On the other hand, she had been sad. The echo of that misery still haunted me, even if I didn’t know the source—maybe even especially since I didn’t know. An hour or two of distraction wouldn’t hurt her, and it would go a long way in settling my mind.
I was happy to see that her mood improved as we started toward Fisk’s most well-known landmark: a statue of W.E.B. DuBois. Daisy had already been on a tour so instead of giving her pure history, I’d just have to improvise.
She reached into the small purse she had slung across her body and pulled out some shades.
She looked up at me with those butterflies perched on her nose and it was the sweetest thing I’d ever seen.
Maybe she was a fairy or a goddess. Yesterday she’d lain on the blanket, hair fanned about her head, and she’d looked the very picture of Isis or Aphrodite. Perhaps I’d been bewitched the way Greek goddesses would sometimes toy with mortal men.
That was, sadly, the most rational explanation for my reaction to her. After all, I hardly knew her and here I was thinking of excuses to extend our time together. That isn’t true, my mind automatically contradicted. I hadn’t known her long but after yesterday I understood her. I knew her favorite color and her favorite books and her favorite songs and her favorite music group.
Maybe today I’d have the chance to find out a few more favorites. Just to get to know her as her mentor, I quickly justified to myself.
I glanced at her still cheerily looking up at me, and because I couldn’t seem to control my body, my thoughts, or my mouth when I was around her I blurted, “You look a like a fairy queen with those glasses on.”
She laughed. “My sister said the same thing but I think they’re cute.”
It’s not the glasses that are cute.
I stopped us in front of W.E.B. DuBois and gave her my most somber, scholarly face as I began speaking, “As you know, this is a statue—”
“Of W.E.B.—” she interjected.
I quickly cut her off as I smiled at her knowledge and a little at her know-it-allness.
I didn’t fault her for that; in fact, confidence in your intelligence was a major turn-on for me.
Everything about this girl is a turn-on for you.
“Of W.C. Pennington,” I countered.
She stopped short and those butterflies stared up at me, perplexed.
“Trevor.” There was surprise and laughter in her voice. “I think the name you meant to say—”
I slapped my hand on my forehead. “Yes, you’re right. I forgot his name! It’s James W.C. Pennington.” I nodded assuredly. “How could I forget his first, first name.” I rolled my eyes theatrically.
If Jules could see you right now, yours wouldn’t be the only eyes rolling.
“Pennington, who, as you may be aware, was famous for being an—”
“Abolitionist—” she said flatly, lips twisted and eyebrows raised.
Of course she knew who James W.C. Pennington was. I wasn’t surprised so I didn’t miss a beat.
“I believe you meant to say arborist,” I corrected graciously. I hoped my plan worked. I hoped Daisy would go along with my joke. I hoped she got my sense of humor, otherwise I was going to look like the biggest fool.
“He was responsible for . . .” I moved my hands in an arc as I gestured to the campus. “Hand planting most of the trees that dot our beloved forty-acre campus.”
I kept my face absolutely straight.
A long moment went by, and then . . . her lips broke into a full smile.
And then she laughed.
My breath caught a little and I exhaled my own chuckle in response.
I balled my first inside my pocket. I would not reach for her hand. But I did feel like I was flying, soaring really. Daisy and I had laughed together yesterday, but this was different. This was the first time I’d set out to make her laugh. The fact that I could earn that laughter, earn those smiles, made me feel fifty feet tall. It made me want to spend a lifetime earning them.
You can’t. I reminded myself.
Why not? my brain said.
Because you’re her mentor. You’re in a position of power over her.
We are not responsible for her grades, my brain countered.
Okay well maybe not power, but . . . leadership. And school, too! Senior year. Stay focused. And maybe after yesterday she doesn’t want to shake your hand. She’s been nothing but friendly today. And what about Elodie? my brain nagged.
My smile fell a little at the reminders. Daisy was fatal because she made everything that had been my top priority feel less important. I knew it was wrong, but in that moment I felt like earning more of Daisy’s laughter was the most important thing in the world. I couldn’t have a lifetime, but I was greedy enough to want these next few hours.
“Well,” she said after her laughter died down. “I’m so lucky to have you mentoring me. It would seem I’ve been deeply misinformed and need someone to help get me up to speed on my Fisk-tory,” she said, still grinning.
I bit back my grin, and nodded somberly. “Very common for freshman. How can we expect them to know about the rich and vast history of this great university when they don’t even know how to pick up their meal vouchers?”
I winked.
“Oh, that does it!” she exclaimed whipping off her glasses and gently poking me in the shoulder.
“You and that boy were impossible! With your”—she lowered her voice and her chin while adopting a more manly posture—“I love you, Mrs. Dot. You’re the best cook in heaven or hell, Mrs. Dot!”
Was she imitating me?
I burst into laughter. She was definitely imitating me.
“Firstly, my voice does not—”
I didn’t even get to finish the sentence. She slid her sunshades into her hair and pounced on me like a kitten assaulting its prey—claws out, poking, and tickling.
How does she know I’m ticklish? I hadn’t told her that.
I danced in front of the statue trying to avoid her probing fingers as she shouted, sounding a little deranged, “How in the world were we supposed to know—”
Poke!
“—to just show up!”
Tickle!
“To sign out the coupon books? And your timing was more—”
Poke!
“—than—”
Tickle!
“Uncanny!”
I managed to dance away but she wasn’t finished.
“You planned it!” she shouted, assailing me wit
h her fingers. My heart raced, tears streamed down my face, I was completely breathless, and I had no idea if it was because she’d made laugh so hard or from her touch. Or both.
“Innocent!” I yelled back. I moved, trying not nearly hard enough to get away from her.
“Liar!”
She poked me especially hard between my ribs and it caught me off guard enough that I lost balance.
My hands flew out automatically, seeking stability and finding Daisy.
We both tumbled on the soft grass and she landed on top of me.
Her hair fell around her face and I was struck with the need to touch it, to tuck it away, to see her face. The urge to run my hands over her body to check for bumps and bruises, to make sure she was okay even though I could feel her soft, warm body on my own, was nearly overwhelming. Daisy’s body was flush with mine, her lips so near my ear I could hear her soft pants as she tried to catch her breath.
And I knew I needed to get her off me quickly or she was going to feel my not-soft body under hers.
And I would, absolutely. I would roll us both to the side so that we could move apart . . . but not yet. I took a second, just a moment, to indulge. I’d wanted to play in her hair since the first moment I saw those two long wavy braids trailing down her back.
And so I did.
I gently took a piece that had fallen around her face, I slid it between my thumb and index finger. Then I wound it around my index finger, once, twice three times and gently tucked the tendril behind her ear.
Her hair was so soft. Its texture was a silky mixture of coily and wavy; it left a delicious sheen of oil on my fingertips.
And since I was indulging, I allowed myself to stare into those big, pretty eyes. Eyes that were becoming familiar to me. I wondered if I could draw them from memory yet.
It wasn’t as if I really even had a choice. Her eyes compelled me to stare, and although our fall was short, looking into her eyes made me feel like the wind had been knocked out of me.
The longer we lay pressed against one another, the more it felt like our entire bodies had become magnets. To break us apart would require a force stronger than my mere human strength. The air around us grew charged, growing even hotter in the Tennessee summer heat. It may have taken me several seconds, but I finally noticed that Daisy wasn’t scrambling to get off of me. She wasn’t moving at all. In fact, she stared right back at me, lips slightly parted.
Speaking of lips . . . I let my mind wander and wondered what would happen if I slid my hand from the warm, soft, bare skin of her lower back where it’d gone instinctively on some wild attempt to protect her as we fell to her lips, mere inches away. Would they feel as smooth as they looked? Her lips were plump and she wore lipstick that made them the color of ripe berries. I wondered if they’d taste as sweet.
Too far gone in my imaginings, I realized I had leaned closer and closer, but it wasn’t until I heard the hitch of her breath and her saw her eyes flutter closed that reality crashed into my fantasy and I paused.
Are you out of your entire John Brown mind? You almost kissed her.
I cleared my throat and looked at the sky, at the grass, at anything but her. It would kill me to look at Daisy and see her so close and so willing and yet so far out of reach. After a long moment, her eyes opened and she retreated off me.
Shame swamped me strong, fierce. An apology burned my tongue. I shut my eyes tightly and when I opened them to look her in the eye—because she deserved to be looked in the eye when I told her that I was terribly sorry and that I would completely understand if she wanted a new mentor. One that could keep his hands to himself.
I expected to see her sitting near me, confused, hurt, maybe even angry. Instead, I found her already standing on the sidewalk, smiling brightly.
She spoke before I could. “So what about Jubilee Hall? Does it actually date back to 1876?”
I stared at her in confusion before realizing she’d gone back to the history game. I cleared my throat, stood, and brushed the blades of grass from my trousers, not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed that she seemed content to ignore the intense last few moments between us.
Be relived, Trevor. She’s too young for you. She’s too innocent for you. She’s too beautiful for you.
But relived isn’t what I was . . .
I was crestfallen.
Idiot.
I was screwed.
Daisy
And the Academy Award for the leading actress, in Of Course He Doesn’t want to Kiss You, Dummy, goes to Daisy Payton. I would like to thank my sister for letting me know I was perfect for this role, and of course, the Academy.
My smile was screwed on so tight if it got any bigger my whole face would give like a screw tightened one turn too many.
Nevertheless, I was determined to get the day back on track. I couldn’t very well run off in a fit of tears when he’d rejected my advances.
You basically threw yourself at him, Daisy. Pressing yourself against him like a pair of cheap press-on nails the first chance you got.
Shame. For shame, Daisy.
I did not feel ashamed. I felt . . .
Hot.
Turned on. Embarrassed. Remorseful.
Poor thing. What must Trevor have been feeling? Here I was, thinking he was working himself up to make a move and instead he’d been politely trying to give me time and space to get the hell off of him.
But the way he looked at you . . .
Is probably the way he looks at everyone, Daisy.
The boy couldn’t help that he had eyes. Gorgeous eyes. They were light brown with even lighter, almost golden, flecks in the center. I’d never seen anything quite like them.
And his stare? I fought a shudder as I recalled the way Trevor looked into me like he could see my soul.
Both James and Odie had been wrong, and Dolly, per usual, had been right. The boy was a natural flirt; he didn’t even realize what he was doing. It wasn’t his fault he had charisma oozing out of his pores. It wasn’t his fault he was charming and funny and had eyes that could set a room ablaze.
Your face is going to wrinkle from how hard you’re smiling, Daisy.
I was not going to make big deal out of this minor thing.
Was it embarrassing? Sure. Yes, Lord, yes! It was the same level of mortification as when you waved at a stranger who you thought waved at you in a moment of human kindness and connection but had actually waved at the person they knew standing behind you.
But it wasn’t devastating.
And anyway, I’d just gotten to school. I needed to hold my horses.
Yes, consider the horses held. There was much to do and to learn and I needed a firm foundation under my feet before I rushed headlong into kissing practical strangers.
Yes! Good plan, smart Daisy. Great plan.
Therefore, I was hitting the reset button on my day, and on our non-relationship. I was gathering the butterflies I felt whenever this boy came near and sealing them in a jar.
No, Daisy, they’ll die in a jar. Yes! Good riddance. Those flutters can be smothered and die in the vacuum jar of no feelings.
I’d backed up so that Trevor knew he was in no danger of being attacked again and waited for him to open his eyes and see that I wasn’t a threat anymore.
When he did look at me, the expression on his face was so strange, I contemplated apologizing. Quickly realizing that the only thing that would make him even more uncomfortable was me pouring out my heartfelt regrets, I jumped in with the first benign thought that popped into my head. “So what about Jubilee Hall? Does it actually date back to 1876?”
He paused for a second—comprehension and I hoped a little forgiveness dawning in his eyes—before responding with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes, that part is true. Jubilee Hall does indeed date back to 1876. But . . .”
He stood and brushed blades of grass from his pants and when he looked back at me, the mischievous glint had returned to his eyes. “There wa
s a lumber shortage that year.”
“A lumber shortage?” I couldn’t help but ask because of course Trevor would weave lumber into a story. I wanted to roll my eyes.
“Yes!”
“In Tennessee.”
“Yes.”
It was the most ironic tall tale in the world but of course he didn’t know that. He had no clue that he was talking to one of the few people whose family was very capable of manufacturing a lumber shortage, even though we’d never operate that way.
“Trevor, there was no such thing,” I replied, unable to keep a wry smile from my face.
“I think, Miss Daisy, that we’ve already established that I am the expert in—what did you called it? Fisk-tory?”
He raised his eyebrows at me, smirking.
I pretended to think, “Hmm, is that so? I’m not sure I recall saying those exact words. Well, it sure looks to the untrained eye like the exterior is made of wood,” I ribbed back. It didn’t. Jubilee Hall was definitely made of brick.
He turned toward the building and we moved toward it at a leisurely pace.
“Well I was getting to that part before I was rudely interrupted.”
I cut my eyes to his.
“It’s made of wood, but since lumber was so hard to come by they had to source the wood however they could.”
Those intense brown eyes caught mine. He took a deep breath and seemed to pause for dramatic effect. Then he gestured to the building. “What you’re looking at is ten to the twelfth power’s worth of popsicle sticks.”
Ten to the . . .
A trillion popsicle sticks. Oh brother.
I couldn’t have stopped my incredulous reply even if I’d wanted to. “And from where, pray tell, did they get a trillion popsicle sticks?”
He opened his mouth to respond but I continued, not finished mulling through the lunacy of his claim.
“And how were they cleaned? And did those poor, diabetic founding fathers and mothers have to consume all one trillion popsicles?”
“Course not,” he shot back. “They were twin pops, two sticks to a popsicle. They’d have eaten five hundred billion popsicles, max.”
Upsy Daisy: A First Love College Romance Page 11