It Had to Be You

by Lizzy Charles

  I lean into the door, then tug my cardigan shut on my way across the quad to the library. Brockmore’s library is enchanting. Constructed out of white limestone and detailed with Doric columns, it’s almost as if it popped out of a small town’s storybook. The center of the building houses a large glass dome, providing the most delicious natural reading light during the day.

  The library has sort of become my home away from my dorm room. There’s a small table tucked up against a wall near abandoned encyclopedias and some law books. A little table and some silence feels more like school to me than a classroom and a lecture or discussion-based curriculum.

  After showing my student ID at the front desk, I search for James. Long tables line the center of the library with outlet strips glued down the middle. I set my bag down on one because these will fill quickly once dinner lets out.

  Another vibration has me pulling out my phone.

  Don’t sit there.

  I glance up, searching the vast room for his head of black hair.

  Where are you?

  At your table, where else?

  How does he know about my table? I slide my bag back on my shoulder and wander through the stacks toward the reference section, taking a left at the back wall near the bathroom. My small, round table looks like an end table with him sitting there.

  “You found me.” He glances up from his notebook.

  “You know my table.”

  “What type of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t know you spent every evening back here?”

  “Still.” I set down my bag and pull out my iPad and a notebook. “How?”

  “It’s not my fault you don’t see me when I walk by or listen when I say hi. You have more concentration for calculus than anyone I’ve ever seen. It’s like you enter another world.”

  “Math intrigues me. There’s always an answer if you work on it long enough.”

  “It’s a bit defeating when your own girlfriend cares more about a dividend than your rock-hard body.” His chest bubbles with a silent chuckle, his muscles undeniably rippling under his shirt.

  I roll my eyes, taking my seat. “Why are we back here? If you want people to see us together, shouldn’t we be out front?”

  “No, and there’s a queue of reasons, but I don’t want to bore you so I’ll just rattle off the top three. First, I don’t want to get caught having dinner in here.” He points to the sign on the wall a few feet away that lists the rules of the library, number one being no food allowed.

  “Second, I don’t want to be bothered. If I sit at any of the center tables, I won’t get any work done.” He eyes some sophomores near the computer lab.

  “You need to get work done?” I can’t help but crack a smile. Far too many times I’ve caught James joking with guys on the football team that he does his homework in his sleep. “What’s so bad about being caught studying?”

  “Nothing. But, I don’t exactly want to be caught doing this.” He spins his notebook around so I can read the heading he’s scribbled across the top—Brockmore’s First Annual Ghoul Ball.

  “Normally they do a Sadie Hawkins dance in the fall.” He feigns a gag. “I’m so over that. I want to ditch that for a costume party. Gavin’s on board and so is Creighton, so I just need to rally council support before we take a vote.”

  “Wow.” I settle back in my seat, folding my hands in my lap. “It seems like you are actually enjoying being on the council.”

  Once I sat through the first meeting, all of my dreams of being in a proper student government were popped. It felt like I was the only person who actually wanted to be there, and the rest were only there for something to scribble down on their college applications. Some just slept with their heads on their desk while Gavin waved around his gavel.

  “I’m willing to tolerate anything if it’ll help keep me in Brockmore.”

  Is that how he feels about me? Tolerant?

  “How does the council keep you in Brockmore?”

  “Creighton didn’t give me many options after that little prairie-dog incident.”

  “It’s a punishment?” My stomach growls, the sound absurdly audible.

  “Sorry! I forgot.” He pulls out four containers of sushi from the plastic bag on the table. “I hope you like sushi.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I tug over one of the caterpillar rolls. “I lived in Japan for a few months when I was eight and fell in love.” I sink my teeth into the cold, soft roll, overwhelmed by the warm sting of wasabi. “This is so good.”

  “Even though it’s not authentic?”

  “This works.” The cold cucumber crunches with my next bite. “So, what’s your third reason for being back here?”

  For a moment, he’s hesitant to respond. The plastic bag crinkles as he curls his pinky into it. Then those eyes, bright and bold like rosewood, flicker up and grab mine. “I wanted to have a real dinner with you. Find out more about your life.”

  “I’m not that interesting.”

  He pops a slice of maki into his mouth. “Not true. You were the only girl at the movie last week who wasn’t freaking out. It was…” He chuckles, shaking his head.

  “Odd?” I offer the word I know he wants to use. Of course I’m odd. I’ve been homeschooled my entire life, drifting around the world.

  “Very, and I like it.” He reaches out and rests his hand on mine. During any of our dinners in the dining hall, this wouldn’t even make me even flinch. It’s his signature move, part of the game we play to keep our status known. But here? The brush of his palm warms the back of my hand instantly. “Oh, sorry.” He pulls it back. “Habit.”

  “It’s okay.” I take another bite of my sushi. Hopefully he’ll attribute the heat on my cheeks to too much wasabi.

  “You’re interesting. How on earth did you survive the movie?”

  “Do you really want to know? Because it’s kind of a bummer.”

  “Yes. Maybe then I won’t jump a mile every time I see a black coat.”

  “My parents wanted me to understand why they do the work they do. I’ve been in the red-light district in the Philippines. I’ve seen people sobbing over loved ones killed in Turkey.” My eyes begin to burn, and I have to pause as the engraved memories assault me. “There was this homeless guy in India who always sat at the street corner across from our flat, and I’d do little things for him like bring him food and stuff, but it never seemed to help. I guess horror movies just don’t feel real compared to those moments. There’s this edge in a horror flick that’s so unbelievable after seeing what I’ve seen, that I sort of have to devour it.”

  “Damn.” James rubs his forehead. “I was not expecting you to say that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No.” He closes the notebook in front of him. “You should talk about that stuff more often. It’s off everyone’s radar in this school.”

  “If people knew the things I’ve seen or the walks I’ve taken, it’s all they would ask me about.”

  “But your experiences shape you.”

  “They aren’t all I am, though.” Because of my parents, too many conversations in my life have revolved around people asking me about traveling and nothing else. I like how my friends at Brockmore care more about my favorite dessert or Netflix show. Finally, people seem to want to get to know the real me.

  He pushes another piece of sushi toward me. “You’re pretty cool, Edelweiss. I picked a pretty awesome fake girlfriend.”

  “Thanks.” I turn on my iPad and open up my ebook of The Brothers Karamazov. “My parents told me you’re brilliant with literature.”

  “It intrigues me. Why?”

  “My Maya Angelou essay was ripped apart.” I sigh, remembering the burn in my chest when I stared at my first C. I’ve sort of been kicking myself for writing that damn list. It’s easy to write down fail at something but way worse to feel your way through it. And it was only a C. Technically I can’t even check failing off the list yet.

  “I remember that essay. That topic s
ucked. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  “Well, I’m hoping to do better with this one by Dostoyevsky.”

  His eyes light up, glancing down at my iPad. “Uncovering the intricacies of a Dostoyevsky novel is one of my favorite pastimes. Do you need help?”

  I let out a deep, frustrated breath. “Let’s just say that my homeschool English curriculum was probably something Brockmore would have put a fifth-grader through if they did elementary school. My parents focused mostly on math and world history.”

  James shifts his chair so he’s sitting next to me. “Let’s do this. Where do you want to start?”

  “I have to define tragedy using only my assigned chapter in a micro-essay of six hundred words.” I spin my notebook around so he can see a few of the themes I had jotted down during our group discussion, arranging my thought pattern like a geometry proof.

  “Wow. I should have picked up some coffee.”

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to help me. My parents aren’t expecting me to walk out with all A’s my first semester.”

  “No, I want to help you. Give me one second.” He pushes himself away from the table and disappears in the library shelves, returning a moment later with a book in hand. “You need to hold the book to understand his pacing and do this right.” He hands it over and as he does his hand lightly brushes mine. A warm tingle crawls up my right hand toward my heart. “This will be fun.”

  He slides a little closer, and for the first time I notice he smells of sandalwood. We work through the chapter together, and he shows me how he marks up a book, pulling out different themes. He’s a great encourager. Being with him feels like he’s shining a spotlight on me. When I start to see the text differently, his energy builds, and hearing “You’re doing a good job” becomes addicting.

  How can this be the same guy all the girls warned me to avoid?

  Predictably, the library bustles after the dinner hour, making the librarian go into full-on surveillance mode. We even get the stink eye while she makes her rounds of the stacks, but it’s nothing compared to the thorough chewing-out she gives the senior guys laughing at a table.

  “That reminds me.” James shifts away from me briefly. “The guys are getting a bit suspicious.”

  “Of us?”

  “Remember our rules?”

  “We’ve done nearly every one except…”

  “Except one.” His eyes flicker down to my mouth.

  Oh.

  Making out is the one item I’ve been dreading because I know I’m going to screw it up. I glance down the row of books to the center tables where some of the bulky football players clutter around a laptop.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t ask you here tonight so I could pounce on you in the stacks. I wanted to be here—in back where we are alone—so we can hash out a plan for some time this week.”

  Later this week?

  One of the football players, I think Mason, glances over his shoulder, straining his eyes to get a look at us through the aisle of books. He gets up and passes us with a grunt on the way to the bathroom.

  My heart jumps in my throat. A sudden urgency rips through my chest. Here’s a chance. If we do this here, it’ll be more private, and if I screw up, the strict librarian will ensure that no one can laugh at me. “Why wait?”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  “What part of a fake relationship isn’t uncomfortable? We don’t have long if we’re going to be seen when he comes back.”

  He nods down a row of magazines an aisle over. “If you stand against those and I angle my head just right, we won’t have to actually kiss. He’ll see us through the bookcase on his way back from the bathroom, and it’ll look good enough.”

  “Okay.” I tremble while I stand up, allowing him to lead me down the row to the best spot.

  He cocks his eye. “Forgive me?” Then he rubs his hand through my hair. “There. Make-out hair is a must. When I see him coming, I’ll lean in. Then you tilt your head to the right. That’s all we’ll need. Okay?”

  “Okay.” My breath quickens while we wait.

  …and wait.

  Suddenly, from my view, I see Mason walking with a book in his hand. Wait. This is wrong. He’s supposed to be behind me, on the other side of the shelf. He’s going to see us and know we’re faking all of it.

  My tiptoes take over, launching me upward so my lips brush against James’s. His eyes widen and for a second, he’s frozen.

  Please, play along. I kiss him again, gripping his shoulder. A beat later, he scoops me in closer and kisses me back. My lips melt as I press my hand to his chest, the thumping of his heart under my palm. His lips explore mine, every brush setting my body ablaze. Whoa. Tingles shoot up my neck and down my arms. My knees quake while he expertly makes us look like we’re sharing a Hollywood kiss.

  Gently, he pulls back, lowering my heels back to the ground. An energy hovers between us. He smiles, sweeping my tousled hair out of my face.

  My lips tingle, begging to brush once more against his.

  My first kiss! My knees wobble. Does a kiss count if it’s fake?

  A deep growl snaps me back to reality. “Damn it, James. You have all the fun around here.” A magazine flies through the air toward our heads.

  James snatches it before it hits us. “How’s the group study going over there?”

  Mason grumbles, giving us the finger as he walks past. A few seconds after he rejoins the football table James’s cell phone vibrates in his back pocket.

  “Looks like it worked.” My voice cracks. His hand still cups my lower back, keeping me near.

  “Yeah.” He rakes his hand through his hair, letting me go. “Smart thinking.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  He cocks his head to the side, those large brown eyes studying me like I’m an alien. Finally, he clears his throat. “Next time I’ll do a better job planning so we don’t have to…” There’s a sting in his expression, how he frowns, almost like I humiliated him or something.

  “I should probably get back to the dorm,” I finally say, breaking his stare and walking back to the table with him trailing a few steps behind.

  “Uh, you did good with the lit analysis.”

  “Thanks for your help tonight.” I stuff my things into my bag and throw on my peacoat.

  “No problem.” He reaches back, massaging his neck while I toss everything into my bag.

  “Later,” he says with a frank nod while he settles back down in his chair.

  I keep my head down as I weave through the stacks, my cheeks burning as I make my way past the football players while they make kissing noises. The weight of my thoughts crash over my shoulders.

  You drooled too much.

  He thinks you’re a freak.

  You leaned in too hard.

  While you could barely stand from his kiss, he felt nothing.

  There’s only one person in this world who can fix me right now—Mom.

  Outside the library I pull out my iPad and wander around to the other side of the building. The cool stone chills my back as I press against it and dial her up. I have to try her twice, but eventually the screen turns over and we connect.

  “Mom?”

  A poorly pixelated screen shows her face, scrunched up and confused. “What is it, baby?”

  “Oh, Mom.” A deep sting settles in my eyes until I let the tears fall. I gaze at her through the screen as the pixels fix themselves, transmitting her with better clarity. Her long hair tumbles over her shoulders and a light yawn escapes her lips. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Edelweiss, don’t be silly. I’m your mother. I’ll always be here when you call. Always.”

  Apparently, that’s all I needed to hear to become the girl clutching her backpack to her chest while she cries against the library wall. “Brockmore is way harder than I thought it would be,” I tell her, unable to reveal the real source of my tears: my first kis
s was fake, I did it wrong, and I want more. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to get an F on my midterm English essay.”

  “Calm down, honey. I was waiting for this call.”

  “You were?”

  “I made the same call to my own mother my first year of college. This is normal. Failing is part of life. If you do get an F, consider it a lesson, and we’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you have the support you need to excel. It’s better you fail here than at college.” She grins. “I’m so proud that you stood up for yourself and insisted on going to boarding school to get ready for college. At the time, I didn’t see the cracks in my educational plan, but just reading Brockmore’s blog about what they taught you in class over the last few weeks blows my mind. I was expecting this call much sooner.”

  She presses her lips together into a thin line. “Maybe you could ask James to help you? Or would that be awkward because you’re dating?” She sighs. “That’s the hard part about being away. I don’t know what type of relationship you guys really have.”

  You’d be devastated.

  “He helped me tonight. A lot. That’s the problem, I don’t know if I can pull it off without his insight.”

  “Give yourself time to learn, honey. You’ll figure it out, and don’t assume you’ll fail before you even write the essay. So, tell me about your friends.”

  Talking with her helps, even though it’s about the wrong subject. The predictable cadence of her voice is like aloe to a burn. “You’ll be okay, honey. Call me in the morning, and we’ll talk. I love you, and remember, everything feels better when the sun comes up.”

  She always says that but right now I’m tempted to call in sick so I don’t have to face James in the morning. Pretty sure I just ruined our fake relationship. And what sucks—no, what hurts—is that kissing James tonight felt way better than I’m sure it was supposed to, and I just traded in my first-kiss card to a guy who probably didn’t even want to kiss me in the first place.

  Chapter Twelve

  James

  Well…that was…I mean…