by Scott, Emma
And this is how you wound up with a broken heart in the first place.
I must’ve been frowning at the book because the guy held it up and said, “Not a fan?”
I blinked back to reality. “No,” I said. “I mean, yes. I love Whitman. And poetry in general. I just… Never mind.”
He regarded me a long moment, then slowly closed Whitman and picked up Atlas Shrugged from his short stack of books.
“Ugh, that’s even worse,” I muttered without thinking, and then shook my head. “God, sorry, I left my filter at home. Don’t listen to me.”
His lip curled. “Is there anything in my collection you approve of?”
A hot, smart asshole, I thought. Game on.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not in a good mood today and it’s making me forget my manners. I’ll leave you to read your capitalist propaganda in peace.”
The guy’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing under the blond hair that fell across his brow. “Not a fan of Rand either?” He smirked knowingly. “No, of course you aren’t.”
My blood heated at his flippant tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The guy nodded at my textbook—Global Responsibility and the Third-World Hunger Epidemic—and shrugged, as if that answered everything.
“Oh.” I frowned. “Well…yes. I mean, Rand’s point of view is purely capitalist and mine isn’t. Not by a long shot.”
The student sitting to my right exchanged glances with the girl sitting across from him. Then both packed up their books and left.
“We’re being disruptive,” I said to my across-table neighbor. “We need to stop talking now.”
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes intent on me. “So, what’s your point of view?”
“My what?”
“You said your point of view isn’t capitalist.” He raised a brow. “So what is it?”
“Humanist, I suppose, since you asked. I think everyone; regardless of race, creed, income-level, or sex, should be granted the same shot as anyone else.” I raised a brow at him. “But you don’t?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” he said with a slight chuckle. “Since we’re tossing labels around, I’m a realist.” He held up his book. “And not a fan of Rand either.”
“You’re not?” I leaned back too, crossing my arms. “Are you just messing with me or what?”
“Maybe,” he said. “What do you care what I think anyway?”
My mouth fell slack. “I don’t. Thanks for reminding me.”
“No problem.”
“Wow, you’re rude.”
“That’s the word on the street.”
“I can see why.” I lifted my own book up to signal conversation over, but my eyes wouldn’t focus. I could feel the hum of his presence like a field of electrical wires, getting under my skin and infiltrating my thoughts. The buzz went beyond distraction. It felt like a challenge had been laid down.
And I never walked away from a challenge.
I lowered my book to see the guy’s glance hide behind his book again.
“Well?” I demanded.
“Well what?”
Why are you watching me?
“Why are you reading Ayn Rand if you don’t like her either?”
“Required reading for an English Lit minor.”
“And your major? Let me guess, pre-law.”
“God, no,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows, but he offered nothing more. “Are you going to make me run through Amherst’s list of majors until I guess which one is yours?”
“Yes,” he said. “Alphabetically, please.”
A laugh burst out of me against my will, and the guy almost smiled. Every one of his hard angles softened.
“Economics,” he said. “But I don’t know what I’m doing with it.”
“That feels like the most honest thing you’ve said to me so far,” I said.
“And that’s important to you?”
“Yes,” I said, my laughter dying away as I remembered Mark and that girl, naked in his bed… “Honesty is very important.”
He lifted one shoulder.
“You don’t agree?” I asked.
“Being honest is sometimes mistaken for being rude.”
“You must be really honest,” I said.
Again, he almost smiled. “Must be.”
Satisfied that I’d held my own against this beautiful, but hostile member of the opposite sex, I went back to my book…for eight entire seconds before my skin started prickling again. The electric hum of his attention was impossible to ignore.
When I looked up this time, he didn’t look away but cleared his throat.
“I’m Weston Turner.”
Weston
This wasn’t the first time I’d seen this girl. She was in my Econ class this morning. Her hair caught my eye; a coppery red tendril had escaped the bun she wore and curled against the porcelain skin of her neck. Now, she sat across from me.
Leaning on her elbow, chin on her hand and a little smile on her lips, she replied, “Autumn Caldwell.”
My thoughts took off the same way I did at the starting gun of a race.
Her name was Autumn.
Of course it was. As if her parents knew she’d grow up to be a living embodiment of the season. Coppery hair, like an October forest of turning leaves. Hazel eyes that were mostly rich brown, but flecked with gold, green and amber, and weighted with sadness. A petite girl—I guessed five-foot-nothing to my six-one—passionate and unafraid. I liked toying with people to get them riled up, and she’d seemed an easy mark. But instead of walking away, she’d met me head on. I liked that.
I liked her.
And I didn’t like anyone.
A silence caught and held between us, our eyes locked. Then she shifted in her chair.
“I’m not dating right now,” she said, subtle as a fifty-pound bowling ball dumped onto my crotch.
“Okay,” I said slowly.
“Shit, sorry,” she said, the color in her cheeks deepening. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous. I just meant that it’s nice to meet you, but I need to focus on my classes. I have a lot of work to do. Double-major and a scholarship to maintain.” She waved her hands. “God, I’m rambling…”
I squirmed inside. At first glance, in her expensive-looking dress and carefully-matched cardigan, I’d pegged her as a stiff and prissy trust fund baby.
Wrong, Turner. Just sit here in your wrongness and be wrong.
“I’m on a scholarship too,” I said.
“Oh?” Her smile was tinged with relief that we were on the same team, financially speaking. “For what?”
“NCAA. Track and field,” I said. “Your double major is in…?”
“Social anthropology and political science.”
“Social anthropology,” I said. “The major of choice among all humanists.”
She rolled her eyes, the sadness replaced by a confident spark that made the gold stand out. “Going for a master’s in smartass, are we?”
“I’ve heard that once or twice.”
“I’ll bet.” Autumn tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Social anthropology is the study of modern human societies and their development. I want to have a master’s degree that focuses on a humanitarian aspect.”
“Sounds ambitious,” I said. And good, I thought. Noble. Sincere. Nothing I’d ever be accused of.
“Maybe it’s idealistic,” Autumn said, her finger trailing over the edge of her book. “Technically, the master’s degree doesn’t actually exist with that kind of narrow angle, so I’m going to create a project to submit to Harvard Grad School. Build my own degree.”
“What area of emphasis?”
“I don’t know yet. So many causes need attention. Like how population impacts global health and the environment. Or maybe disability rights. Or how racism affects people on socio-economic levels. Something like that.” She shrugged and reached for her book. “I only know I want to help.”
; I only knew I didn’t want to be done talking to her.
“You were in my class this morning,” I said.
She looked up, her hazel eyes luminous. “Econ with Environmental Applications?”
I nodded.
“I didn’t see you.”
“I was in the back. You sat up front.”
“Did you like the class?”
I shrugged. “It’s required for my major.”
“You don’t sound enthusiastic about it.”
“Do I need to be?”
“If it’s going to be your life’s work, one would think you’d be at least mildly interested. Passionate, even.”
“I don’t know if it’s my life’s work. And passionate, no. Letting feelings get involved in important life decisions is a surefire way to make a mess of everything.”
My tone was turning sour. Writing should’ve been my life’s work, but I had to relegate it to a back burner. It didn’t matter how I felt about writing when I needed to help support my family. Besides, after the Sock Boy fiasco, I wasn’t in a big hurry to share anything again. Aside from classwork, I kept my personal musings in a journal and I kept that journal in a locked drawer.
Autumn crossed her arms over her chest. “You don’t think feelings are important?”
“Feelings,” I said, “are like tonsils. Mostly useless, and occasionally a source of pain and discomfort.”
She laughed. “So, what’s the alternative? Have them removed?”
“If only.”
Which, from the stunned look on her face, was exactly the wrong thing to say to a girl like Autumn Caldwell.
She sat back in her seat, arms still crossed. “Well, I think being passionate about life is exactly why we’re here. To experience life in all its facets, including the painful. Isn’t that where great art comes from? Beauty and pain?”
I nodded slowly. “I guess that’s true.”
“Beauty and pain,” she said, almost to herself. “I don’t think you can separate the two.”
“Maybe pain exists to make us appreciate the beauty,” I said.
Autumn glanced up at me, her eyes soft. Inviting me closer.
I wanted to be close to this girl, but I was counter-programmed against letting anyone in; a little souvenir from Dad abandoning us and then having my innermost thoughts on the matter splattered all over Boston. They didn’t call me the Amherst Asshole on the track for nothing. I had a literal mean streak, outrunning everyone and leaving them in my rearview.
I coughed the softness out of my voice. “Or maybe pain is just pain, and we romanticize the hell out of it to make it survivable.”
Autumn leaned back. “I like your first theory better. Then again, my roommate is always telling me I’m a hopeless romantic. Well, I was anyway.”
“Was?”
Autumn smiled sadly.
I waved my hands. “Never mind. Sorry. I’m…”
Better on paper.
Autumn heaved a sigh worthy of Juliet on her balcony and her delicate fingers toyed with her pen. “What good is romance, anyway? A bunch of pretty words don’t mean anything unless there’s something real behind them.”
The sadness in her eyes I’d seen earlier returned, and I wondered if it had a name. Some asshole who’d pissed on her sunny romantic ideals and left her with clouds and rain.
She needs someone good. Someone who’ll make her smile and laugh. A decent guy with a big heart…
“Hey,” said a deep voice. “We meet again.”
Connor stood by the table, hands on his hips, King of the World and All He Surveyed. Autumn’s eyes widened to see him, and she swallowed. I followed the movement down her delicate throat, to the hollow just above her collar, where her pulse jumped. He smiled down at her, and she smiled up at him, recognition in both their expressions.
He met her first.
“Knew I’d find you here,” Connor said, chucking me on the shoulder, his gaze still on Autumn. “Didn’t expect this surprise.” He held out his hand. “Connor Drake.”
“Autumn Caldwell,” she said, her cheeks turning pink as her small hand was engulfed in his large one. The sadness in her eyes was long gone.
“I thought you said you already met,” I said, my voice lifeless as a drone.
“Not really,” Autumn said. “Just a hello-wave outside. How do you two know each other?”
“Roommates,” Connor said. “And friends since middle school.”
“How sweet.” She began gathering her books. “Both from around here?”
“Boston,” Connor said, watching her pack up. “Leaving already? Was Wes giving you a hard time?”
Autumn flashed me a smile. “I held my own.”
“Good for you,” Connor said. “Wes likes to pretend to be an asshole but deep down he’s… Actually, no, he’s just an asshole.”
I clenched my jaw. “Fuck off, Drake.”
“No, we were having a very interesting conversation,” Autumn said. “But I really have to go.”
“Gotcha,” Connor said. “But hey, this Saturday a bunch of us are getting together at Yancy’s Saloon. You know it?”
Autumn raised a brow. “Best pear cider in town.”
“I’m a whiskey and beer guy myself, but I’ll take your word on the pear cider.” Connor winked. “So you’ll come hang out? Shoot a little pool and chill before the semester gets crazy?”
I crossed my arms over my chest to watch this convo, vanishing from their world.
“Maybe,” she said.
“Great,” Connor said. “See you there.”
She laughed. “I said, maybe.” She shouldered her bag and started off, then stopped and turned back to look at me. “Bye, Weston. Nice talking to you.”
I nodded stiffly. “Yep.”
Because that’s what all great writers say to a beautiful girl they want to impress. Yep.
As I watched her walk away, Connor slugged me in the arm. “She’s a stunner, isn’t she?”
“Mm.”
He slid into the chair Autumn had just vacated. “Not like other girls I usually go for.”
He’s ‘going for’ her. My stomach felt heavy.
“No, not like other girls,” I said slowly. “At all.”
“Sounds like a warning,” Connor said with a short laugh.
“I’m just saying I got the impression she’s not a one-night stand type of girl. She’s…”
Special.
“Different, right?” Connor said. “Classy and sort of elegant. I like it. Wait, did I interrupt something? Are you into her?”
Yes.
“No,” I heard myself say. “I think she’s into you.”
He leaned forward, a higher pitch to his voice. “Yeah?”
I could count on one hand the number of times Connor needed reassurance. You had to know what to look for. That higher tilt to his voice. A little uncertainty in his mega-smile. It was so rare, Connor wanting or needing anything his money, charm or looks couldn’t give him. Sometimes I felt as if college essays were all I had to offer our friendship, when the reality was I’d do anything for my friend.
“I’ll totally back off if you are. Bro Code, and all,” Connor was saying with a grin. “Even if I did see her first.”
I remembered the way Autumn’s face lit up when Connor took her hand, all the sadness melting away.
“She’ll be there Saturday,” I said. “To see you.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
“Awesome.” He got to his feet. “Come on, let’s get out of here. If you want to get laid this semester, hanging out in the library is not the way to do it.”
Tell me about it.
I gathered my stuff and we headed outside.
“Maybe Autumn will bring her roommate or a hot friend,” Connor said, slinging his arm around my shoulder. “There’s hope for you, yet.”
I brushed him off. “Have I ever needed your help getting laid?”
“Here?” Connor’s other hand
gestured around the quad. “No. During the Sock Boy years, you needed all the help you could get.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
But it had no bite to it. I owed him the earth for what he did during the Sock Boy years. He was my best friend and I loved him like a brother. He wasn’t much in the romance department but he didn’t need to be. He made girls feel good just by being around him. Seems like he made Autumn feel good, distracting her from her sadness, and he was into her.
That’s all that mattered.
Autumn
“You have a date,” Ruby said in a song-song voice. “With Connor Drake.”
I rolled my eyes at her through the bathroom mirror. She lay on her stomach on my bed, crossed ankles swinging.
“It’s not a date,” I said for the millionth time. “Some people are going to Yancy’s, and so are we. That’s all.”
“Some people including Connor.”
“Yes.”
“And he invited you.”
“We probably would’ve gone anyway.”
“My ass.” Ruby snorted. “In two years, I’ve never been able to drag you out on the first weekend after class starts.”
I shot her a stink-eye through the mirror. “We don’t need his invitation to go to a place we hang out at regularly.”
“Semi-regularly and God, you are so stubborn. And picky.” Ruby raised her eyebrows. “If this isn’t a date, why are you obsessing over what to wear?”
I fussed with my dress, the third one I’d tried on. It was navy blue with white flowers, flowing prettily around the knees with cute buttons up the front. A designer label I’d found squashed on a rack in a thrift store.
“I want to look nice,” I said, “but not like I’m dressing nice for him.”
“God forbid,” Ruby muttered.
I sagged and turned around to face my roommate. “This is a bad idea.”
Ruby sighed. “We’re going to hang out at Yancy’s and Connor might be there, just like you said. No pressure. Just try to have some fun.”
I nodded. “You’re right. I’m being silly. I’m not used to…casual.”
“Clearly.” Ruby rolled off the bed and joined me at the mirror. She looked effortlessly pretty in a black skirt and black blouse. She hadn’t straightened her hair, but let it spring from behind a colorful band.