The Freshman

by Monica Murphy

  Turning him down probably ruined my chances at keeping him as a friend. It’s already Wednesday. I haven’t heard from him since the Uber dropped me off at my father’s house. We hugged, me withdrawing quickly for fear I might’ve clung to him a second too long, before I climbed out of the car and ran up to the front door of the house, never once turning back. Trying my best to act like I didn’t care.

  Truth? I did care. I cared a lot. He still lingers in my brain. And while I’m a modern woman who could reach out first since I have his number, I’m reluctant. What’s the point? His unspoken message is clear.

  He has zero interest in ever seeing me again and has already forgotten I even exist.

  With a sigh, I refocus on writing my paper, putting down a bunch of nonsense because having words to work with is better than no words at all. I have no idea what I’m really trying to say so I just let myself ramble on the page and then I’ll fix it later. It’s become my process in college and so far, it’s really working for me.

  God, at least something is.

  I put my AirPods in and fire up my study playlist to help my concentration even further and get to work, ignoring the text notifications that keep coming through. Every single one of them is from Gracie. I adore her, but sometimes she’s a complete pain in the ass.

  It’s when I’m almost finished with the rough draft of my paper that I get a text from an unfamiliar number. Curiosity fills me and I check the message.

  I see you.

  Glancing up, I scan the area, but see no one. Another notification comes through.

  You don’t see me?

  Unease slips down my spine when I realize just how alone I am, tucked back in this corner of the library, with no one else around. I’m near a giant wall of windows and there are so many people still wandering around campus. I can see the crowded sidewalks, people sitting at picnic tables or lingering in the quad in clusters, chatting with each other. While I’m all alone up here with my creeper texter. I can imagine him lunging for me. I run toward the windows and beat on them with my fists, screaming for someone to notice me, but no one does—

  I shake myself out of the thought, mildly concerned by my overactive imagination.

  Grabbing my phone, I send the anonymous someone a reply.

  Who the hell is this?

  I wait a few minutes, but there’s no response. So frustrating. It’s not like I give out my number a lot, but I do on occasion when I meet a cute boy. They’re usually not so creepy though.

  Giving up on the paper, I shut my laptop and start gathering my things, putting them all away in my backpack. My phone buzzes, but I ignore it, eager to get out of here and amongst people versus being back here all by myself.

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder and rise to my feet, clutching the strap tightly as I make my way toward the front of the library. My phone buzzes again, a reminder that I have a text, but I’m not checking it until I get around other people.

  For some weird reason, I don’t feel safe.

  “You’re ignoring me,” says a voice from behind me and I shriek.

  Literally shriek.

  In the middle of the Fresno State library. The place goes dead silent, and the few people I can now see swivel their heads in my direction, glaring at me.

  I whirl on him, ready to give this guy hell when I find Tony Sorrento standing there, a giant grin on his beautiful face, looking very, very pleased with himself.

  “Gotcha,” he says softly.

  “Ugh, you’re the worst!” I come for him, smacking his chest and he grabs my wrist, holding my hand in place, so I can feel the warmth of his skin beneath the soft fabric of his blue T-shirt. His chest is actually very firm and muscular, and I can even feel his heart beating.

  It starts to beat even faster, and I’m just arrogant enough to believe it’s because we’re standing so close.

  “Did I scare you?” he asks, his thumb rubbing the inside of my wrist slowly.

  A shiver threatens to steal over me, but I keep myself in check. “Yes, you did,” I say breathlessly.

  “Not my fault you forgot to put my number in your contacts.” He slowly releases his hold on my wrist and it takes me a second to realize that. I drop my hand from his chest, feeling stupid.

  Mr. Safe and Respectful from Saturday night is long gone, replaced by a dark-eyed devil who is purposely trying to aggravate me.

  “It slipped my mind,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. I’m also trying to imply that maybe he slipped my mind too, though that isn’t true. Not even close to the truth. I’ve been thinking about him a lot.

  Too much probably.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t.” I turn away from him, lift my chin and start walking. Of course, he falls into step beside me. “When you’re not terrorizing me, what are you doing in the library?”

  “What are you doing in the library?” he throws back at me.

  I send him a withering glare. “Trying to write a paper.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Terribly,” I answer, deciding to be truthful. “I was distracted.”

  “By what?”

  “My crazed secret stalker.” I come to a stop. So does he. “Otherwise known as you.”

  “My texts aren’t the only thing that distracted you,” he says with a sly smile. “I saw the way you stared out the window. There wasn’t a lot of typing going on.”

  “Ugh, you were totally watching me. That’s creepy.” I resume walking. So does he. We’re in the more heavily populated part of the library, not too far from the front desk and the exit doors, and there are so many people milling about. “Why didn’t you just approach my table and say hi like a normal person?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t want to freak you out.”

  “Really.” Please. He’s full of shit.

  “That’s why I texted you. I thought my name would be in your phone and you’d know the text was from me,” he further explains.

  I suppose he’s right and it is my fault I forgot to punch in his information when he gave me his number. You think I would’ve, since I was halfway waiting for him to text me after our magical Saturday night. Though maybe it wasn’t so magical for him.

  He’s here though, isn’t he? So maybe it was.

  We exit the library, the cool fall breeze washing over me and sending a chill over my skin. I shift my backpack on my shoulder, wishing the sweater I tossed on earlier this morning was thicker, and I glance around, noticing a group of guys clustered in a group not too far from where we’re at, watching us with unrestrained curiosity.

  “Friends of yours?” I ask when I see Tony flick his chin at them in acknowledgement. They all do the same thing in return, looking ridiculous.

  Ridiculously hot, but whatever.

  “Yeah. We’re on the football team together,” he says, his voice casual as he studies them. Like no big deal.

  “Wait a minute.” I turn to face him. This is a very big deal. “You’re on the football team?”

  He nods.

  “You play football. For the Bulldogs.” He better not be lying to me. I’ve met more than one liar in my time here at college.

  “Well, yeah. I don’t get much playing time though, since it’s my first year,” he explains.

  Huh? “Because you’re a transfer? Did you go to community college first?” I ask.

  “No.” He slowly shakes his head, his full lips curving upward. “I’m a freshman.”

  Okay, now I’m full-on gaping at him. “You’re a what?”

  “A freshman,” he repeats slowly.

  I squint up at him, fighting the panic that’s rising within me. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Oh, fucking shit,” I mutter under my breath, turning away from him. I press my hand against my forehead, rubbing it as the words rock through my brain on repeat.

  A freshman. A freshman. A freshman.

  “You have a problem with that?” he ask
s, sounding amused.

  “I’m a junior.” I whirl on him once more. “I’m almost twenty-one.”

  “And I’m almost nineteen.” He shrugs, like so?

  “Thank God you’re not jailbait,” I fling at him.

  He actually laughs, the asshole. “I thought it didn’t matter, since we’re only going to be friends. Sex just complicates things, remember?”

  I hate it when people throw your words back at you, like Tony is doing to me now. Tony, the eighteen-year-old. The freshman.

  What the actual fuck?

  I feel a little betrayed, but I guess I shouldn’t. We never discussed what year we were in college. We just knew we went to the same one. And I’m assuming he didn’t realize I was a junior, just like I didn’t know he was a freshman.

  “Does it really bother you that badly—that I’m younger than you?” he asks, his question interrupting my thoughts.

  I don’t know how to feel about it. “Did you know I was older?”

  “No, but I don’t care. Age is nothing but a number.”

  He’s so nonchalant. Like no big deal. While I’m the one over here freaking out, and while I don’t usually freak out about a lot of things, for some reason, this is blowing my mind. Why, I don’t know. There’s only a two-year difference between us, and in the scheme of life, two years isn’t much.

  But I can only imagine what Gracie will say to me when she finds out the mystery boy from Saturday night is only eighteen. He’s a baby. Barely out of high school.

  I blatantly scan him from head to toe, not really giving a crap how I look doing it. He certainly doesn’t look barely out of high school, that’s for damn sure. Glancing over at his group of friends who have somehow shifted closer to us, I ask, “Did you go to high school with those guys?”

  “Some of them,” he answers, appearing completely unruffled by my freak out, which I can reluctantly appreciate.

  “And are they all freshmen too?”

  “Yeah, actually, they are. Hey, get over here,” he calls to them and they quickly approach us, a bunch of swaggering, testosterone-filled man-boys with big smiles on their faces, their gazes trained on me.

  Every single one of them is attractive. It’s distressing how good looking they are. Girls walking past them are openly staring. One of the guys in particular pulls from the group and chases after a girl, stopping her a few feet away so they can chat, and it is obvious he’s flirting with her.

  “Guys, this is Hayden,” Tony announces to them. I half expect him to call me his girlfriend—ugh, no—or claim I’m off-limits to them, like some sort of caveman, but thankfully, he says none of that. “Hayden, these are my friends.”

  I smile. Wave. “Hi,” I say weakly, overwhelmed in their presence.

  They all crowd around us, emanating that male confidence athletes tend to give off. You’ve seen them before, all throughout high school, and they’re the same in college too. They strut around campus as if they own the place, nodding and smiling at everyone as they pass by. These guys are young and cocky and the world just falls at their feet, I’m sure.

  “You Tony’s girl?” one of them asks me, shaking back his shaggy blond hair.

  “Not my girl. She’s just a friend,” Tony corrects, answering for me.

  I glare at him, annoyed he said that. I can speak for myself.

  “Well, well, well. That means she’s fair game.” He steps forward, straight toward me, extending his hand. “I’m Jackson.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand, dazzled by Jackson’s smile. It’s big and white and downright blinding.

  “She’s not interested,” Tony tells Jackson, though that doesn’t seem to deter him.

  “Hey, don’t speak for me,” I accuse Tony, before I turn a smile on Jackson. “I might be interested.”

  Tony scowls. Jackson preens like he won a prize.

  I just laugh. Boys. They’re so silly.

  They all start jostling for my attention after that. The guy who ran after the girl comes jogging back, introducing himself to me as Caleb with a wink and a knowing smile. Such a flirt. There’s also an Eli and a Diego and Jackson, of course, plus a couple of other guys whose names I didn’t catch. They’re talking over each other, giving Tony endless shit, all of them sending questioning looks my way, but Tony doesn’t say a thing. He doesn’t really react either. He’s as cool and as quiet as can be, while I’m still quietly freaking out, but for a different reason.

  Being with these guys is…overwhelming. The entire situation is. There is more to Tony than I actually realized. Like the fact that he plays D1 football. And that his quiet confidence is actually really attractive, despite his only being eighteen years old.

  He doesn’t act eighteen. He seems so much older than his friends, who are all trying to gain my attention for a variety of reasons, each of them making me laugh and shake my head. They remind me of overeager puppies. Cute and rambunctious and always eager to please.

  I’m not one to chase after jocks, but I could see wanting to insert myself into this group and hang out with them. As friends only, though. I’m not interested in any of them, despite their handsome faces and well-toned bodies and obvious confidence.

  Tony intrigues me, but I can’t. It just…

  It wouldn’t work. I’d fall for him hard and he’d disappoint me. Break my heart.

  Eventually, they all do.

  “I should go,” I say after a few minutes of small talk. “It was nice meeting you all.”

  “Nice meeting you too, Tony’s friend,” one of them says, making all of them laugh.

  Except Tony.

  “See ya around.” My gaze meets Tony’s and he inclines his head toward me, a sort of silent goodbye I guess, and before I can say something stupid like, “call me!” I turn and walk away.

  But he doesn’t let me go. Nope, I can sense Tony following after me, catching up with me with ease, thanks to his long stride. “I feel like an idiot,” I tell him when he’s walking beside me.

  “Why?”

  “For not realizing your age.”

  “Again, is it really that big of a deal? Friends can be friends, no matter what age,” he says, his expression one of pure innocence.

  I come to a complete stop. So does he. People walk past us, irritated since we’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk that leads to the south parking lot, but I sort of don’t care.

  “You know we’re probably going to end up as more than friends,” I say, because fuck it.

  It’s probably true.

  He runs his hand along his jaw, contemplating me with those dark, dark eyes. “I thought you said that would mess everything up between us.”

  “I’m not wrong and you know it. If we fall into some sort of relationship, it’s going to eventually ruin everything.”

  “We don’t have much to ruin,” he points out. “We’ve only just met.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “True.”

  “So how can we ruin something that isn’t much of anything?” he asks.

  I blink at him, trying to process what he said. “You’re talking in circles.”

  “No, you are,” he throws back at me. “Instead of trying to dictate how this is going to play out between us, why not just…let it be.”

  “Did you just call me a dictator?” My voice rises. I sound borderline shrill, and it reminds me of how my mother used to yell at my dad when they were still together.

  God, that really sucks.

  “No, I just happened to use the word dictate.” He contemplates me, while I squirm where I stand. “I bet you’re one of those people who overthink everything.”

  I am so, so grateful he didn’t say one of those women, or worse—one of those girls.

  So far he hasn’t proven himself to be sexist, and I appreciate that.

  “But like I just said, why can’t we just…hang out? See where this takes us? We don’t need to label everything, do we? We can be friends,” he says easily.

  “Friend
s who…” I prompt.

  “Friends who what? Spend time together? Mess around?” He shrugs, slipping his hands into his jeans’ pockets. “Maybe we will, maybe we won’t.”

  Oh God. He is temptation personified. I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation on campus, on a bright and sunny Wednesday afternoon, surrounded by strangers.

  Life is weird.

  “We spend time together, we will,” I tell him firmly.

  “Maybe,” he adds. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

  “Ha! You liar. You’re the one who’s pushing for it,” I remind him.

  “If you’re not interested in me, just say it.” He smirks, his expression like a dare.

  I cross my arms. “I’m not that interested.” I sound like a thirteen-year-old denying her middle school crush.

  “Uh huh,” he says, his deep voice full of doubt. “Keep convincing yourself of that.”

  “You’re too young anyway,” I throw at him, feeling hostile. Why am I so heated? “What sort of moves could you have? I’ve got two years on you.”

  “So what? I’ve got moves you’ve probably never even heard of.” He starts to chuckle.

  “In your dreams.” I start walking again.

  So does he, and he follows me into the parking lot, not saying a word. Just grinning and walking. I think he’s enjoying himself.

  Which of course, infuriates me.

  “I have moves too you know,” I retort, picking up my pace.

  He does too, keeping in stride with me. “I’m sure you do. Can’t wait to see you execute them on me.”

  “Execute?” I pull out my keyless remote from my backpack and hit the button, my Range Rover chirping. “You make it sound like I’m going to kill you.”

  “The French do describe an orgasm as a little death,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, now you know French? Are you trying to impress me?”

  “No, but I know about orgasms.” He grins. “And how to give them.”

  “To yourself?” I try to keep my expression neutral, but I’ve just been hit with the mental image of Tony completely naked and jerking off, his hand wrapped tightly around—

  Swear to God, sweat starts to form on my hairline. And it’s not even close to hot outside.

  “Ouch, down woman.” He rests his big hands against his chest, his gaze going to my car. “I have the same exact model, but mine’s black.”