Despite all the joking around, I wonder why she dropped out of her old college and came here. Especially since PSU is so far from home. When we were dancing last night, she told me she was from California. Did she switch majors and decided to switch schools, too? What does she want to do when she gets out of college? Why does she seem scared at times, then fun and free-spirited at others? Impulsively, I reach across the table and grab her hands. I like the feel of her touch. She doesn’t pull away this time.
“How did you end up here?”
She searches my face, her gaze reaching inside me. It looks as though she’s trying to decide whether to tell me the easy reason—the one she tells everyone—or the actual one. Her dark-fringed eyes are clear, but I see the indecision, concern. Should she or shouldn’t she?
I hope she sees safety in mine. Tell me. You can trust me.
It’s like she’s lived a lifetime of experiences already—not all of them pleasant. She’s an old soul like me, though I’m sure she’s not nearly as damaged.
She swallows nervously. “I…uh…went to a small college right after high school, but dropped out when…when something happened.”
Her racing pulse under my fingertips reminds me of a pair of butterfly wings, trapped under a layer of silk. I rub my thumbs over her soft skin.
“What happened, Ivy?”
Her shoulders sag as if they’re too heavy and she can’t hold them up any longer. “There was…an accident. A car accident. And…I was in a coma for nine days.”
I curse under my breath, squeeze her hands. “You almost died.”
She presses her lips together. “So they tell me. Good thing I don’t remember it.”
Physically, she looks fine. And I’m pretty sure I saw her running a few mornings ago. “I’m not surprised. That’s common with traumatic brain injuries.”
“The only lasting effects are the memory loss and the fact that I suddenly have a need to do creative things. Before the accident, I was probably the most unartistic person on the planet. I was going to major in something practical, like accounting or business, but now I crave something more creative.”
“Thus the photography class?”
She nods. “I’m planning to major in graphic design now.”
“I should’ve known that class didn’t just fulfill your arts credit.”
She looks up from her hands and narrows her eyes. “I suppose that’s why you’re taking it.”
“I’m like you before the accident. Uncreative with a capital U. The only things I can draw are stick figures.”
“I didn’t say I could draw now,” she says, laughing. “And what are you talking about, claiming to be uncreative? I’ve seen your guitar, remember?”
When has she seen— Oh, that’s right. I had it when I helped her off the roof. “I just play around with it. So you left your old school for PSU’s graphic design program?”
“That and…” She takes a deep breath. “I needed to get out of Lincoln Falls. I couldn’t go back to school there. I tried, but I ended up failing a lot of classes.”
I wonder if she’s got lingering cognitive issues from the brain injury. “Did you have a hard time concentrating? Because it can take a long time for the brain to heal.”
“Yes, but…it wasn’t because of the accident. At least, not entirely.”
Before she can explain further, the waitress shows up with our food, effectively ending the conversation.
Ivy cuts the omelet in half and slides the plate to the center of the table. “You pick,” she says. Then she takes a bite of her waffle, making sure to scoop up some strawberries.
I hesitate, not sure what she wants me to do. There aren’t any extra plates, and I don’t want to put it with my waffles.
She points to the omelet with her knife. “The person who divides the food doesn’t get to pick which piece they get. Since I cut it, you get to pick which half is yours.”
“How equitable,” I say with a grin.
“It prevented all sorts of fights between my sister and me when we were growing up. As the oldest, I thought I was being smart when I got to cut the doughnut or the cake and pick first, but Rose wised up when she realized she was always getting the small piece.”
“Smart sister.”
“Thanks.”
“I was referring to your little sister.” Smirking, I pour maple syrup over my waffles.
She opens her mouth to reply, but casts a glance behind her first. The little boy is still looking at us. His parents must be happy that he finds us so entertaining. Leaning toward me so the little boy won’t hear, she whispers, “A-hole.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh loudly. She can be such a goddamn smartass when she wants to be. And I totally love it.
She’s got something on her chin. I reach over and wipe it off with my thumb. “Strawberry juice.” Without thinking, I lick it off my thumb.
She drops her gaze and her cheeks redden. “Thanks.”
I section off a piece of the omelet, one that has a lot of sausage and mushrooms, and hold the bite out to her. “Here. You first.”
She looks skeptically at my fork, then back at me.
“If you’re concerned about germs, I haven’t taken a bite yet. My fork is clean.”
“I’m not worried about your germs, Jon,” she says softly.
My heart thuds in my chest as our eyes meet. I think about how much we kissed last night and wonder if she’s thinking the same thing.
“Go on,” I say, my voice hoarse. “It’s getting cold.”
“You’re not going to smear it on my face, are you?”
“I’m not five. Now, eat.”
She leans forward, takes the bite from me, and chews.
“Is it good?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Is it a flavor explosion of epic proportions?” I ask in my radio voice, quoting the menu.
“Actually, it is.” Now she gives me a bite.
Okay. It is delicious. Even with the mushrooms. “I could get used to having you feed me. Do you cook, too?”
“Not unless you do.” She looks at me expectantly. Was that an invitation?
If I said I did, would she want to cook with me? “I do sometimes. Next time, you’ll have to come over.”
“What’s your specialty?” she asks, taking another bite.
“What else? Waffles.”
As we eat, I learn that Ivy’s father owns a once-successful construction company, but business hasn’t been good, so he’s been drinking a lot. Her mother works for the local school district and is always stressed out. Her little sister Rose is a sophomore in high school.
“Enough about me. I want to know about you,” she says. “You’re a chemistry major, right? I heard you’re a tutor for the hundred-level classes.”
Sara must’ve told her, which means they were talking about me. Normally, I like being the topic of female conversation, but for some reason, it makes me feel sort of awkward. “For a few different science classes, actually. I’m majoring in applied chem.”
“That’s cool. Now I know who to call if I need help.”
“Are you taking a science class this quarter?”
She nods. “Biology 101 with Professor Weller…along with half the freshmen.”
“Yeah, his classes always fill up fast. You’ll like him. He’s a good guy. Lots of homework, though.”
“Great.” She waves her hands with mock enthusiasm, making me chuckle. “Just my luck.”
“You’ll have to come study in the science library. It’s got a good study vibe, if that makes sense.” She looks confused. I can’t tell if she thinks that’s weird or if she’s never heard of the science library. “It’s in the new building right next to the Fine Arts building, where we have photography.”
“Don’t I have to be a science major to use it?”
“Everyone assumes that, but anyone can go. It’s the best-kept secret on campus. And the coffee shop on the first floor makes the best scones. Better than anywhere else on campus.”