Remember This Part

12. Oh No, There Are Feelings

Alex.

Developmental Psych was always interesting enough, as classes go. But now it's more of an excuse to see her than anything else. She still sits a few rows ahead of me, always playing with something, whether it be her zipper or her pen or Michelangelo, her virtual pet turtle on Webkinz. Every once in a while, she'll pull up a blank document on her laptop and type something up in a huge font, knowing that I'll see it. On Monday, she wrote, "The name of your show with Guy Fieri: 'The Sixth Star'."

I couldn't fight a smile, and lately, I haven't been trying to. I'm sure that the people sitting in the rows between us were confused, and that just made it all the more amusing. At the end of class, she caught up with me and described the premise of my "show."

"You and Guy go all over the country visiting five-star restaurants," she had explained. "You try their best entrées, and if they're good enough, you award them a sixth star with Guy's face on it."

"And what if we don't like their entrée?" I'd asked.

"Then Guy comes in with a hammer and smashes all of their dishes on live television," she said without missing a beat, which got a laugh out of me.

I've been wrestling with a number of strange emotions since that night after Abuela's birthday party. It's true that I don't really understand them, but I won't claim that I don't know what they are. I'm starting to like her, not just as a person and not just as a friend. The fact that I managed to keep myself from kissing her all night was a feat in self-control.

When I dropped her off at her dorm at the end of our little side trip, I realized I was feeling two things. One—I was a little disappointed that her ex wasn't still waiting there, which meant I didn't get to dent his skull. Two—I was disappointed to see her step out of my car and walk away without me.

The earth must have flipped on its axis.

There's a few things standing in our way, however. Things that leave me in a dark mood when I even start to think about them. The way she panicked when I paid for her meal, and even more concerning—the way she flinched when I came near her afterward. That didn't look like an innate reaction, it looked ingrained. It's painting a picture I don't like. Actually, it's painting a picture that I hate with everything in me.

If someone hurt her...

I grit my teeth just thinking about it, but if it's true, then it has to be considered. Did the ex do something to her? He would fit the type. He's obviously controlling and easily provoked, rounded out by a senseless temper—something that was evidenced by our brief interaction at the bar. I swear, if he laid one violent finger on her, I'll break every bone in his body, saving his spine for last to maximize the pain.

No matter what, I've already decided that he's not hanging around her or her building anymore. The next time I see him—which will be soon—I'll make sure he's afraid to even look at her.

In the meantime, I have to focus on my classes and my plans for next year. I have to try, anyway. I'm waiting on one more recommendation letter from my Forensics professor, and then I can submit my application for BMU's investigative research internship. There's only seven spots available, each one highly sought-after. Students who perform well in it are practically shoo-ins for a job working with criminal investigators here in the state. From there, it's a straight shot to the FBI.

The only problem is that the internship takes place in Washington D.C. over the summer. That's ten weeks where I wouldn't be close to Abuela. And while I trust Antonio to step up and take care of her while I'm gone, I keep worrying that something might happen to her, and I'll be 1800 miles away when it does.