Eternal Longing ✓

2. Bows and Arrows

JAYA

Hours later, I'm close to throwing up as I keep staring at the food in front of me.

He can't be here. He can't be at my school of all places.

I mean, what are the chances that of all universities in the country, hell, of all universities in the world, Finley Barton would end up right here? Taking my same Realism course, for that matter?

And seemingly being best friends with Professor Truman and already staking his claim as the teacher's pet on day one?

None. Those are the chances. Zero out of one hundred.

"Brocs, you good?" Maverick's concerned voice brings me back out of the stupor that Finley's presence has invoked in my brain. "You haven't touched your burger yet. Are you sick?"

I watch him stuff a cheesy slice of pizza inside his large mouth, chewing away even as his eyebrows screw up at my weird behavior.

"I-I'm fine." I clear my throat and poke at the yummy-looking burger. "Still trying to take it all in, you know?"

Mav doesn't seem convinced by my answer. "So it has nothing to do with that guy staring you down in class?"

I roll my eyes and finally pick up my burger. "He was not staring me down." After class started Finley took a seat somewhere far away from us in the back, making it impossible for me to see if he was actually staring me down. But still.

Maverick snorts while cleaning off the excess grease from his fingers. "I could feel the tension in the fucking room the entire one hour and thirty minutes, Brocs. No need to lie. Tell Papa the story, why don't you?"

I give him a dry look for referring to himself as Papa, my mind too cluttered to give him enough grief about it.

See this is why Finley needs to go back to wherever he came from, his mere presence is enough to throw me off kilter. My right hand itches to grab a paintbrush and layer enough green trees to fill out an entire canvas, maybe I'd calm down then.

"You're doing the hand thing again," Mav observes, his eyes on my twitching right hand. "You're tense and worked up. Talk to me."

I ignore his words and look everywhere but our booth, taking in the high art aesthetic of the restaurant. Bows and Arrows is probably the most frequented and loved place on campus due to its artistic environment and delicious food.

Maverick dragged me here last week after the broccoli fiasco and we've been coming every day for either lunch or dinner. It helps that dining is free to students since both of us are broker than broke.

Before my new friend can pester me more about my past with a certain blond demon, chaos descends upon our booth.

"Maverick fucking Hoover! Been looking all over campus for your ass, bro!"

"Didn't see you at the party last night, dude!"

"It was a good fucking time, my guy!"

I sigh deeply and curse my unluckiness, staring daggers at Maverick who gives me the most apologetic of looks.

"I'm so sorry," he mouths to me just before one of his friends smacks him hard on the back.

Three preppy types loom over our table, and despite my commitment to not judge a book by its cover, the three guys scream white-boys-in-a-fraternity. There's nothing inherently wrong with being in a frat or being a white guy, but dang do these men fit into the stereotype to perfection.

They all wear a variation of the same thing: simple T-shirts, chino shorts, and slip-on Vans. Once again, nothing wrong with that, but damn. This might be evidence that some stereotypes do exist.