All That and a Bag of Chips

Chapter 18

When the mountain of fliers had eroded down to a small hill, Heather switched to filing. She was now kneeling in front of an open filing cabinet with a stack of papers next to her–paid invoices, she said–and was placing them in the correct manilla folder. Collin's hope of finishing by seven didn't seem promising. It was already half-past six. They'd been working for three hours, and there was still plenty to do.

Yet Collin wasn't anxious. He usually hated the idea of being late, or not following through on a promise, but he was having a blast spending time with Heather.

He kept stealing glances at her. Her thick auburn hair fell over one shoulder as she tilted her head to study a paper, revealing the slope of her neck. The silver of her earring glinted like treasure.

Every time he looked at her, watching her careful movements and studying the curvature of her body, he was frozen. Mesmerized. Unable to fold fliers or stuff envelopes or peel on mailing labels. It was almost like he didn't want to finish the work.

Sure, he wanted to see Sam in the show, but he'd seen her rehearse. Had seen her perform in previous years. And as long as he was at the after party, he doubted Sam would even realize if he never made it up to campus.

"Want to play another round of What's Your Favorite?" Collin asked. They'd already covered a lot of the basics, but she was so different from anyone else he knew: a straight girl from a small town who seemed to have no shame in liking N'SYNC or admitting that she had seen The Princess Diaries in theaters.

He almost felt like an anthropologist, studying the typical heterosexual. If this was the world he was going to assimilate into, he had to learn their ways.

"Okay," she answered, not looking up, still filing. "You start."

"Favorite book?"

"A Widow For One Year by John Irving."

"Never heard of it." He shrugged, then took another flier, folding it.

"It was a New York Times bestseller!" she scolded.

"Okay, okay, I'll check it out." He stuffed an envelope.

"How about you?" she asked.

"I should've been prepared for that." He laughed as he sealed the envelope. "Um, either High Fidelity by Nick Hornby or Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card."

"Those are very different books," she observed.

"You know them both?" He stacked the envelope and picked up another flier.

"Well, I've seen the movie High Fidelity. Love John Cusack."

"Book was better," he interrupted.

"And..." she ignored him, flipping through the files in front of her, "my ex was really into sci-fi and he made me read Ender's Game. Honestly, I didn't love it."

Of course she had ex-boyfriends. He had an ex-girlfriend. And he wasn't one of those guys who expected the women he was interested in to be pure virgins with no history. But, the mention of an ex, especially one who shared his–admittedly questionable–taste in alien books, was unsettling.

Yet, he had to ask, putting down the flier in his hand, not able to fold until he knew the answer. "A recent ex?"

"What? No, not really. I dated Brett for a year after high school."

Now the ex had a name. Brett the ex. Brandon the creep. He wondered if there were any Bryces or Brians he should know about. Maybe he would have a better chance with her if he had changed his name to Bruce instead of Collin.