An Extra Pump of Sugar

Chapter 10

I wandered through campus with an overpriced latte in hand, cursing the male barista under my breath.

While Theo was busy greeting the morning rush, I'd raced to the restroom to splash some water on my face and erase his handiwork—embarrassed, flushed, disoriented. Once I'd cleaned up after his mess and fixed my hair, I'd slipped out of Grounds unseen, forced to acquire caffeine from one of the busy shops on university soil. Forced to accept that I'd just been finger-fucked by Theo Landing in the back of my favorite coffee shop.

And I'd enjoyed it.

I groaned into the collar of my down jacket, wishing I could crawl into the goose-feather filling and perish. I'd really bitten off more than I could chew here, and all I could do was swallow the bitter fact of the matter: I really wanted to bang my barista.

Again.

The sun was up now, but it didn't do me any good when it was 25 degrees out. The walkways were crusted over in melted snow, transforming the pavement into a hazardous Slip 'N Slide, and my hands ached from the intrusive wind chill. Beside me, barren cottonwoods hugged the path, towering over the passing students like tawny obelisks, and beyond the barrier of trees stretched the campus quad: 1,000 square feet of snow, trampled grass, and muddy footprints.

Many of the historic buildings were still intact here on the south side of campus, their bricks as authentic as they come, their walls covered in dead vines. We didn't have the new student union or tech center at the bottom of the hill, but in many ways, this battered courtyard embodied the old beating, bleeding heart of the university.

Baker and I had shared some rib-splintering laughs here, staying up late in the library with other procrastinators, sacrificing empty liquor bottles to the Mackay statue before finals, sprinting to the student events for free food, people watching from the grassy hillslopes and fending off the bees. It was no UC school, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the quirky imperfections that made up Nevada, Reno. Its roughened edges gave it character, and its blackened corners made it feel lived in, worn out, and abused—like a beloved baseball glove.

I made it to my first photography lecture ten minutes early, and I claimed a seat in the middle of the middle row: not too close to the front to appear overzealous, and not too far away to portray indifference. From this position, I wouldn't obstruct anyone on their way to their seat, and I wouldn't have to worry about holding up the line the second class ended.

Carl would be happy here.

The professor strode in a few minutes later, and I grinned at her elegant sweater dress, high heels, and styled bob cut. She had to be in her forties, but her skin was damn near flawless, and her waist was as small as a telephone pole. Her blue eyes carried a mischievous quality that reminded me of an older, wizened Baker.

"Can I sit here?"

I jumped in my seat. A 20-something with a buzzcut smiled down at me. He gestured to the desk on my left, despite the plethora of empty seats all around us.

"Sure," I got out, trying not to visibly mourn my physical space.

My visitor shed his backpack and windbreaker and sat down next to me with nothing but a pen in his fist. "I'm Elijah." His brown eyes were kind, and he looked like a fellow mixed American with his East Asian features and sharp, Grecian nose.

My smile felt as heavy as a clown mask. "Ramona."

He flipped his pen around in his finger and tapped it against the side of his desk like a drumstick. A lefty, I noted. With an attention deficit, maybe. "Cool, cool. So...you taking this as an elective credit, Ramona, or are you interested in the fine arts?"