Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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When I pull up to the curb outside of Abby's apartment, she's already halfway down the stairs, her black leather purse swinging from her shoulder as she clutches a professional-looking camera to her chest. Her chestnut hair is blowing out behind her in loose waves as she takes the last few stairs at a jog, and when she looks up at my truck, her lips pull back into an excited smile as she crosses the small lawn toward the parking lot.
I lean over and push open the door for her, and when she climbs into the truck, she clicks her seatbelt into place before tucking her hair behind her ear and smiling up at me. I want to lean over and kiss her, but I have a feeling if my lips connect with hers right now, we'll never leave the parking lot.
"I have something for you," she says instantly, pulling me out of my daze. Excitement radiates off her as I put the truck back into drive and pull out of her apartment complex.
She pulls something out of her purse and holds it to her chest, but I have to keep my eyes trained on the road because, for some reason, Sundays are always a lot busier around campus. My mom would kill me if I got into a fender bender and missed my granddad's birthday party. Although, her real annoyance would be that Abby didn't make it to the party because ever since the girl sitting beside me agreed to go, my mom hasn't been able to go an entire phone call without mentioning it. Hell, even my grandma called the other day to confirm that I was bringing "my lady" with me.
I didn't bother correcting her because it was kind of nice to think of her that way.
"You said before that your aux outlet broke, and you haven't been able to listen to good music ever since," she says, pulling my attention away from the busy road for a few seconds to catch the bright glimmer in her deep blue eyes. Her cheeks are still a little rosy from the cold air outside, so I reach down and turn the heat up. "So, I made you a mixtape, or CD, I don't know if it's still called a mixtape when it's in CD form, but you know what I mean." She reaches toward the piece of shit radio on my dash, and I catch a glimpse of the top of the CD before she slides it into the player. Her perfect handwriting is shining in a glossy pastel pink marker: Tristan's Mixtape.
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, and I watch her inspect the radio controls with complete concentration as she tries to figure out how to get the CD to play.
When I glance back up at the road, I have to hit the brakes a little harder than usual when the yellow light at the intersection flashes red. When she glances up at me, I try to play it off like I didn't just almost run the red because I was staring at her, and her eyes focus back on my stereo with a smirk. Her eyebrows pull together as she presses the play button, but nothing plays through the speakers.
My truck takes a few seconds to load the CD, but when the song's first few notes start to play through the speakers, she leans back in her seat, and I don't have to look over to know she's smiling because I can feel it; like the heat circulating in the car, I can feel the energy change with her toothy grin.
