Heart On Your Sleeve | Timothee Chalamet

Two // HYOS

I pressed the pre-programmed home button on the GPS navigator screen, and the route automatically populated. Then I sat back.

Adam's fingers strummed the steering wheel as he drove. The party was off Monument Avenue, about fifteen minutes from where I lived downtown. Fifteen minutes with Adam Collier was not on my bingo card for this year. Dudes like him didn't look at women like me, at least not during college.

During college, athletes wanted trophies: cheerleaders, dancers, cosmetologists, fun girls. Girls who wore beauty pageant makeup to class, dressed in tweed with big curls. Girls who pledged or whose families had made donations to the school. Girls who would impressed their friends and looked good on Instagram. Girls like Evie.

It was only after graduation, when guys like Adam started getting "serious" about life, that they looked at us boring girls: biologists, teachers, engineers, nurses. Those who were too drowned in homework and late night study sessions to be worried about how we looked or party all the time. Who talked about poetry and war and change. Who wouldn't make your mother say "Where'd you find this one?" if you brought us home. Who bored men like Adam to sleep, unless they were ready for a wife, out with the fun girl, in with Boring Betsy.

Fifteen minutes seemed unreal.

And girls like me didn't just know guys like Adam existed. We daydreamed about talking to them, being seen by them. We watch them make eyes at every woman who passed . We watched them miss class due to the demands of their athletics programs yet somehow still pass with flying colors. I've seen Adam, for two years now, lead the rowing crew to national victory.

Now I've got fifteen minutes, and what do girls like me do with fifteen minutes with a guy like Adam? I bomb it. I totally screw it up.

But first, I got my phone out of my pocket to text Evie. I told her what happened and that I was  on my way home. I left out the Adam part, not that it mattered. He was escorting me out of pity, not out of interest, and the last thing I wanted was for anyone to know that. Ever.

"I'm really sorry about what happened," Adam broke the silence as we came to a red light on West Broad Street. It was a lively Friday night, the central street swollen with cars, restaurants and venues at capacity. The air was cool but not strong. I rolled down my window with a shrug.

"I don't see why you're apologizing," I said.

"It's called a gesture of support?" He argued.

I rolled my eyes. "I think you've offered your fair share. Did you really have to lay that guy out?"

Adam paused. "I mean, really, the dude was drunk. I didn't lay him out, I just made the bed for him."

"Ah," I said, unable to help a small snicker from escaping. "I see." Then the soft breeze irritated my burning eyes, and I rolled my window up again before rubbing them.

Ugh. Stupid. Why was I so stupid?

Then I checked my phone. Nothing from Evie yet. But she was a big girl. It's not like I was in any condition to drive her home, anyway. I just hoped she would be okay.

"That your boyfriend?" Adam asked, and I quickly locked my phone again.

"Who, Evie?" I smirked.

He gave me a side glance with a shrug. "Or girlfriend."

I shook my head. "It's the friend who dragged me to the party and left me once she saw her real friends. I told her that stupid party was not for me in the first place. Why would I want to be around a bunch of dumb ass frat boys getting shit-faced, laid and wasting away their already meaningless existences?"