Page 2 of Choosing Skyler

“What are you doing?” I laugh out at my crazy best friend as he sashays down to the other end of the counter at the coffee shop to wait for our drinks. Devon is outgoing and has no problem showing his bright personality to anyone around and I love him for it. I’m more of an introvert, scared of her own shadow.

Honestly, I don’t know when I became this mouse of a woman so scared of everyone. So scared of everything they may think of me. I guess it happened sometime in high school, when it seemed I wasn’t the first choice of anyone in my life.

My parents were too busy fighting with each other, my friends were too busy one upping each other and the guys I dated were too busy trying to get into my pants when I wasn’t ready for that kind of relationship. No matter what I did, it was never quite right. So, in my mind, I decided I must be doing something wrong by simply existing.

I don’t know if I would have survived my first year in college if it weren’t for Devon pulling me out of my own head. He was the flashiest guy I had ever seen, when we met at freshman orientation.

With his straight, jet-black hair hanging to his chin with a bright pink strip right down the middle (which I later learned was for his best friend’s mom who was diagnosed with breast cancer their junior year of high school), loose fitting jeans and bright colored button-down shirts, he had a unique style somewhere between a skater and a rainbow. He even wore the chain connecting his wallet to his jeans like kids in the nineties used to wear.

I thought for sure that he was gay with his loud style and personality until he grabbed me around the waist and laid the best kiss of my life right on me in front of the entire freshman class.

He grinned and said with a shrug, “You looked like you were stuck in your head. Thought I’d give you something else to think about besides whatever is clearly not a happy thought.”

I stood there so stunned I couldn’t even be mad. So, I laughed and introduced myself.

That wasn’t the last kiss—among other things—that we’ve shared, but it’s never been romantic. More like best friends who occasionally make out. Now, as we prepare to enter our senior year at Thorngrove University, he is constantly looking for new ways to bring me out of my ever-present shell. Like checking out hot guys—and occasionally girls in his case.

“I’m thinking you need to get your head out of your ass and look at that hot piece in the back booth,” Devon whispers in my ear when I’m next to him.

I turn slightly to glance in that direction, and sure enough, there is the guy who has obviously gained Devon’s eye. Even though he’s sitting in the booth, I can tell he is at least six feet tall with wavy, golden blond hair and what looks like a well-trimmed three-day growth lining a strong jaw. He’s wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and has lean, cut arms with a tan that looks beach fresh. Honestly, he looks like a surfboard ad in the flesh. Which is definitely different for this part of the country. My skin prickles and I can feel my body heat with instant attraction. I quickly look back to the counter before getting caught in my gawk.

“Who is he? Do you know him?” I whisper to Devon.

He grins that know-it-all smirk before turning back around to face the back of the shop again.

“Stop staring at him before he notices us,” I scold him.

“Oh, I may know who he is, but it’s gonna cost you.” He smirks again, knowing he has my interest even if I’ll never admit it.

“Okay, coffee is on me every morning for the next week,” I offer, grinning back at him.

“Make it morning coffeeandafternoon snacks and you’ve got a deal,” he bargains.

“Fine! Who is he and where did he come from? No deal without details, Devon,” I insist excitedly.

He leans down so his face is right next to my ear with one hand on my waist and says, “That, my beautiful, flustered friend is Brady Hargrove. He just transferred from upstate to complete his senior year and graduate college with his best friend.”

I feel all the blood drain from my face as the name registers from all the crazy stories Devon has told me about his childhood best friend.

“Are you serious?!” I whisper-shout, jumping back slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me he was moving here?”

While I’m ecstatic for Devon because I know how much he misses his best friend, I’m a little devastated for myself. I feel like I’m going to lose Devon to Brady since they have so much more friendship history than we share. We’ve been attached at the hip the past three years, but Devon and Brady were best friends from preschool all the way through high school.

Devon came to Thorngrove while Brady stayed upstate to attend Virginia Wesleyan University and help take care of his sick mother who died of breast cancer in January. Devon was heartbroken since she was basically a mom to him. Really, the only mom he’s known since his own mother died in childbirth and his dad never remarried.

Devon looks relieved and excited when he says, “Honestly, I didn’t think he would be here. He didn’t know if his transfer request would be approved, and he was hesitant to leave Jillian’s house vacant. I think maybe he’s just desperate for a change in scenery. I can’t imagine living there after everything he’s been through.”

And just like that, I feel like a complete asshole for worrying about me when Brady lost his mom and Devon lost the woman who helped raise him since his dad was working all the time. See what I mean? There is something wrong with me on a fundamental level.

“Hey, where did you go?” Devon asks, looking concerned. “Don’t even start!” he says when he sees my expression. “I know exactly what you’re thinking and you’re wrong.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just thinking they are taking forever to make our stupid drinks,” I hedge, but it’s no use. Devon can see right through my attempt to deflect.

“So, you weren’t just thinking that you’re losing your best friend and feeling guilty because Brady gets his back after everything he’s been through?” he asks, arching his brow.

Damn it. It’s like he has a direct line inside my head. “Yeah, maybe a little,” I say sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”

Before he can respond the barista calls our names. We grab our coffees and turn around to notice that we’ve gained the attention of the ‘hot piece in the back booth’.

---