Page 7 of Give You Up

My breaths come out in spurts. A sheen of sweat coats my forehead. I yank open the door and hurry inside the lecture hall.

Every seat is taken except for one. Just my luck, the seat epitomizes the wordmiddle. Middle of the room. Middle row. Situated smack dab in the middle of two hulking jocks. They are wearing their football jerseys.

I make my way down the middle aisle and stop in front of the row of seats. For an elective, this class is full. Holding my backpack to my chest, I sidestep my way to the empty seat.

This is the reason I dislike showing up to class late, but chatting it up with my friend is worth it.

“Excuse me. Pardon me.”

I keep my voice low, but my words rise above the professor’s lecture. She gives me the stink-eye, and I have to hand it to her. She doesn’t miss a beat in her lecture about the mating habits of beetles.

If it were me up there, I would not be able to keep a straight face. Yep, I signed up for an elective class called “The Reproductive Health of Living Creatures.”

As I scoot my way over, my face heats knowing the students behind me have a view of my butt and sweat-dampened sweatshirt. Beads of sweat roll down my neck and back. I up my pace.

It is difficult to do when I’m avoiding the other students’ feet while clutching my backpack with one hand and holding the coffee cup with the other.

Not to mention I have this urge to swipe at the pieces of hair falling over my eye. I am also discreetly sniffing myself, having forgotten to put on deodorant. When I woke up this morning, I was optimistic I would find a great used romance bookandI would not be making a sweat-inducing mad dash to my first class.

Wishful thinking.

Almost there.

I pass one of the football players and am near the seat when he sticks out his foot and trips me. I recognize him instantly by the color of his hair. Bleach blond and the spiky tips dyed black. Has no one informed Terrance Hardin he resembles a beached killer whale? They haven’t because Terrance is a jock, and jocks are gods around here.

Everything happens in slow motion. Falling sideways, I twist my body. I’m not sure why. My butt is facing the empty seat. All I have to do is fall into it.

Instead, I do this twisting motion. It unseats the cup from my grip. The cup goes flying and hits the guy sitting on the other side of the empty seat. The lid comes off. Coffee splatters the front of his football jersey. I want to cover my eyes, but the sharp glint in his challenges me to acknowledge his presence in Dumas.

God, could my last year of college get off to a worse start? And why did I run my mouth off to the shaved ice lady that I go to DU? Oh, it’s because I didn’t think the universe was out to get me, putting my ex in earshot of my conversation.

Damn him for transferring to DU and upending my life, starting with having the same elective.

“I’m sorry.” I drop my backpack on the floor and sit, and yanking off my sweatshirt, I dab at his jersey.

He edges away from me. “I’ve got this. Thanks.”

He is casual, almost apologetic, whenI’mthe one who spilled coffee on a symbol of his status at DU? His demeanor toward me is confusing. With how I left him four years ago—shocked, hurt, and pissed—I am expecting Taron to be terse.

Giving me a slow perusal, from my skin-tight blue jeans to my royal-blue tank top, Taron rises from his seat, grabs his backpack and the coffee cup, and walks out of the classroom.

The girl next to him follows him out. I slouch in my seat and cross my arms, refusing to fan my face from his intense checking out of my body. Or shield my face from the other students’ stares.

Since arriving at DU, I have done my best to construct a drama-free, predictable, and structured life for myself. The over-planning and avoiding drama are my way of dealing with my mom’s end-of-life surprises. In a nutshell, our life, my life, was built on lies. Then she died and I was left with more questions than answers. Her leaving me permanently also left me feeling hurt and angry and without closure.

That must be what Taron felt when I left Mossy Rock without an explanation. But he cannot be in Dumas strictly for me.

5

Taron

“Taron, Taron, wait up.”

I face the girl who started latching on to me the moment I asked if I could rest my arm on the armrest between us. I am a big guy and take up a lot of space. Any arm room and leg room are prime real estate.

“What can I do you for?” I yank the coffee-stained jersey off and stuff it in my backpack. Straightening, I find her staring at my chest.

She licks her lips. “Um, are you going to Galley Rutherford’s party tonight?”

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