Page 2 of A Favor Owed

I look down self-consciously. “Sorry,” I say. He’s right. I’m way too intense. It’s in my DNA. “You did something nice. I don’t know why I’m being so rude.” I do know, but it’s not a topic for polite conversation. In fact, it’s not a topic for any kind of conversation. My family never is.

“You want to make it up to me?”

I look at him sharply, my mouth poised to tell him where he can shove my apology.

“Before you rip my head off,” he interjects, “I meant by buying me a beer.”

I blanch. “Like, right now?”

He looks at his watch and then back at me. “It’s almost five o’clock in New York.”

“I’m not concerned about the time.”

“What’s the problem, then?” he asks. “You a little too out of my league?”

Now I’m confused in addition to flustered. “Out of your league? What are you talking about?”

And then those eyes travel down my body like I’m a statue. He’s taking in every inch of my five-foot-ten Pilates body and liking what he sees. I should feel objectified, but instead I feel lit up with a warm glow.

“You’re a gorgeous girl, Angie Pines,” he says when his eyes are back on mine, like he’s commenting on the weather.

I shake my head to snap myself out of it and start to leave. “It’s Angela,” I say, “and now you’re fishing for compliments.” He knows perfectly well he’s perfected the Hot but Innocent Boy Next Door look. Those damn freckles.

He follows me down the aisle steps of the classroom and out the door. “Nope, just stating a fact. You gonna get me that beer now,Angela?”

“Fine,” I say grudgingly. This boy is New York to the core, from his thick Bronx accent to the Yankees cap that he puts on as we walk down the hall. I want to drink him in like he’s a coffee from my favorite bagel shop, but I also want to run away and hide.

“Is Finnegan’s okay?” I ask. It’s close to school, and more importantly, I can get free drinks there and be around people I know.

“You’re asking an Irish boy if an Irish bar is okay for a beer?” he says, cocking that cocky eyebrow at me again. “Yeah, Finnegan’s is great.”

We walk out of the cool marble entryway of the University of Dos Torres Law School and into the bright California sunshine. Dos Torres is a sleepy artists’ town smack in the middle of Nowheresville, far from Los Angeles, far from San Francisco, and far from everything I’ve ever known. It’s also just a little too far inland to benefit from an ocean breeze. I could have gone to law school in Malibu, but I thought that would’ve been too obvious.

I applied last-minute to the University of Dos Torres Law School. The university was initially confused about why I would choose their mid-tier law school over top-ranked Columbia, but they accepted my explanation that I wanted to work with underserved communities in rural California and offered me a full scholarship based on my grades and LSAT score. The truth is a lot more complicated.

I start sweating immediately despite my sheer, pale-pink blouse and ankle-length jeggings, my latest thrift-store finds. It’s hot and dusty, the vestiges of an August heat wave fueled by relentless Diablo winds. Figures the first time I’m living without central air, and I land in the middle of the hottest weather to hit this area in fifty years.

We walk down the main street of Dos Torres, a quiet boulevard lined with mid-century modern ranch houses interspersed with quaint shops and cafes. Every home has a drought-resistant garden decorated with local artists’ works. A few trees provide some shade, but mostly it’s cacti and dry shrubs. Escaping indoors is the only way to avoid the heat.

Just about every guy we pass says, “What’s up?” or otherwise greets Brady as we walk the two blocks to the bar. Girls of every shape, size, and color simper, “Hey, Brady,” and give him toothy grins, while eyeing me with looks ranging from mild curiosity to outright jealousy.

“Did you go to undergrad here?” I ask.

“Nah,” he says. “NYU.”

Great. Mr. Popularity has made friends with the entire campus in a single week.

“What about you?” he asks. “Where did you go?”

“Columbia,” I lie, trying to stay as close to the truth as possible.

“How did you end up here?” he asks.

“Full ride,” I say. My LSAT score and undergraduate grades had gained me acceptance to some of the best law schools in the country, but they didn’t come with full scholarships and I’m done with owing anything to anyone.

We enter the dark, cool bar.

“Angela!” Cliff, the owner and bartender, raises a hand in greeting. “Brady! What’s up?”

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