Page 52 of Seeds of Love
Was it to shut me up? To hurt me? To scratch some itch? I don’t know. But in that moment, he shattered everything. Because he knew. He had to know how I felt. And he used it against me.
I know Freddie. I know he doesn’t do relationships. So what was that kiss, if not the final nail in the coffin of our friendship? A way to prove once and for all that I’m just another notch on his bedpost?
Well, screw that. I won’t give him the satisfaction of proving him right. I’m not that naive little girl anymore.
I sigh, the sound filling our tiny living room. “I just… I thought I could survive the next year of college without having to speak to him again.”
Tara’s hand on my shoulder is warm, comforting. “I know, hun,” she says softly.
I offer her a weak smile, suddenly realizing how self-absorbed I’ve been. “Oh god, sorry! How was it with Carlson?”
Her face lights up, and she does a little happy dance that makes the couch shake. “It was brilliant! He says I’ll be the perfect candidate when the time comes!”
I listen as she gushes about ancient chicken bones and post-grad programs, trying to muster up some genuine enthusiasm. I am happy for her. Really. But I can’t shake the nagging thought that my own dreams just got a little further out of reach.
“Oh, and Dean from my paleontology class asked about you again,” Tara adds casually. “He’s been not-so-subtly hinting that he’d love to take you to dinner.”
“Screw it, why not? Give him my number. I’ll go for dinner with him,” I grin. It’ll be good for me to date more, besides, Dean seems like a nice guy and we did have a drunken hookup already so it’s basically a second date.
“Yay! And he’s nice. Safe. Totally different from?—”
“Don’t say it,” I warn.
I unconsciously reach for the space where the leaf pendant used to lie, before I ripped it off. I somehow haven’t been able to face getting it fixed. I feel as though I don’t deserve it yet, not until I’ve made a difference.
Because now I’m paired with Freddie for the end-of-year project. A project that could make or break my chances of getting onto the GSRI internship, and then the grad program, and basically my entire reason for doing everything.
And I have no idea how I’m going to survive it without either killing him or kissing him senseless.
Probably both.
FREDDIE
NOW – JUNIOR YEAR – JANUARY
I’m hunched over my laptop at our sad excuse for a kitchen table, scrolling through another batch of soul-crushing job listings. Every posting reads like it was written by the same corporate robot: “competitive salary” (translation: we’ll pay you just enough to keep breathing), “industry-leading” (we’re exactly like everyone else), “innovative solutions” (we have no fucking clue what we’re doing).
My eyes are starting to cross from staring at this shit. Each listing feels less appealing than the last, which is impressive considering they started at the root-canal level of excitement. But I keep scrolling because that’s what good sons do, right? They find stable jobs, take care of their families, and definitely don’t think about how much they’d rather be doing literally anything else.
My phone buzzes, and my stomach drops when I see it’s Megan. No warning text about calling, no “Freddie, I need to tell you something in 5,” nothing. She always sends those—says ithelps with her “call anxiety” or whatever. The last time she called without warning was when Dad collapsed at work.
“Freddie!” She’s practically screaming before I can even say hello. “Freddie, oh my god, you’re not going to believe it!”
“Jesus, Meg, breathe,” I laugh, but my stomach’s already doing backflips. “What’s up?”
“I got it!” She’s definitely crying. “The scholarship! University of Denver! They want me, Freddie! Full ride!”
Holy shit.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
The relief hits me so hard, I sink deeper into my seat, slumping back as if the weight lifting off my shoulders has finally, mercifully, let me breathe. Okay, maybe I collapse a bit more than planned.
“Are you serious?” My voice cracks like I’m thirteen again, shaky and raw. “Meg, that’s... holy shit, that’s amazing!”
She laughs, but her voice is thick, trembling with what I’m pretty sure are happy tears. “I know! Coach called Dad this morning. They saw me play at regionals, and—God, Freddie, you should’ve heard him! He actually cried!”
I can picture it as if it’s playing out in front of me: Dad’s tough-guy act cracking wide open, emotion flooding past every effort to contain it. The thought alone makes my throat tighten and burn.
