To Want Endlessly [18+]

Chapter Seven

Freya Huntington was an enigma. Though thinking , I'd say she still is. She used to have these huge round specks - ones that were much too big for her face - which she always said were a fashion statement.

"If people don't like them, they can just not look at me."

That was like her personal motto.Being who she was, she often garnered a lot of looks and attention. Despite being adults in college, it seemed like appearance still mattered. I hate to say that I was one of those people who cared how I looked and came off. But there were always a few who remained themselves and chose not to conform to modern society.

Obviously, Freya was one of those rare people.

I never regarded her as more than some girl in my psychology class. Suddenly, I feel like a shallow, self-absorbed prick.

"I mean... I wouldn't go that far." Freya laughs. When I look at her, she's staring at me as if I just said I'm going streaking.

"My impression continues to get worse," I mumble, offering an awkward smile.

Freya gives me a shrug as she bites into a watermelon chunk. Her plump lips wrap around it perfectly, giving me a true sight to behold. My chest tightens while watching her tongue glide over her lips. It's a strange feeling I didn't think I'd be feeling with an old classmate so soon after leaving Lacey.

"It's fine, really not that big of a deal. But it's hard to believe my face could change so much in so little time."

"Little time?" I raise an eyebrow at her. "One semester in college over ten years ago is hardly a little time. Maybe if we hung in the same crowd or knew each other personally and kept in touch..."

She makes a face, barely concealing a smile behind her hand. "Same crowd? In our school, were there really crowds? I feel like the place was way too big to have a set group of people to hang with."

"Oh... maybe I'm the odd one out in this situation?"

"Maybe," she teases, moving her hand from her mouth and revealing her teeth.

The rest of breakfast is spent in silence as the conversation dies down. A somewhat awkward silence remains between two strangers who shared one project together ten years ago. At some point, the tv turns on and creates background noise. It fills the space and slowly ebbs away the uncomfortableness as we finish our plates.

Freya gets up first and sets her plate into the sink. I watch her as she turns the faucet on for a moment before shutting it back off. I have the passing thought of why she doesn't use her dishwasher only to remember that plenty of people don't and I shouldn't still be so ignorant at thirty-three years old.

"So," Freya starts, breaking the silence first, "you going to share why you drank yourself stupid last night? Or will we continue to sit here and act like I didn't let you crash at my place because you barely knew your own name?"