I'm Sort of Okay with This

Nine: Abby

Ian was late to arrive at the library again. It sort of pissed me the fuck off, if you want to know the truth. I hated waiting around, being left alone with my thoughts. The library was relatively empty, aside from a few stragglers typing away on their computers.

For some reason, I had been filled with contempt for everyone, even more so than usual. I'd see carefree groups of people chatting in the hall, couples holding hands, hear bubbly laughter bouncing off the walls. It enraged me. Especially the fucking couples. Especially Cheyenne Brown and that dickhead Rafe Powers, giggling and kissing and cuddling like they weren't both cheating, backstabbing assholes. I wanted to bash their heads together more than just about anything.

Haley Riddle had waved to me outside of my math class, and I'd pretended I hadn't seen her. A smidge of my soul felt a little bad about it, though. Annoying and airheaded, yes, but I supposed she wasn't awful.

Ian wandered through the bookshelves with his backpack. He grinned upon seeing me and ambled in my direction. Even though I was pissed, he looked sort of pretty. His golden hair was pushed back, little strands falling over his forehead, his sweatshirt sleeves a bit too loose for his arms.

"Hey," he said. "Sorry I was late."

"Yeah," I said. "It's fine. Get out your damn essay."

He frowned, took out his computer, and pulled up the essay. I slid the computer toward me and combed through the words on the screen.

He wrote in slick, simple sentences. Upon reading, it became clear he didn't know the difference between then and than. He'd neglected proper capitalization in some spots, and there were a few unnecessary words slipped in, but the essay wasn't atrocious overall. He certainly knew what he was writing about.

"It's not bad, isn't it?" he mumbled.

"No," I said. "Why'd you ask?"

He broke our eye contact. "Well, you haven't said anything. I know I'm not a good writer. It's okay if you think it's bad, I won't be upset."

I shrugged. "It's not bad. It's a solid essay. I mean, there's a couple grammar mistakes, sure, but I can help you fix them."

"Oh," he said. He sounded relieved.

I pushed my chair closer to his and told him where the mistakes were. His mouth was slightly agape as he worked.

A whiff of his cologne flew from his neck, almost citrusy in fragrance. His fingers, resting on the keyboard, were long and nimble, attached to his veiny palms. His nails were clean and short, which I found strange, since most guys my age didn't exactly take fantastic care of their nails. 

After we finished revising the essay, he thanked me and asked if I wanted a ride home. I accepted, since I'd sort of enjoyed myself last time, even if it was awkward. He wasn't awful company, if you want to know the truth.

His car was the same as before, crumbled soda cans in the cup holders. Still smelled like him.

"Sorry, it's a bit of a mess."

"It's fine," I said. I buckled my seatbelt and crossed my legs. "My bedroom is far messier than this, trust me."

He laughed breathily and started the engine.

We didn't speak for a couple of minutes, until Ian decided to slice the silence in half. "So, what do you do?"

I furrowed my eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"I dunno. Like, what do you do when you're not at school?"

"Not much. Why?"

"I feel like you know so much about me. Like, from when we talked at 7-11, and working on my English assignments and stuff. You know I play baseball. I mean, you know about what happened with Cheyenne, and my parents don't even know that yet. But I hardly know anything about you, other than you listen to Nirvana and go to 7-11 at weird times."