Look at You

Chapter 35

35

I leave the library on Wednesday with two new books and a nugget of sage advice from Ben.

The books: a biography of Henry Ford and a science fiction novel about living on Mars. The latter in particular feels offhandedly applicable.

The advice: don't be afraid to own your mistakes, and step away from circumstances that are no longer comfortable for you, and most poignantly, you're in a growth period right now, kid. So grow.

Ben's dark leathery hands and mouthful of metaphors always have a way of making my problems seem insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I walk away with a bit of a fresh perspective. Which is why, when Simon invites himself to my weekend plans with Finn—rehab roommate and country singer extraordinaire—I don't create an excuse.

"Any big plans this weekend?" I ask him first because the only thing I know about him outside of his job is his living status and former sport. I'm sitting in Callie's chair opposite where Simon sits in his. The two of us sip on Buzz coffee and spin idly.

"Nothing I can tell you legally," he ticks an eyebrow up, the corner of his lip curling. That ever-present smirk. "And yourself?"

"Not much," I'm already taking my hat off my head to run my hands through my hair. I could leave it at that, but I don't because strangely enough, I don't want to. "I have this concert thing actually on Saturday night."

"Oooh fun," he inches closer. "Who's all going?"

I want to laugh. He thinks I have friends. "Uh, hah, myself?"

His reaction is instantaneous. "I'll come with you."

I'm shocked. "You'll come with me," I repeat. I don't add: to my rehab roommate's country concert at a hick bar in Mayfield, where you will be the only thing out of place. Emphasis on rehab roommate.

Lately, I'm considering the fact Simon that doesn't know who I am a blessing, and this is most certainly edging dangerously close to Cameron's dark past territory.

"Sure," he says. He's looking a little less convinced now. I try and push us in that direction.

"He sings country."

"Even better." He's sticking to his guns. It's admirable.

"Ha ha. No way you listen to country." I eye him up and down—crisp, tailored jeans, brown cashmere sweater—for effect.

"Okay, I'll admit I don't listen to it. But hey, that makes it more fun right?"

I'm not sure I agree with this sentiment. And I'm not sure I like where this is going, with him so close to my old life. But there's also something in my chest that's buzzing like a hive of honeybees. I think they call it excitement.

Before I think better of it, I grab his notepad and write down my number. He should have it anyway, I convince myself.

"There's my number. Starts at 8, but it's in Mayfield so I'll pick you up earlier. Just send me your address."

And I can cancel. If I need to. I can cancel.

"Oh, you don't have to pick me up," Simon rushes out, grabbing the notebook off his desk like I'm going to take it back. "I'll just meet you."

"You still live with your parents, right?" He nods. I nod. "Then I'm picking you up."

I have manners. Plus, I was raised by a man practically born in the Dust Bowl.

"Okay," he says.

I head for the stairs, letting the interaction seep into my skin. I have plans. With someone who isn't Riley, Ben, or Craig. And I'm excited, damnit, rehab roommate or not.