chapter one
“Wishing to be friends
is quick work,
but friendship is a
slow ripening fruit.”
—Aristotle
I
knew right away that Davin Kowalski was different. For one thing, he was kind of impossible to
miss: a tall, scruffy guy in a long black trench coat, often seen sprinting to
his next class. He wasn’t known for
saying much; but then, he wasn’t really known at all. If anyone could have guessed what was going
on in that brain of his underneath his unruly mop of hair, I think we all would
have looked at him differently.
As it was, he took great pains to
isolate himself and keep his thoughts a mystery. In class—when he made it on time—he sat in
the corner, hunched over his desk, always reading or writing something. He was a loner and kept to himself. He was so good at it that most people passed
by him without a second glance—unless it was to whisper about him. Most people thought he was sort of scary and
went out of their way to avoid him, and he certainly was intimidating. Always dressed in dark clothes and wearing
combat boots, he seemed a generally disheveled mess towering over the rest of
us.
At first I was no different, no more
privy to his thoughts than anyone else.
I was a bit on the shy side myself so we’d never actually had a conversation,
even though we’d been in a study group once or twice. We had World Civilizations together, one of
those liberal arts prerequisites they assign half the freshman class to attend,
and our study group was easily a third of that.
Even for a small school like Dubsy, that was too many to get to know
anyone well right away.
I don’t know exactly what it was
about the way he’d come stumbling in late and looking half-asleep that caught
my interest. There were cuter—and
probably saner—guys in my class that would have been a whole lot easier to get
to know. And it wasn’t like I made a
habit of trying to salvage hopeless causes.
I’d given that up ages ago. But
there was just something in his expression that reminded me of my own
loneliness and homesickness. Whatever it
was, my heart went out to him. Of
course, I should have known right then that I was in for a world of trouble.
We were walking out of class one
day, and I was by myself. Tiffany, a
girl who lived in my suite, usually walked to class and lunch with me but had
skipped that day. I didn’t really
care. I’d eaten plenty of lunches by
myself in high school.
It was just an ordinary, crisp fall
day and students were milling around, walking over to Phelps Dining Hall. I was not particularly in a hurry; I knew
that by the time I got
there,
the line would already be out the door.
Just steps away from reaching the parking lot, I began digging through
my bag for my ID card. I rifled through
its murky depths and irritably pulled out the folders and notebooks I’d so
neatly tucked away just moments earlier.
I heard footsteps behind me, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Then I was jostled: an elbow bumped my own
and sent my books flying all over the sidewalk.
“Hey!” I yelled after the culprit,
but he was still moving—running—past.
“Sorry,” he called over his
shoulder, his black trench coat flapping behind him like a cape.
Then I saw what he was running to.
Across the street, on the lawn next
to the cafeteria, a group of students were playing Frisbee. I watched as a long throw sent one of the
guys running backwards into the street after it, oblivious to the car that was
backing out toward him. From where I
stood, I could see what was about to happen, but it was obvious neither party
was aware of the other—a large van was blocking the view.
That was when Davin caught the
Frisbee, threw it back to the group, and pushed the guy out of the way just in
time. He himself didn’t quite make it
out of harm’s way; the car had a bike rack that snagged his forearm and tore
his sleeve.
“Hey, keep your game out of the
parking lot, morons!” I heard the driver yell as she drove away.
The Frisbee guy, too, was yelling at
him. “What was that for?”
By that time, I’d crossed the street
as well. “Are you blind? That car would have hit you,” I snapped. “He did you a favor.”
The Frisbee guy frowned and backed
away. “Whatever. Just...keep your hands off me, man.”
“You’re welcome,” Davin called after
him mildly. He shook his head.
“Jerk,” I muttered; he seemed to
suddenly notice me. “Not you. Him,” I clarified.
“You…saw all that, did you?”
“Yeah.” I faced him, looking stern. “Are you crazy? You could have been
killed! Or at the very least, seriously
injured.”
He glanced over at me. “Well, luckily, no one was. You’re all right, aren’t you?”
He glanced over at me. “Well, luckily, no one was. You’re all right, aren’t you?”
“Yes. But if I hadn’t stopped to pick up my
books...” I looked at him,
curiously. Surely he hadn’t knocked them
out of my arms on purpose.
He was looking at my folders. “Star Wars
and Spider-Man, huh? Your boyfriend got you carrying his stuff,
now?”
“What? These are mine,” I exclaimed indignantly.
“Oh. That’s cool.”
“What? These are mine,” I exclaimed indignantly.
“Oh. That’s cool.”
“No, it’s geeky,” I
contradicted. “But I don’t care. Anyway, I don’t have a boyfriend.” I shoved them back in my bag, feeling
flustered and self-conscious; for an awkward moment we just stood there. “Your arm is bleeding,” I frowned, suddenly
noticing.
He glanced down. “Oh.”
He shrugged. “It’s just a
scratch.”
“That’s what they all say. You know, even little scratches need to be taken care of, or they’ll get infected,” I said.
“What, are you pre-med or something?” He sounded annoyed. “Is that like, Minor Wounds 101?”
“That’s what they all say. You know, even little scratches need to be taken care of, or they’ll get infected,” I said.
“What, are you pre-med or something?” He sounded annoyed. “Is that like, Minor Wounds 101?”
“You carry around a first aid kit?”
“Believe it or not, it comes in
handy.” I ripped open an alcohol pad,
pushed up his sleeve, and began cleaning his scrape, even though he clearly
didn’t want me to. He didn’t exactly
stop me, either. “You never know when
you might need a band-aid here, some Tylenol there. I like to be prepared.”
“You don’t really strike me as the hypochondriac type.”
I looked up at him, about to apply a band-aid. “I’m not. It’s everyone else I worry about.”
“You don’t really strike me as the hypochondriac type.”
I looked up at him, about to apply a band-aid. “I’m not. It’s everyone else I worry about.”
“So...you’re a Boy Scout and
a nurse.”
I laughed. “Nope.
Neither. Just a concerned
citizen.” I crumpled the band-aid
wrapper. “All done.”
He inspected my handiwork and flexed
his arm. “Good as new. Thank you, Doctor...” He looked at me curiously. “I know I should know your name.”
“Anna. Fisher.”
“Right. You’re in Howard’s class, right?”
“Yeah. World Civ.”
“I’m Davin. Kowalski.”
Of course I was aware of that, but I
wasn’t about to let him know it. Even if
he was conscious of how his looming presence made an impression on his
classmates, it might come off creepy and stalker-ish. And he clearly already thought I was
weird. Best to just keep things polite
and friendly. “Well, Davin Kowalski, are
you headed to lunch?”
“I am,” he replied, but there was
something guarded in his tone.
I ignored it. “Okay then,” I said, and I began
walking. He fell into step beside me,
sort of. I could sense a subtle
apprehension on his part, as though he was unsure of himself. I decided the best way to deal with it was to
pretend like nothing was wrong, and to talk to him like I would talk to anyone
else.
This was harder than it sounds for
two reasons: one, it normally took me a while to open up to new people. And two, Davin didn’t exactly give off a
vociferous vibe himself. Before when I’d
been around him, he’d always given the impression that staring at him too long
was a bad idea. As was asking him inane
questions like what time it was or if you could borrow a pencil.
I always imagined that if I ever got
near him, in an actual conversation, I’d be able to tell what was simmering
below the scruffy, dark-clothed surface.
Rage? Apathy? Broody emo angst? But up close, the only thing I sensed was
deep sorrow. And not ‘life sucks I want
to die’ self-pity. From his weary,
guarded manner, I got the sense he’d been through an honest-to-goodness
tragedy. What exactly do you say to
someone like that? How do you even
strike up a conversation? Or, in my
case, once you do manage to start a chat of sorts, how do you sustain it?
We stood in line in silence for
several awkward moments, only moving about two feet closer to the cafeteria
doors. In other words, we were sort of
stuck together—at least until we got inside.
We shuffled forward a few more inches and I sighed.
“Something wrong?” he murmured, and
I glanced at him in surprise.
“Not really,” I replied, allowing
myself to look a little closer at Davin.
He was not exactly what people thought, that was for sure. “The queue is just moving really slow today.”
“Queue?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Line,” I corrected myself. “Sorry.”
“I knew what you meant,” he
replied. “And they’re probably just
having technical difficulties. Any
minute now it will pick up.”
I let a scoff escape.
He regarded me calmly. “You disagree?”
I shook my head. “It’s not that. I just didn’t peg you as the
glass-is-half-full type. But I get it
now: you’re a Good Samaritan and an
optimist.”
The corners of his mouth quirked up
slightly. “Not exactly. Just a realist.”
If I hadn’t watched him help the
Ungrateful Frisbee Guy with my own eyes, I doubt I’d ever have begun to figure
him out. Pushing someone out of harm’s
way doesn't exactly scream “I don’t care.”
He might have been tall and imposing, but I was quickly noticing that
there was, in fact, more to him. Up
close, he was surprisingly better-looking than I’d realized—in a scruffy,
messy, unkempt way. Underneath the
stubble, trench coat, and unbrushed hair, there was a certain quiet
strength. “Right,” I said. “A realist who takes crazy risks to help
strangers.”
He frowned at me sharply, but as we
moved forward, he merely mumbled, “And you’re a med student who’s far too
easily impressed.”
“Not
a med student,” I reminded him. “And
stop acting like Clark Kent getting caught using his Kryptonian super strength
to stop a car or something. It was nice,
what you did. Even if the guy didn’t
appreciate it.”
Davin stopped walking forward, and a
gap widened between him, me, and the people in front of us. Even as a couple impatient classmates
bypassed us to enter the cafeteria, he just stared at me. “Who are
you?” he asked, in a bewildered tone.
I
cocked my head at him, totally baffled.
“I told you. Anna Fisher. And I happen to be starving, so let’s go.”
***
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