Okay, so I’m officially moving on with my life. Tristan’s with Tea and that’s okay. I’m really okay with it. And even if he weren’t with Tea, I’m not interested. I have a crush on someone else. How does that old saying go? The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Well, I’m not under him yet, but I am interested.

He’s tall, dark, and handsome. I don’t know his name or anything else about him except that he likes to sketch. That’s how I first spotted him. I saw him sitting in the Quad, sketching in his notebook. Yesterday, he drew a little boy playing ball with his mom. The resemblance was uncanny. Today, he’s sketching hands. I’m not sure who they belong to, though. I’m sitting slightly behind him, under an oak. Instead of concentrating on Thomas Hobbes and what he said about the society, I keep searching for the owner of those hands. And imagining what it would be like to kiss the stranger on the bench across from me.

I’ve had this crush for close to a week, and the experience has been exhilarating. It’s such a change of pace to not dwell on Tristan anymore and to actually look forward to something. I try to remember the last time I really had a crush on someone. More than two years ago. That’s an insane amount of time to go without feeling butterflies in my stomach. The jitters of what it’s all going to be like. I’m only 18 years old for crying out loud! When did I become such an old maid? A long-term relationship in high school will do that to you.

A strong gust of wind suddenly blows in and clouds blanket the sun. Thick raindrops start to fall from the sky. I toss my notebook and various study sheets into my bag and head toward the library. Now I will probably never know whose hands my crush was sketching. A few minutes later, I’m inside the library, fruitlessly looking around for a spot to study. The place is packed with soggy students.

“Hey, hey!” someone says. It’s him. My nameless crush.

“You dropped this,” he says. I smile. But the smile quickly vanishes when I see what he’s holding. It’s a thank you card to Nick. I wrote it while I watched him sketch, when I should’ve been concentrating on Hobbes.

“Thanks.” I take it reluctantly. I hate to admit ownership of that thing. I just hope that he didn’t read it. He turns around to leave, but then he turns around.

“You know, it’s really admirable what you wrote,” he says.

“You read it??”

“I couldn’t help it. It fell open.”

I shake my head.

“What, you don’t believe me?” he asks.

“No, not really.” I shrug. I’m about to walk away, but something stops me.

“You know, you had no right. This is private. Not for some stranger to read.”

He takes a step toward me. His dark hair falls into his unbelievably blue eyes. For a second, I can’t tell if I’m wet from the rain or melting from his gaze.

“I’m Simon,” he says.

I stare at him. I have no idea why he just told me his name.

“There, we’re not strangers anymore now that you know my name. Alice.”

How the fuck does he know my name? I’m fuming. I’m embarrassed. Of all the things that he found, why did he have to read that note? I glance at the note. It’s wet and the ink is smeared, but I can still make out all the words. I know them by heart.

Dear Nick,

Thank you. No, really. This isn’t a joke. This is a legitimate thank you note. I just can’t believe that I’m writing you this or thanking you for trying to force yourself on me. But I am. Because the thing is that, if you didn’t do what you did then Tristan and I would still be strangers. But because you did what you did, Tristan and I are friends again.

There’s this feeling of normalcy between us. And I’m finally starting to feel like I’m not walking on eggshells around him. You’re still a prick for doing what you did and I hope that you get some counseling. You need it. Apparently, you don’t know that when a girl says no, she means no. But thank you anyway. Thank you for being a dick and an asshole.

Not love,

Alice

“You have no right to call me Alice,” I say, my cheeks flushed with a mixture of excitement, anger and embarrassment.

“I have no right to call you Alice? But isn’t that your name?” He looks at me amused.

“Yes, but I didn’t tell you my name. You read it in this super personal note that I wrote, not to you.”

“I couldn’t help but read it,” Simon says.

“You couldn’t help reading it? What the hell does that even mean?” My voice is getting louder and the librarian shushes me sternly. I switch to whispering loudly. “You had no right to read it.”

“I know,” he whispers softly. Simon’s got such a smug look on his face that it makes me want to punch him and then kiss him and then punch him again. “That’s why I thought you would want it back.”

“Whatever.” I turn on my heels and head out. This conversation is clearly pointless. When I reach the second set of double doors on my way out of the library, I’m certain that I had left him behind. I feel relieved and a little disappointed.

“Why don’t you let me make this up to you?” Simon asks in his quiet, raspy voice. My lips curl into a smile and I’m grateful that I’m facing away from him. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“And why should I?” I ask.

“It’s the decent thing to do. And I know you want to.”

Now I get incensed.

“I what? I want you to? Please.”

I roll my eyes and head out into the rain. Why didn’t I bring a stupid umbrella with me? I curse myself. I’m such an idiot.

“You’ve been staring at me all day.” Simon follows me closely behind.

“I have not,” I yell without turning to face him.

I’m walking briskly, as fast as I can without running, but he’s keeping up with me like it’s nothing. What is it about rain that blocks out the whole world and makes it so hard to hear a word? I can barely hear myself think.

“You’ve been staring at me for days,” he says. It’s a good thing that it’s freezing out and I’m soaking wet, otherwise I know that my cheeks would be burning red right now.

“By the way, artists are terribly perceptive. So if you ever stare at another artist in the future, just know that they’re probably aware of it.”

I roll my eyes as if I can’t even justify his response with an answer. But it’s mainly because I don’t know what to say. Again, I feel that strange feeling in the pit of my stomach – like I want to both punch him and kiss him.

“Hey, c’mon.” He grabs the back of my jacket and turns me around. “Let me make this up to you. Please? Just a cup of coffee?”

His eyes are sincere now. His face is no longer smug, but open, inviting. He really wants to get coffee with me.

“Fine,” I finally say.

“Excellent!” Simon’s eyes light up. “And by the way, just so you know, those hands that I was sketching today. They belong to you.”