This Girl: A Novel

posing.
    I glance at the rest of the pictures on the wall, recalling the moments they were all captured. I used to hate looking at these pictures. I hated the way it would make me feel and how much I would miss them when I looked into their eyes. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore. Now when I look at them, I mostly recall the good memories.
    Seeing their pictures brings the realization back to the forefront of my mind that Lake has no idea of the responsibilities I have in my life. I need to tell her tonight. It’s better to get it out now, that way if she can’t handle it, I won’t be too far gone. It’ll be a lot easier to be rejected by her tonight, before whatever it is I’m feeling toward her becomes even more intense.
    I close the lid to the trash can and pull it to the curb. When I near the end of the driveway, I see the back door to Lake’s Jeep is open. She’s leaning all the way across the seat, searching for something. When she finds what she’s looking for, she climbs out of the backseat with a coffeepot in her hands. She’s still wearing pajamas and her hair is piled on top of her head in a knot.
    “That’s not a good idea,” I say, heading across the street toward her.
    She jumps when she hears my voice, then spins around to face me and grins. “What am I doing wrong this time?” She shuts the door to the Jeep and walks toward me.
    I point to the coffeepot. “If you drink too much coffee this early in the morning, you’ll crash after lunch. Then you’ll be too exhausted to go out with your hot date tonight.”
    She laughs. Her smile is fleeting, though. She looks down at her pajamas, then runs her hands over her hair with a slight look of panic in her eyes. She’s silently freaking out about the way she looks, so I ease her mind. “You look great,” I assure her. “Bed hair looks really good on you.”
    She smiles, then leans against her car. “I know,” she says confidently, looking down at her pajamas. “This is what I’m wearing on our date tonight. You like?”
    I slowly look her up and down, then shake my head no. “Not really,” I say, eyeing her boots. “I’d prefer it if you wore the house shoes.”
    She laughs. “I’ll do that, then. Seven-thirty, right?”
    I nod and smile back at her. We’re about four feet apart, but the way her eyes are piercing into mine makes it feel like she’s just inches away. She smiles at me with an unfamiliar sparkle in her eye. Unlike the last two days, she actually looks happy right now.
    We continue to stare at each other, neither of us speaking . . . or walking away. There’s a long silence, but it’s not awkward. The way she’s watching me this time seems more confident. More at ease.
    More hopeful.
    I decide to give in before the awkwardness does set in, so I take a couple of steps backward toward my house. “I have to get to work,” I say. “I’ll see you tonight.”
    She lifts her hand and waves good-bye before turning toward her house. Not just a normal back-and-forth wave, either. It’s a fingers up and down flirty wave.
    Wow. Who knew a simple wave could be so damn hot?
    “Lake?”
    She glances back at me, the corners of her mouth hinting at a smile. “Yeah?”
    I point to her pajamas. “I really am digging this unwashed, straight-out-of-bed look. Just make sure you brush your teeth before I pick you up tonight, because I’m gonna kiss you.” I wink at her and turn back toward my house before she can respond.
    •••
    “GOOD MORNING, MRS. Alex,” I say, careful not to sound too friendly. I have to watch every word that comes out of my mouth around this woman; she takes it all the wrong way. The inappropriate way. I walk past her desk and into the mailroom, then grab the contents from inside my box. When I exit the mailroom, she’s already rushing toward me.
    “Did you get my note? I left you a sticky note.” She glances down at the stack of papers I’m holding.
    I look at the papers in my hands and shrug. “I don’t know yet. I just checked my box five seconds ago.”
    Mrs. Alex isn’t known for her kind demeanor, except toward me. Her obvious favoritism has become a running joke among the staff. A joke that I’m the butt of. She’s at least twenty years older than me, not to mention married. However, it doesn’t stop her from blatantly displaying her affection, which is why I only come to the mailroom once a week now.
    “Well, I wrote you a message. Your faculty advisor called and needs to