Bared Souls

Two

TWO

AlmaIt’s a hot August day with extra humidity, like most typical Michigan summer days. Growing up here, I’ve come to realize that residents must stay for the autumn and spring. The winters are long and frigid, and the summers are so muggy that one’s lips sweat.

Trucks with sofas and boxes are parked in front of the dorms. Parents are all around, wistfully aiding their child with move-in day. We pass a father lugging a large chair, who looks unimpressed. His scowl and sweat-soaked face give the impression that he’d be willing to sign his child out of his life for some air-conditioning. Right past him is a mother hugging her daughter tight; tears are falling down her cheeks as the daughter tries to pry herself free.

I look up to Amos, and he simply grabs my pinkie with his. We stay this way until we reach the restaurant.

The mom-and-pop Italian restaurant, Giovanni’s, is fairly empty, as it’s still a little before the dinner rush. There are plastic green vines with plump, shiny grapes draping the walls around the restaurant. The fake foliage circling the hostess area carries a layer of dust, which, I’m going to be honest, freaks me out. Hopefully, the kitchen cleaning crew is more competent than the dining room cleaners.

“Three, please,” Quinn tells the hostess, who proceeds to seat us right away.

I open up my menu to read as Quinn tells us, “So, I ordered the focaccia bread in the appetizer section. It came with fresh basil and tomato and melted mozzarella. It was to die for, and I’m really craving it again, but I also want to try something new, you know?”

“The mushroom risotto sounds good too,” I point out.

“It all sounds good. That’s the problem,” Quinn adds.

The waitress takes our order, and Quinn opts to try something new. Before the waitress walks away, Amos adds the focaccia bread appetizer for the table.

“Aren’t you the sweetest?” Quinn gives Amos a flirty look, which had I not told her that he and I were only friends earlier would have been a bit of a betrayal.

I haven’t known my new roommate for long, but I’m usually a pretty good judge of character. I’d say Amos would be lucky to date her. She seems so sweet.

What if my bestie and college roommate got married?

Perhaps I’m jumping the g*n a bit.

“So, what are you planning on studying, Alma?” Quinn asks.

“Teaching. Probably elementary ed.”

She nods in approval. “Well, Eastern is a great school for teachers. What about you, Amos?”

“I’m going to apply to the College of Business after I get my prerequisites finished,” he answers.

“Oh, nice. Yeah, U of M has one of the best business programs in the country. My grandpa went there years ago, so we hear about his alma mater all the time,” she muses with a warm expression.

“What about you?” Amos inquires before taking a sip of his iced tea.

“I don’t know, honestly. I figure I have two years to get the basics done, and hopefully, I’ll have decided by then.” She shrugs.

“Oh, tons of students do that. You have time,” I add.

“So, you two have been best friends since you were young?” Quinn asks.

I glance toward Amos and smile.

“Yeah, my dad’s grandparents left us their house when they passed. I was seven. We moved in next to Amos and his parents,” I say.

Amos looks to me. “The first time I met Alma, I was riding my bike up and down the sidewalk past our houses the summer before second grade. There was this barefoot girl with long, wild hair just sitting in her front yard, making mud pies, and her mother was belting out a ballad in Spanish. Her voice could be heard all the way down the street.” He chuckles at the memory.

I nod. “Yeah, she was singing along with her favorite Mexican band, Maná,” I offer that detail as if Quinn would know who Maná is. I’m betting she doesn’t.

Amos continues, “So, I stopped my bike in front of her. She had mud up her arms and smeared across her cheek. I asked her where she was from, and she told me she was a little bit of this and that and was from all over. She said she was a mutt. I found that so cool because my dad would say the same thing about our dog at the time. Her name was actually Lacy, but we called her Mutt. I thought it was a term of endearment, so I started calling Alma here Mutt too.”

“Oh my gosh, that’s so cute!” Quinn says.

“He did. For most of our childhood, I answered to that name. He sat down cross-legged in front of me and started building a mud hut of some sort. It was cute. We talked, and then he blurted out that his mom named him after the cookie she was eating when she went into labor. So, I called him Cookie.”

“Mutt and Cookie? You two must have been quite the pair.” Quinn giggles.

“We were.” I nod. “We’ve done everything together since then. Neither of us is close with our parents, and we are only children. So, he is my family.”

“I think that is so sweet. I love it.” Quinn clasps her hands together.

The conversation continues. We learn about Quinn’s large family from Northern Michigan. Her parents have five children, all girls. Quinn is right in the middle. She tells us what she’s heard about campus life. She wants to pledge a sorority this coming fall.

“We should do it together! It would be so much fun,” she tells me.

I try not to grimace. “I don’t think sorority life is my jam,” I say.

“Why?” She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m more of a stay home and study kind of girl, I guess.”

“There are smart girls in sororities. From what I hear, each one is known for something different. There is the studious sorority, the slutty one, the party one, the nice-girl one … you know.”

“Why would anyone join any of them but the smart and nice one?” I chuckle with a shake of my head.

Quinn waves her hand. “I mean, how much of that can we believe? It’s just the stereotypes of each one. I bet they’re all great.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.” I opt to give her hope instead of shutting her down immediately, but I just can’t see myself in a sorority.

I excuse myself to use the restroom. As I enter the restaurant’s waiting area, I pull my cell phone out of the back pocket of my jean shorts. There are no missed calls or texts. I’m not surprised, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish my parents would care a little more than they do. A simple Hope you got settled in at school text would’ve sufficed.

I gasp in surprise as I bump right into someone. An apology leaves my mouth as I lift my eyes from my phone.

“I’m so sorry.” I look up to see an angry scowl and take a step back. “I’m sorry. I was … I’m sorry,” I repeat like an i***t.

“Yeah, you should probably look where you’re walking. It helps.” His voice is clipped.

I shake my head and step around him before speed-walking to the restroom.

“What a jerk,” I grumble as the restroom door swings behind me. A hot-as-hell one, but a prick nonetheless.

Why are all the beautiful ones such assholes? No, that’s not true. Amos is beautiful.

I only saw him for a second, but his appearance had such an effect on me that the mental picture in my mind is crystal clear. Disheveled chestnut-brown hair, striking blue eyes, a strong jaw, and full lips, and so tall. Though, with my height at five feet two inches, most men are tall next to me.

Pulling in a breath, I clear the thoughts of the guy next to the hostess stand.

I mean, I said I was sorry.

After washing my hands, I head back toward our table.

The dude is gone, and Amos and Quinn are standing in the lobby area, chatting.

“What about the check?” I inquire.

“Amos paid for the bill before I knew it. I tried to give him money for my meal, but he wouldn’t take it,” Quinn says.

I squint my eyes and smirk in Amos’s direction. “Yeah, he has a way of doing that.”

“It was my treat. It’s not a big deal. You ready?” he asks me.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Amos has been taking care of me my whole life. Someday, I hope to repay him for all he’s done. As we walk back to the dorm, a shadow of loneliness invades my heart. I’m not ready for him to leave. Twenty minutes away is nothing, but it’s farther than he’s ever been. I don’t know if I’m ready to be without him.