I glance down at the “slop” in my hands. Two foil-wrapped burgers, no pickles, no onions, no anything. I’m a bit offended he’s calling this garbage when it’s the only option I have for food on campus.

“Well aren’t you special,” I goad, shooting him another eye roll, this one heavy and almost causing me to get lightheaded. Wow. Better watch that, or my eyes are going to get stuck in the back of my head. “Where is this mythical, magical place where they feed the lucky few who get to graze there?”

“Back of the stadium.”

Wait—is he serious? They really have a special place where they feed the student athletes?

“For real?”

He spares me no glances as he takes the little bit of change he’s offered by the cashier. The girl is gawking at him, wide-eyed and slightly spellbound.

Ugh, gross.

“Yeah, for real.”

“What’s up there?”

He holds a hand out for a burger now that he’s paid. I slap one in his palm, secretly hoping it gets squished a little bit.

“I don’t know…stuff. Food.”

“Be specific.” If he’s going to throw down about this cafeteria being total crap, he better give details.

“Salad bar. Seafood. Pasta bar. Lean chicken and steak.”

He tears into the silver wrapper of the burger he just grabbed from my hands, shoving one end into his mouth, biting down and chewing.

“Seafood?” What the hell! “For real?”

“Yeah.”

When he says yeah, it comes out as yee-a-ya—three syllables—and there go those flutters in my stomach, despite him being a complete brute.

He’s tall—at least six foot three—with wide shoulders, a broad back… I let my eyes wander down his torso as he gnaws on his food, down his flat stomach and thick inner thighs. He’s wearing mesh athletic pants, so it’s easy to make out the shape of his legs. Toned. Strong. Thick.

Did I say that already?

Crap.

His t-shirt is too tight and ill-fitting. A bit too short for how tall he is, but it doesn’t look like he gives a shit about his appearance. Not one little bit.

His hair is a bit shaggy, pulled back in an elastic, strands escaping around his face. His five-o’clock shadow game is strong.

He needs a good shave.

But…

That’s none of my business.

I’m not looking for a boyfriend, and if I were, it wouldn’t be a guy like this—arrogant and offensive with no regard for anyone.

All right, that’s somewhat of a lie; I would actually love a boyfriend. Like, I wouldn’t be mad about it if I found one; I just haven’t met anyone who felt like ‘the one.’ Or one who felt like Mr. Right Now—he hasn’t found me, either. I’m even willing to do something casual with the right person until someone special comes sauntering my way, preferably in a clean shirt and with a shaved face.

I sniff, unwrapping my own sandwich. Wondering for a second why I’m always so picky. Why can’t I just have fun and flirt with the first guy who comes along?

I’ve been single for two years. My boyfriend from freshman year lost interest when he joined a fraternity and found interest in the sister sorority they partied with every weekend.

Whatever. I don’t need a guy like that in my life anyway. When you love someone, your eyes don’t roam—that’s the kind of love I’m looking for. That’s the kind of love I deserve.

So, for now, I’m single.

I glance around the cafeteria at the guys scattered throughout the room, seated at tables or leaning against the walls, talking, oblivious to the looming grouch next to me.

“You’re welcome,” he grunts, sliding his wallet into the pocket of his mesh pants.

“Do I say thanks to the guy who stole my food?” I wonder out loud, taking a bite of my burger.

“No, you say thanks to the man who paid for it.”

The may-an who paid foor it.

“Do I though?” My musing is thoughtful. “If it’s by default because you stole the first round?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” I chew. “I’m conflicted about the protocol on that.” Walk toward the double doors, toward the exit, leaving him to trail behind me. Push through when I reach them and walk out into the quad.

The sun hits my face and I look up, basking in it as I eat my free lunch.

“I ain’t walkin’ away until you use your manners and say thank you.”

Thank yew.

God, it’s kind of adorable.

“’Kay,” I say. “Bye.”

I leave him standing there staring after me and wonder if he’s going to follow. Glance back over my shoulder to see him trailing along, stubborn as I am and not willing to let it go now that we’ve both dug our heels in.

I turn toward the English building.

“Where’re your manners?”

“I ain’t got none,” I say, mimicking his accent and poor grammar. “Where are yours? You took food from me without even asking, ate it without paying, then complained about the facility where I have to eat lunch serving slop.”

“It is slop.”

“Well la-ti-da, you eat shrimp scampi for lunch and I have to eat hot dogs.”

“Shrimp scampi has too much butter. They’d never serve that.”

How did I not just roll my eyes at that comment? I miraculously restrain myself and pick up my pace, shooting a look down at my watch, searching for the time.

Shit.

Five minutes to get to class and get my ass into a seat. Bickering with this dude isn’t going to get me anywhere but locked out by the professor or TA, who are both pompous windbags. They thoroughly enjoy locking tardy students out of the lecture hall.

I hike my backpack up, scarf down the remainder of my burger, and toss the wrapper in a nearby trash can. He does the same.

“I’m super glad you’re so special. Enjoy the lobster for your next superior meal,” I sass him.

His sneakers stop on the concrete sidewalk. Then his voice shouts toward my retreating back.

“Are you mockin’ me?”

Mockin’.

“Yes!” I shout, turning to walk backward so I can laugh directly to his face and tossing my arms up for extra measure. “Yes I am mocking you!”

It takes everything I have not to throw him the middle finger.

Third Friday

Charlie

I slam my car into park, impervious to the fact that I’m in the middle of a busy road in the heart of campus, that fact probably giving me the courage to shove open my driver’s side door and step out into the warm air.

It’s late—almost eleven o’clock—but still the perfect temperature for the tank top and jean shorts I’m sporting. Hair down and in wild waves, my sneakers hit the pavement.

Without thinking, I stalk toward the truck, arms flying into the air.

“Open your damn window, asshole!” I rage, so incensed I’m not one bit afraid of whoever is sitting behind the wheel of this honking truck. “What the hell is your problem? Are you purposely trying to blind me?”

The driver does as he’s told; the window on his side starts to lower little by little, revealing the guy perched behind the wheel.