This Fragile Game

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I was late. Again. For the third time this week. My teacher was going to throw a fit and I wasn’t in the mood to deal with that today. Looking at my phone, I realized that I had opened my alarm app but had forgotten to actually turn it on. Idiot, I thought. I had to forfeit my shower and instead use my dry shampoo and an extra coat of cover up. I combed through my long dark curls, grabbed a hair elastic from my bathroom, threw on the first t-shirt I could find that didn’t look dirty, and ran out the door. I made it all the way to my car before I realized I was wearing my slippers and didn’t have my backpack.

Running back up to my apartment, I kicked off my slippers, quickly changed into a pair of jeans – I had also left the house in my pajama bottoms – and slipped into a pair of Vans. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I walked as quickly as I could to my car, praying I wouldn’t run into my elderly neighbor who insisted on asking me my life plans every time I saw her. Don’t get me wrong; she was the sweetest woman in the building, I just hadn’t figured out how to politely tell her I didn’t have time to do that every morning.

By some miracle, I didn’t hit any traffic on my way to school. The road was eerily empty, so I flew the six miles down the freeway in record time. To make up for my stroke up good luck, I decided to stop for coffee. I knew in my heart that it was a bad idea, but I didn’t care. I was going to treat myself even if it made me later. As I pulled into the drive-thru line, I cursed under my breath. There were eight cars ahead of me. I craned my neck to peer inside the café and noticed that there was no one inside. Worming my way out of line, I pulled into a parking spot.

Internally thanking God that I had put on real pants and shoes, I walked quickly across the parking lot and inside. The girl at the counter, with her stereotypical short, dyed hair and tattoos, looked extremely bored. As I walked up to the counter, she stopped picking at her nails and gave me a fake-but-required grin. My order was simple, but I still felt the need to constantly check my phone to make sure I would be in class semi-on time. The bell on the door jingled behind me but I ignored whoever walked in. I took my coffee and turned to walk away.

A group of four guys had gathered around the counter behind me. Looking like they had just woken up from a restless sleep, one of them stepped up and started ordering in a slow, sleepy voice. Another one, I noticed, was staring at me.

“I like your shirt,” he said.

Because I was in such a rush this morning, I hadn’t noticed what shirt I had thrown over my head. Still walking, I looked down to see my brother’s old Tom Petty tour shirt spread across my chest. I turned around, walking backwards now, and said,

“Thanks!”

I didn’t hear the bell chime again.

I didn’t see the boy walk in with his head down and his eyes half closed.

It was too late. We both looked up just in time for our bodies to collide. My coffee fell from my hands, luckily only spilling on the floor and not us. I sighed heavily and looked up to see the asshole that ran me over. Only something clicked when our eyes met. Those deep, soulful eyes.

I know him, I thought. But how? I had only been back in Arizona for a year, how could I know him? He looked close to my age; my mind was racing trying to figure out why he looked so familiar. I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I blinked and realized that I was still sitting on the coffee shop floor. I reached to grab my now-empty cup, but the boy’s hand reached it first. He offered me his other hand and we stood up together. We both opened our mouths to say something and closed them at the same time.

“I’m so sorry,” he stammered while I whispered, “Do I know you?”

We both chuckled and my phone vibrated in my hand. Shit. Again. I was even more late than I thought I was. I muttered a quick, “Don’t mention it,” and slipped out the door before he could say anything else. I sped the last half mile to my school, parked in the first spot I could find, and then ran across the campus to my class. The door was closed, which meant that I was officially “late” by my professor’s standards. I tried to open and close the door as quickly and quietly as I could. I swept along the back row of seats and sat down next to my best friend. My professor’s back was turned to us while he wrote our assignment on the bored. I hoped he would just assume that I was there the whole time and not mark me late.

“Nice of you to join us, Mikayla,” he said without turning around.

I was wrong.

“Sorry, sir.”

My friend elbowed my hard in the ribs and I took out a piece of paper to write to her about my hectic morning. I left out the part about running into the boy in the coffee shop. I still didn’t know why he looked familiar and I wasn’t in the mood to explain it all to her right now. But I couldn’t focus on the problems on the bored. All I could think about were those eyes, staring at me, and the soft calloused hand that helped me up. I wish I had stayed and talked to him. My day would have been far more productive than just sitting in class staring off into space thinking about him.