Fullepub 
8. OLIVIA
CHAPTER 8
OLIVIA
I t's Monday morning of the new semester. I'm sitting in the classroom for my first lecture, the Spanish I elective. The front seat is for whoever loves to spend the entire lecture being asked questions, and ironically so is the very back. So I sit around the middle close to one of the doors, where it takes too much effort for lecturers to turn their heads to.
Here I won't get called out for not paying attention. Resting my elbows against the table, I rub my temples to try to subdue the headache courtesy of little sleep. Another consequence of not being able to stop thinking about that kiss.
The thing is that in all the years of having an unrequited crush on my best friend— former best friend, dang it—I never imagined that kissing him would be so… explosive. Spectacular. Fireworks are a puny comparison.
The whole thing lasted, I don't know, maybe ten minutes, and yet my body never flared to life anywhere near as much with my ex. Not even when we were getting frisky. Something was always missing.
I always knew Brooke would have it, whatever it is, if only on account of my gargantuan crush on him. And even now that I'm no longer pining for him, I wasn't prepared for the wave of sensations he'd crash over me. With his mouth alone. There was very little hand action going and it was almost enough to make me see stars.
Can't imagine what it'd be like if he kissed me with actual feelings. I'd self combust.
Yet, I know that whole episode was a glitch in the matrix. Something about that night was the perfect storm, and I don't mean just because of the rain. I was riding a high on kombucha and anger at boys that made me say, screw it .
And he—honestly, I don't know what his deal was. I think he's just become the player he wanted to be at college, and I've become just another girl in a crowd of mostly puck bunnies vying for his attention.
I can never face him again. Even if I wanted to.
On the plus side, I won the bet. Which means every ingredient of my gluten-free lunch sandwich was sponsored by my roommates. Small consolation.
Shaking my head, I unzip my backpack, take out my laptop and a few other essentials for notes. I may have chosen this elective in the hopes that it's an easy way to fulfill my semester credits, but I'm still going to work hard. And hopefully it'll distract me from only the most amazing kiss I've ever had in my life, out of all four of the guys I've ever made out with so far.
"Stop." I hiss to myself as I boot up my laptop.
A murmur rises among the students already in the classroom. I glance around, noting that most people have their attention fixed on the back of the room rather than up front, where we expect the lecturer to appear. I turn.
"No," I whisper, my eyes widening.
One Brooklyn Tatum walks down the steps in the middle of the classroom, those deep-set, bright eyes of his on me. There are flutters in my chest and chills rush through my skin. They're both warm and cold, which I know makes no sense.
But neither does he. Neither does this . He's never come to any of my classes. Why now?
My confusion skyrockets as he takes the seat right beside me. I'm reminded yet again of the sheer size of him, because the space should be enough for two people to sit comfortably without touching, but he needs to spread his legs open pretty wide to even fit on the seat. Which makes his thigh push against mine.
With the discretion of a bull in a china shop, I slide my things one spot away and move over.
"What the heck are you doing here?" I ask in a low voice, checking our surroundings for eavesdroppers. And yep, there are lots of them.
Brooke turns to me with a calm expression that I know very well. The twinkle in his eyes and the slight arch of his lips tell me he's holding back laughter. "I have class."
"What do you mean you?—"
Someone clears their throat. Couldn't tell who, but they save me from making a fool of myself because when I face forward, the lecturer's here. And he's giving me a look like he's been here for a while.
Sliding lower on my seat, I give the true disruptor a flaming side eye. He's the picture of a diligent student, though, taking out his laptop and intently focusing forward like he's getting paid to do it.
I harrumph softly. Not even ten seconds into starting to pay attention, I get an email notification on the screen of my laptop. I know it's from the annoying blimbo without even looking. And then he pokes my side with his finger. I swat it away and give him another patented Olivia glare. He mimics a gesture he's seen in my family plenty of times and points at my laptop with his lips. The same lips that ate mine two days ago .
I click on my mousepad much harder than I should as I pull open his damn email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hey bestie
Aceituna,
To answer your question, I'm taking this elective too.
Best,
Your bestie
I seriously have bad taste. What possessed me to ever fall for a little pest like this?
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Hey Bestie
WHY???
P.S. You are NOT my bestie.
P.P.S. Stop calling me Aceituna. I am not food.
Brooklyn takes a hot second to read my short missive and slowly turns to cock an eyebrow at me. His eyes lower to my lips, and the traitors part with a gasp. His stretch into a little smirk, and then he's typing another response.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Hey bestie
Oliva,
Because we made a promise in freshman year and I'm a man of my word. And I think you are too, otherwise you wouldn't have signed up either.
P.S. We'll see about that .
P.P.S. Kindly disagree, you are delicious.
Heat explodes in my skin when I read his latest response and I cast my face down. At this second, I regret chopping my hair off so short because I'm not sure it hides the full extent of the blood rushing up my neck.
He chuckles through his nose softly. I wish nothing more than to sock him a good one.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Hey Bestie
Body odor,
I am not a man of my word. I am a woman seeking an easy class to reduce my stress levels, which you are increasing right now.
Bye.
I'm not even going to deign his postscripts with a response. They're contradictory. In the first one, he's threatening with what, becoming my bestie again? In the second one, he's outright flirting.
Except Brooklyn never flirts with me, and if he wants to start doing that now because of that kiss, I'm gonna shut that shit down ASAP. Kissing him would've been a dream years ago—and on a physical level, it still is—yet it happened not because he wanted to, but because I appealed to his competitiveness.
That's basically the same as a pity kiss, which is why I never dared to pull that move on him when we were friends. Only that this time I settled for one because a body can only hold curiosity for so long, and we're strangers now.
So he's confused, that's all. The contradicting postscripts tell me as much. And being fresh off a breakup, I'm not interested in getting my heart toyed with again. Ever .
More emails from him pop up on my laptop, but if a trait defines me it is stubbornness. Right now, I exercise it by hyper-focusing on the lecture and taking the most comprehensive notes. Someone give me the model student award, please.
This time blondie pokes my thigh right through a hole in my ripped jeans.
I sweep a glare at him. If all the people who salivate over him had any idea how freaking annoying he is, they'd stop pining for him too.
Or they'd see him like the imperfect but cute little soul that he is, living in the body of a giant—and love him even more. Like I used to. But that's beside the point.
"What?" I mouth at him without making a sound. He motions at my laptop again.
Huffing, I check my inbox. There are four new emails and I click on the last one to view the thread.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hey bestie
Or I could make you laugh. I used to be really good at it. Bet I still am. Are your sides still ticklish?
Can I help with that? I give a mean deep tissue massage.
Y U stressed fren?
Pardon me, I didn't intend to be casually sexist. You are indeed a woman, obvi.
This just makes me want to cry. And scream.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hey bestie
If you keep distracting me I'll bill you for the class credits.
BYE!!! !
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hey bestie
Do you take PayPal? Venmo? Zelle? CashApp? Good ol' cash?
Listen, I'm just happy you're responding. Is all.
I bite my lip hard. My vision swims and I know if I move a single inch, I'm going to start bawling in the middle of this classroom right next to the last person I want to see me having a breakdown.
My fingers fly across the keyboard at lightning speed with another response, class be damned.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hey bestie
Why are you acting like this is some great breakthrough? You could've emailed me any time.
Now he's the one typing up with enough intensity to draw attention from other students. I pretend like I'm concentrating on the lecture, but the hammering in my eardrums doesn't let me catch a single word the lecturer says.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hey bestie
You told me to disappear from your life forever . Blocked my number. Unfollowed me on social media. The only reason you didn't block my email was because the school system won't allow it. But I got the hint and I didn't want to make you even more pissed off at me. So can we please finally drop it ?
When the email finally comes, I read and re-read it several times. This time, it's as if a block of ice descends to my stomach. Cold expanding all over my body until my fingers are so stiff, I can't even type again.
And then Brooke sends another email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hey bestie
And by it I mean the fight. Not this email thread. Unless you want to move on to text (unblock me plis).
I lift my eyes from the laptop and turn.
Brooke's sitting closer to me, half leaning on the desk and propped up by his hand. There's no trace of humor in his expression. If anything, this is his game face. The one he has when he's dead serious about destroying the opposing team's morale with his plays. His eyes bore into mine like he's trying to dig up all my secrets.
And then he delivers the killer blow by whispering a single word.
"Please."
I wouldn't consider myself weak, but the little wrinkle between his eyebrows, the downturned curve of his lips, the strand of golden hair falling on his forehead, the almost imperceptible dip of the dimple in his chin… it's lethal. And I cave.
