An Extra Pump of Sugar

Chapter 5

When the clock struck twelve, we watched the fireworks together, clinking glasses and toasting to a new year. We'd made small talk for a bit, discussing rent and other mindless things to fill the silence. And now, at one in the morning, we sat on opposite ends of his couch, sipping our respective drinks while we listened to Theo's music.

The break in conversation was enjoyable—comforting, even. But my curiosity was building up, and it took every ounce of concentration to keep my questions from tumbling off the ridge of my loose, tipsy tongue.

"What's going on in that head?" he prompted after a moment, regarding me with cautious fascination. "You look like you have a thousand different ideas in your brain, all fighting for the spotlight."

I blinked at him, and it took me a couple seconds to string a proper response together. I wasn't sure any man had ever asked me to share my mind. "Right now, I'm thinking about your major," I admitted, lifting my knees to my chest. "What made you choose pharmacology?"

He tilted his chin to the side in a contemplative fashion. Then he peeled back the hem of his shirt to reveal a black line running from his hip to his upper ribcage. A silver cancer ribbon wove around the bar—wispy and elegant—and my heart sank to the floor.

There were only two reasons someone would have a tattoo like that: beating the disease or honoring someone who hadn't.

"I'd intended on going into music theory. Become a teacher like my mom, play some gigs on the side. But after she died, it just felt...wrong?" He lowered his shirt, rapping his fingertips across the spine of the couch. "I just knew I was meant for something different. Something outside my comfort zone. And I've always had a knack for chemistry, so..." He shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. "Sometimes it feels like this path chose me. Not the other way around."

I didn't know what to say. An apology and belated condolences felt insincere, so I just stuck with solemn silence.

"What about you?" he asked. He shot me a closed-lipped smile as a means of diminishing the awkwardness. "What kind of major warrants all that caffeine?"

I took a long sip of rum, feeling like my life choices were shallow and pathetic in comparison. How did I follow up a cancer story without sounding entitled and ungrateful?

"Honestly...I'm not sure what I'm doing. I'm studying psychology, mostly because picking apart the human brain comes naturally to me, and I enjoy it," I said. "It's just...it's not like it's my dream or my passion or anything."

If I was being perfectly honest, I wasn't sure I had one.

"Dreaming's a luxury," he dismissed, as if my indecision was no big deal, as if it were normal to be an aimless junior in college. It wasn't the judgmental response I'd expected, and it was becoming quite clear to me that I didn't know the barista as well as I'd thought. He'd clawed apart every box I'd attempted to place him in.

My posture relaxed a bit. "...How are you feeling?"

"Physically or mentally?"

"Both."

He furrowed his brow. "I'm definitely sobering up. And I'm feeling less angry. But anger was easier than what I'm feeling now."

"What are you feeling now?"

"...Gutted."

I bit my lip to keep the psychoanalysis piece of me where it belonged—inside.

He sensed my restraint. "You're not going to ask?"

"Do you want me to ask?" Baker hated it when I prodded at her emotional state or provided an unsolicited analysis, so I'd learned to bury my two cents.