What possessed Cinderella to march up to the palace that evening without a seed of indecision?
Had it been the magical gown and slippers? The golden carriage? The guise of a beautiful, enigmatic stranger? Or had she recognized the fantastical moment for what it was? Had she simply accepted that whatever happened that night would become a distant dream one day—a few hours of carelessness and self-indulgence, free of consequence?
Whatever the case, she'd required a mindset very different from my own.
The house before me had weathered years of habitation and abuse from drunken undergraduates. It was one of the few properties around campus still standing, fated to be torn down for new development or a parking garage.
An ancient monument of sorts.
I approached the castle of chipping mortar, reaching for the doorbell, only to withdraw my hand at the last second. I closed my eyes, the fear stirring to life in the pit of my stomach.
I don't have time for your bullshit, Carl. It's cold out here.
My anxiety protested, but I refused to acknowledge his complaints. Instead, I took a few seconds to wipe my clammy hands on my jeans and straighten my coat.
You've got this, Moe. It's just a date.
I knocked with a shaky exhale.
Easy-peasy.
The door opened a moment later, and Andrew's sky-blue eyes greeted mine. "Mona," he breathed. His voice was low and raspy, as if he'd just woken up from a nap. "Hey."
"Hi." My gaze roamed over his tight blond curls and perfect nose—a true Greek god of a boy. Or, as my friend Baker called him, the illustrious Prince Charming.
He side-hugged me as I stepped into his warm, cannabis-infused abode. I wasn't a stranger to the herb, but the musky scent hit me like a wall. "You look great," he said, flicking his hand across the dark hair brushing my shoulders. "Did you get a haircut?"
Heat stained my cheeks. "Yeah, a couple inches off."
"I like it. You look cute." He took my coat and guided me through the kitchen to the other end of the house.
It was hard to believe I was really here, walking through the home of my campus crush. The home of the boy who'd sat next to me on the first day of lecture, robbing me of my ability to focus. The boy who'd joked with me every morning before class, who'd sketched ridiculous doodles on the margins of his notebook to make me laugh. The boy who'd asked me on a date after our final exam and turned my world right-side up.
For once, I'd sparked the interest of the cutest guy in class—and I had no idea how to cope with the situation.
"My room's this way," he said. "You want a beer or something?"
I peeled my gaze from the living room's deteriorating sofa to his exposed and flawless nape. "I'm okay for now. What are you thinking for dinner?"
"I figured we'd order some pizza. That sound good to you?"
"Pizza always sounds good," I replied, but I had to battle my disappointment. When he'd suggested we grab a bite to eat, I'd imagined a chain restaurant, maybe a bar or something. Now I felt stupid for agonizing over my outfit.
But a casual date was good. Preferable, even. Carl behaved much better in a laid-back environment, and hanging out at Andrew's house would grant us more time to get to know each other without the façade of presentation.
After pushing through a door of peeling paint, we entered Andrew's bedroom, and I spent a few seconds admiring its gold and black décor. Every inch of wall-space was covered in hockey paraphernalia, car posters, and stolen street signs. The carpeting had seen one too many tenants, and Andrew had arranged every piece of furniture to face the giant television screen.
He waited for me at the edge of his bed, and I joined him there after quickly realizing there was no other place to sit.
His warm gaze trailed from my jeans to my blouse, then up to my face again, lingering on the dark freckles spattering my cheeks. "You're really pretty, you know that?"
The compliment gave me wings, and I tucked a stubborn curl behind my ear. "Thanks...so are you."
He chuckled, and his knee bumped mine. "I'm pretty?"
"Maybe." I bumped him back, shooting him a coy smile, and then my gaze abandoned his perfect teeth to roam the brightly decorated space again. "So...what do you like to do when you're not drowning in humanities homework?"
"I dunno. I like watching hockey. And I love to ski. I try to hit the slopes at least twice a week."
"Oh, nice." I wet my lips when he didn't elaborate. "Are you from around here, then?"
"Nah. I grew up in Vegas."
The face I made provoked a quiet snicker.
"It's not as bad as everyone makes it out to be," he insisted. "It's hot as hell in the summer, but there's definitely more night life down there. This place is kind of dead, you know?"
Oh, I knew. Having lived in the sleepy mountain town my whole life, I could identify each of its underwhelming bones with my eyes closed. "Yeah, that's our Biggest Little City for you. The sunsets are pretty amazing, though."
The desert sun plummeting behind the peaks of the Sierra Nevada was a heavenly sight. And witnessing those vibrant colors every evening, the purples and pinks and oranges cast on the hills to our east—like static waves of an alien dune—had inspired me to take up photography as a hobby. And I hadn't put my camera down since.
I waited for him to ask his own questions or reveal something personal about his life down south, but he reached for his phone instead. "I'm gonna order some pizza. Pepperoni good?"
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear Baker's endless rant about processed meats, and I bit back a fond smile. The vegetarian would tear him to shreds for that suggestion, then berate me for agreeing. "That sounds fantastic."
As he called in, I tried to think of a new talking point, searching for something that would provide a lens to his inner world. Family dynamics. Secret passions. Aspirations. Doubts.
Because sure, I knew he was a poli sci major, and the cringey icebreakers conducted in our discussion group had revealed how intelligent, funny, and well-mannered he was. But I wanted to know him. These generic headlines weren't enough to fulfill my need for connection.
A few minutes later, he pocketed his phone and scooted closer. "Should be here in an hour. You wanna watch something while we wait?"
I chewed my lip, not sure how to convey that what I truly desired was the chance to peel him open and explore the unexplored. But maybe that was overkill for a first date. Maybe we'd been talking too much already.
I was totally out of my depth here.
"I...yeah, that works," I said through a feeble smile. "Show me one of your favorites."
Satisfied with my affability, he put on a sitcom, and I settled back against his pillows, fiddling with my hands as fictional dialogue leeched the room of conversation. Sitting here in silence wasn't exactly the date I'd anticipated, and it seemed this alternate setting invited a different kind of interaction altogether.
The intimate kind.
Andrew didn't waste any time eliminating the space between us. He leaned against me, his arm warm against my own, his thigh grazing mine, and my heart climbed up my throat, robbing me of oxygen.
For months, I'd imagined sitting here beside him, brushing shoulders, knocking elbows. I'd dreamed of those flirty eyes on me, taking me in. His smile spreading wide as I walked through the door. And for the first time in my life, that dream had been actualized.
What was I supposed to do with that? What did requited feelings even entail?
How did I proceed?
As my mind tortured itself between laughing tracks, my gorgeous companion yawned and lifted his arms over his head—only to drop his hand down on my left shoulder.
Holy crap!
I didn't think that was a real thing outside romantic comedies, but he definitely just pulled the yawn-and-reach maneuver. And it was cool, too. How in the world had he managed that?
Smiling, I nuzzled into the contact, high on affection, buzzing with nervous energy and excitement. I was hyperaware of every inch we touched—positive the scorching heat would burn my skin and mar me for eternity.
How was this even happening? Whose fantasy had I stumbled into?
Although my eyes were pinned to the television screen, I didn't process a single thing from the episode. All my attention was directed toward the temple pushing against my own and the soft nose prodding at my cheek, begging for attention.
With butterflies in my abdomen, I finally gave in to his gravity, eager to see the look in his eyes, the fondness on his face. But I didn't get the chance.
His lips had already enveloped mine.
Oh.
A thousand sensations spiraled through me. Elation. Confusion. The pressure of his mouth. The taste of peppermint gum. The fingertips digging into my bicep, pulling me closer.
I opened my mouth for a breath, and he instantly slid his tongue inside, assuming I'd granted him access. I withdrew a few inches, shocked by his bold behavior, but he simply chuckled at my reaction. Mistaking my hesitancy for mischief, he bit my lower lip and licked into my mouth upon its gasp—a sign of practice and raw confidence.
My lashes fluttered shut as curiosity drowned out the warnings in the back of my head, the discomfort in my gut.
I was kissing a guy. Really kissing him, outside the context of spin the bottle and truth or dare.
I also had no idea what I was doing, so I let him take the lead, surrendering to his experience. Trying to hush my hyperactive brain and the uneasiness lurking behind every corner.
Andrew kissed me deeply, pressing me back into his pillows, groaning into my mouth. One of his hands dropped to my waist to tease a strip of exposed skin, and I shivered beneath his touch. This was everything I wanted, and at the same time...everything I didn't.
His hand slid further south, and my eyes snapped open.
"Um." I released a tense laugh, politely nudging his hand away. "Let's...not go there tonight."
His lips flattened as he inspected my face. "What do you mean?"
I'd hoped he would catch on a little quicker, but as those blue, vacant eyes stared back at me, I struggled to respond. It was embarrassing to voice my reasons aloud—to even require justification to begin with. "I'm just...not ready. We barely know each other."
He gave a huff of annoyance, dropping his limp hand to my ribcage. "So why are you here, then?"
Why...was I here?
I blinked at him, completely taken aback.
In six words, the boy of chiseled features became a hardened statue, and a long, astonishing beat passed as his sentence poisoned each and every kernel of affection I'd nurtured. I gaped at him, this idiot I'd fantasized about for months, this asshole I'd sat next to every Tuesday and Thursday for the past twelve weeks, and I watched the image in my head shatter against the cruel barbs of reality.
Why was I here?
I shoved him off me. Burned, calloused, used. "Beats me."
"Mona," he complained, immediately regretting the loss of body heat, but I was already up and moving, snatching my purse and coat from his dresser. In my flurry to escape, I accidentally knocked over a bowl from his bedside table, but after watching a sea of condoms flood the carpet, I pretended like I did it on purpose.
Gross.
I turned to face him and his pathetic expression, furious with myself for allowing him to get as far as he had, for ever contributing to the idea that I was seeking casual sex. "By the way, your kissing is atrocious," I told him, and I leaned forward, pointing to my mouth in disdain. "It's a tongue, Andrew, not a plunger. Figure it out."
I spun on my heels, burned and bruised by lofty expectations, and Carl and I stormed out of the house before the clock struck twelve.
I detested my own naivety and idealism. Hope had earned me nothing but disappointment in my life, and still, I refused to learn from my mistakes.
Crushes, or as Baker liked to call them, infatuation traps, were nothing but a curse to the romantic. An evolutionary blunder. A burden to mankind. Because every single time I developed a crush, I fell for someone without truly getting to know him. I built up this idea of him that didn't exist—this perfect prince and a complementary fairytale—all while being too crippled by anxiety to cross a platonic boundary.
Then, once reality slapped me in the face, I'd discover he was already entangled in a relationship, or he was gay, or he was toxic, or he was just another frat boy looking for a hookup, and I'd have to come to terms with the fact that I'd just wasted months fantasizing and daydreaming over a potential movie-screen romance. All for nothing.
And yet, here I was again, repeating the same cycle of optimism and regret.
Desperate to relieve my self-loathing, I drove for Grounds, a small bubble of reprieve in this valley of hell. The old brick building sat at the bottom of campus across the railroad tracks, and most undergrads were oblivious to its existence, so the space attracted loads of studious introverts and tight-knit friend groups. On the outside, it looked like an abandoned church with a broken steeple and boarded windows. But beyond its metal, vault-like door was a haven for outcasts, coffee lovers, and rock enthusiasts.
And most importantly, a place to self-destruct in peace.
I parked Judas—my husk of a car that was entirely ill-equipped for the winter—and trudged through the icy, shoveled snow clumps along the curb. It was unfortunate, really, how beautiful the snow looked the morning after a storm, only to be tramped upon, driven over, and scooped aside like piles of cigarette ash.
Then again, I supposed it was evanescence that made something so pristine.
Inside the shop, the smell of butter rum and coffee beans immediately soothed the frazzled beast within me, and I took a moment to appreciate my surroundings: the leather couches, button-tufted loveseats, and creaky wooden chairs strewn throughout the shop; the brick walls checkered with art pieces, photographs, and famous album covers; a Planar 3 accompanied by stacks of vinyl records in the corner; a bookshelf with a "take one, leave one" sign nailed to the divider; and a fireplace at the rear of the room, the hearth of which attracted a group of quadrupedal regulars.
Honestly, I'd sell my soul to keep this establishment running as long as possible. The homey atmosphere justified any deal with the devil—and the coffee? Absolutely worth sinning for. It might have even rivaled Guatemalan coffee.
Not that I'd ever breathe those words aloud.
I approached the concrete counter and Ground's very own demon barista, Theo, who looked like he was running off three minutes of sleep and a bucket of caffeine. He was a few inches taller than me and as lean as any overworked, underfed college student during finals.
Tonight, he wore his black apron over a gray sweater, and he'd rolled his sleeves up, revealing self-scribbled notes, dates, and reminders on his arms. He also wore a cranberry red beanie—the same one he wore every day—which I assumed served the purpose of hiding a nest of dark, overgrown hair. That, or he was definitely a victim of male pattern baldness. One of the two.
"Theo," I acknowledged. "I'll have a—"
"Stains."
I bristled at the moniker. "You realize that's not my name, right?"
"But it is what you manage to create on the coffee table every time you refuse to use a coaster."
My impatience turned icy. Why was this asshole always working on my bad days?
"I mean, if you restocked the coasters like you're supposed to, that wouldn't be a problem." I placed my reusable cup between us. "As I was saying. I'll have a large vanilla latte, decaf, with—"
"With an extra pump, I know." He spun the iPad around for me to pay. Then he snatched up my cup and walked away without another word.
I huffed and reached over the counter, snatching the tool I needed to stamp my own punch card. The fact that Theo still had a job here was absurd. The barista had no concept of customer service, and he'd only grown more prickly over the last few months, thriving on the irritation he induced.
He must have won management over, though, because he'd been working here as long as I'd attended university—sucking the joy out of the world and feeding on the withered spirits of his patrons.
While Theo prepared my drink, I examined the latest artwork on the wall behind me. The shop always featured pieces submitted by local artists and college students, and the owner swapped out his gallery every month. He typically chose creative, stimulating photographs and acrylic paintings, but for December, the selection was as sad and monotonous as the weather outside.
"Diabetes in a cup!" Theo announced, way too loudly for the calm, quiet ambiance of the café.
The other customers shot us puzzled looks, and I released a wounded sigh as I made my way to the pickup area. "Do you always have to do that?"
He grinned. "Who says I have to?"
Snatching my drink from the countertop, I glared at the sleeve to see what nonsense he'd written for me this time. Theo was famous around here for his coffee cup notes and witty insults. In fact, a lot of customers frequented Grounds solely for their custom roast—sort of like a morbid tarot card reading or a daily misfortune cookie.
If you were the light at the end of the tunnel, I'd turn around, it read.
My gaze lifted to the amused expression on his face. "Thanks."
"My pleasure."
I moved to the sidebar and sprinkled some cinnamon on the meager amount of whip cream the ghoul had gifted me. I could feel his eyes on me over the espresso machine, and I shielded myself behind my curtain of brown hair.
"...Rough night?" he asked.
"Stop fishing for tips."
He tutted. "Believe it or not, I don't want your money. You'll need it to fill all your cavities."
I snorted and spun to look at him. "You monitoring my sugar intake, old man?"
"I don't need to monitor anything when you're drinking syrup."
I rolled my eyes.
Even though Theo acted like a senior citizen, he probably only had two or three years on me. I was pretty sure he just started grad school, but I had no idea what his major was, and quite frankly, I didn't care. So long as he behaved as a senile old man, I'd refer to him as such.
I lifted the hot, glorious drink to my lips—my saving grace—and shuddered as the warmth crawled down my throat and dispersed throughout my tense and frigid body.
Damn.
Theo might have ruled as the fallen angel of campus, but he sure knew how to brew some godly beverages; I'd give him that.
I glanced up at him and his ridiculous beanie, his stupid skater boy hair, the subtle black eyeliner he'd applied, and I felt oddly grateful to have at least one constant in my life: an emotionally unavailable barista who consistently met my lowest of expectations.
I passed him a dutiful head-nod. "Goodnight, Theodore."
He gazed at me for a moment, hazel eyes roaming my face and peering a bit too close for comfort. Then he offered me a small, genuine smile. "Goodnight, Stains."