Tamina

My breath catches. Only this time, I'm too slow to cover it up.

A lump begins to form in the back of my throat as my palms start to grow clammy. At this point in time, I would rather be anywhere except here with the proposal of a date—if it's a date.

Surely it's not. That can't be how it works, right? In the real world, you get to know them, then put the feels out. Not. . . this.

"I-I can't, I'm working, sorry," I stammer.

But what if I'm getting this all wrong? I'm going to make myself look like a fool.

Then there's the niggling question that resurfaces: What if I'm not?

My heart hammers as silence hangs between us, and I lose the ability to breathe.

As if sensing my discomfort, Brandon clears his throat before adding almost hastily, "As acquaintances, of course."

Brushing off the mortification of my error, I suck in a needed lungful of air. My pulse starts to settle into a slow patter. Weighing the options, I raise my chin and peer up at him..

Grabbing a drink won't be the worst thing to do—and he admitted it was only as acquaintances.

Maybe having something other than casual 'hellos' and 'how do you do?' won't be so bad.

What could go wrong?

Wringing my hands together, I kick at a loose granule of concrete. "I-I wasn't being rude, I seriously have work tomorrow," I murmur, avoiding eye contact this time. "Maybe I'll see you around Brooks and Books sometime?"

My face burns at the useless attempt to salvage the conversation, and this time, there's nowhere for me to hide. It only worsens when his brows crease. It takes a great amount of strength to remain still.

"Take my contact details." He inclines his head toward my backpack, his hood sliding down to meet the rim of his shades. "That way, if you change your mind, you can contact me. If you don't, there's no harm done, and I won't be able to get hold of you."

I can see the logic behind his reasoning. The point is obvious and clear, as if negotiating is part of his everyday lifestyle. It works perfectly for the both of us. I can please him now, and if I don't go through with it, there are no hard feelings.

However, he's being surprisingly calm considering the determination behind his actions. The calm and polite demeanour doesn't slip, and the notion that his number practically dangles in front of me weighs in.

Fiddling with my straps, my fingers pause over the fabric. Gripping them tighter, I tug just a little, but I hesitate. I'm curious to see what could be hiding in his eyes, to see what they reveal. Then, I slide them down my arms until my backpack hangs by my fingertips.

Unzipping the seam, I retrieve the device, open up my contacts, and give it a little wiggle in his direction.

Other than the few names with the word 'work' bracketed beside them, there's no one else in there other than my parents. Seeing another name without the title is going to be strange.

With a grateful tilt of the head, Brandon liberates me of my phone. His fingers fly across the screen in a matter of seconds.

"Don't feel bad," he begins, extending the device toward me, "if you don't reach out."

All I can do is nod as I read the name that now sits above the number. Brandon. Short and simple.

Dropping it into the depths of my bag, I seal it up and hoist it onto my shoulders for the last time.

"I'll think about it, I promise." Itching the inside of my wrist with a sheepish grin, I murmur, "I owe you that after you bought me a book."

Brandon chuckles, hitching his hood further up his head. "Thank you, have a good evening, Miss—"

He stops when I give him a playful lift of my brow.
"—Tamina," he finishes with a quirk to his mouth, one that seems more natural than the last time.

"And you, Brandon," I return, smiling myself.

With that, we split ways. He doesn't come after me, he doesn't call my name; I'm left to walk down the street. I don't look back to see if he's already taking his path or watching me leave.

In the past hour and a bit since leaving my house, I'm still racking my brain for how my luck managed to do a U-turn from being caught unprepared by the rain to making an acquaintance. I'm not going to complain.

With the recollection of what's been accomplished today, there's a small skip to my step. That is, until I skid to a stop in front of a large pane of glass. My hair is a darker shade and in dire need of a brush. My baggy shirt clings to my shoulders, and the grey of my jogging bottoms is now a sooty tone because of the sprinkles.

Out of the question if tomorrow happens.

It will have to be leggings or jeans, and a nice top to go with it. Either way, the hope of the weather coordinating with it is all that matters.

Again, if tomorrow happens.

On another note, it would have to be nice—but not too nice because a misunderstanding is the last thing I want on my list.

And again, if I go.

Tearing my eyes from my reflection, I force my legs into moving again. That's something to worry about tomorrow; for now, my main priority is what I'm going to make for dinner when I'm home.

Securing the front door behind me, I trudge through the hallway to the sitting room. The bag slides off my shoulders and hits the floor with a thump beside the coffee table. Kicking off my shoes, I turn for the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time as I brush the creamy walls with fondness.

We've been through a lot, you and I, but I think it's time for us to have a new start.

I'm not sure how else I can convince mum and dad I'm fine other than to redecorate. It's another task, but seeing the worry slip from their expressions every time they see me will be worth it. I can show them I'm moving forward.

Once I'm inside the bedroom, peace washes over me at the mere sight of the pale lavender walls. I release a breath in the centre of the room. Smiling, I snatch my pyjamas from the end of the bed before waddling down the hall into the bathroom for a quick bathe and a change of clothes.

When I'm out, I feel refreshed and ready to face the evening.

Taking the steps more slowly this time, I rub my stomach to silence the growls of appreciation it makes at the thought of being stuffed with food. Eyeing the cupboards and the fridge, my mind goes blank.

Deciding something small and light will be best, I whizz around the small room. The linoleum cools the soles of my feet, and I come to a skidding halt in front of the fridge.

Collecting the half-used bag of egg noodles, I dump them in a bowl and whack them in the microwave. While they heat up, I throw in a teaspoon of sugar, milk, and a tea bag in my cup while the kettle boils.

In between the harmony of the whirring microwave and the rumble of the kettle, I drain open a can of tuna and sweetcorn. The microwave is the first to come to a standstill, and the bowl is warm to the touch.

Mixing in the ingredients, I top it off with the fork. Switching both utensils off at the switch, I pour the water into my cup, give the steamy goodness a good stir, and take everything through to the sitting room.

Slumping into the crook of the sofa, I set my cup down on the coaster perched on the edge of the coffee table. With a comforted sigh, I lean back and turn the television on. Flicking through the channels, I leave it on a wildlife documentary before turning my concentration to the meal patiently waiting in my lap.

Regret sinks in after the first bite pulls a garbled sound from my stomach, knowing skipping lunch was a ridiculous idea.

By the time the first break hits the screen, every morsel in the bowl disappears. The cup of tea hits the spot, and I can easily say it's a job well done

Discarding them on the table, I lazily fish through the backpack until my fingers scrape the edge of the book. With a tired grin, I pull it out and kick my feet up. The softness of the sofa acts as a pillow for my head as I snuggle closer into the nook, my new purchase staring up at me.

The cover still draws me in with the light colour scheme of the flowers; the shadows only help in making the petals pop. The print urges me to crack it open even more. Mum's words float through my mind as I hover between opening fully and keeping it closed.

Covers are a beautiful comfort, but it's not the reflection.

Tracing the pads of my fingers against the smoothness of the front, I finally commit.

A smile forms at the sight of the dedication, a page to welcome those who are ready to join the adventure. As nice as they are to read, it's the next page I'm excited to look at.

"Alright, let's see.. . chapter one."