hung out with half a dozen girls who are far more memorable than me in the last hour. I slip my hand into his giant paw.
“Cubs fan, right?” he asks.
Clearly the odds are not in my favor.
“Sorry, sorry!” He laughs at my reaction, dropping my hand and putting his hands up, like don’t shoot. Very funny.
I’m about to open my mouth for a good retort when a voice booms through the room. “C’mon, guys, give Taylor your attention!”
The bellow comes from another giant with a baseball hat standing in front of the windows, remarkably similar to my boy. Not mine. The one beside me. The one who’s thankfully turned to listen dutifully to the small girl with thick black hair at the front of the room.
“Thanks, Mike,” she says, a lilt in her voice. She smiles and it’s genuine, one of those grins that you can’t help but want to mirror. “I’m Taylor and I’m the head RA for Ballentine. The loud guy behind me is Mike, and on either side of him are Yosh and Amiel. On my other side are Kristy, Ava, and Priya. Boys for the boy floors, girls for the girls . . .”
She laughs and everyone laughs along. Apparently we’re that kind of crowd. But given that I’m doing it too, I’m not judging. Especially since I have these fluttery feelings inside me listening to baseball-cap boy beside me guffaw. Sorry. Zeke. Zeke Martin.
Zeke Martin, who is either from Chicago or is an avid sports fan. Either way, 100 percent not my type. Chucks or not.
“So, we’re going to do a little icebreaker here. Turn to the person beside you, and I want you to find as many things in common with them as you can. The pair with the most in common wins a prize.”
I look to my right but the girl next to me now has her back to my legs, and she’s giggling at a short guy with a purple fauxhawk. Maybe when I shift left, Zeke will already be talking to the person on his other side.
“Nah, I’m going to do it with Abby,” I hear, followed by a female sigh.
Now I have to turn around.
He’s grinning. Front tooth chipped. Twinkling eyes behind fake Clark Kent glasses. “So, tell me all about yourself,” he starts, his body leaning into mine.
It’s at that moment that I realize that despite my rudeness, despite my glare at his Cubs reference, he’s flirting with me.
And while I want to stop time and do a freaking cartwheel because it’s not like this happens to me all the time, I have to remember that he’s an athlete.
He’s an athlete just like Eddie and Ryan and even my seventh-grade short-lived romance with Ben Miller. Apparently I only date people who dream of playing professional ball.
Dated, not date. Because that’s behind me; I’m not going down that road again. Even for a boy who wears perfect Chucks. I’m looking for loner artists with Prince Valiant hair. The ones who will write me poetry. The guy who will weep when we finally make love because it’s just too much.
I have it all planned out.
I take a deep breath and paste a fake smile on my face, and begin Operation Not Interested/Operation Don’t Be Interested in Me.
“Any chance you would rather eat slimy bologna than watch a game of baseball?” I ask, and the grin on his face dims.
“Uh . . . no. I like baseball,” he says, the words coming out like he’s struggling to understand exactly what he’s being asked. And I’m actually disappointed by the frown that takes residence on his forehead. So sorry, frown lines, but I need this.
“Then we don’t have the most important thing in common.” I shrug.
His face falls, either in disappointment or confusion as to why I’d lead with what we don’t have in common.
“We probably have something in common. . . .”
“Where are you from?” I’m giving him a smile that is so plastic I’m a little worried it will stick like this. I’ll give him Chicago, we’ll play a little geography, and I can move on.
“San Diego.”
Apparently not.
“I’m from Chicago. Across the country. I’m sure I’m closer to Alaska than I am to you.”
I’m doing a great job of finding all the things we don’t have in common. Our team might not win the dorm game but hopefully I’ll win the game I’ve created.
“Okay. Well, we both have four letters in our names. Unless you’re Abby with an i-e at the