Love Rewritten Read online

  “Should be. I’ll call you when I’m done.” I take a step and give her a hug, which she immediately returns.

  “Sounds good,” she says as she pulls back, her hand going back to the strap on her shoulder. “Later.” With a small wave, she turns and starts to walk in the opposite direction from where I’m headed.

  “Bye,” I call after her before doing a 180 and heading towards the very old, very large brick building that is covered with ivy, exactly the way you’d picture it looking on a campus like this one . . . old. I wave hello and give a few nods to people I know as I pass before I climb more steps to reach the entrance. The door is solid oak and heavy as hell, so I have to use two hands to pry it open, trying to suppress a grunt as I do.

  I flash my ID to the chick behind the counter who couldn’t give a shit, before walking through the spindles and heading straight for the stairs in the back that will lead me to the second floor. The first floor is the computer lab, coffee shop, and checkout. The second floor is home to the fiction books as well long tables where I can sit, set up my laptop and start writing.

  There are five other floors, but I’ve never been to any of them even once.

  It’s quite up here, hardly anyone in this section since a lot of people tend to have classes around this time. Locating a table off to the corner, and away from the windows that will no doubt distract me, I toss my bag on the table with a dull thud. I pull out my laptop, before putting my bag down on the floor. Opening my laptop, I type in my password, pull up my manuscript document, and then sit back and stare at the words with no idea how to proceed.

  CHAPTER 2

  I’VE BEEN STARING AT MY computer screen for so long, the black letters of the document no longer have meaning. They’re becoming pictures and images, and I even find myself trying to make patterns. It’s pathetic and it angers me like no other.

  Sitting up straight, I roll my head, cracking my neck while reaching my fingers out in front of me and stretching my arms and back.

  I’m ready, I tell myself.

  I can do this, I encourage.

  I’m so fucked, I remind myself.

  Scrolling down to the bottom of page fifteen where I left off, I read over the last few sentences and start writing without overthinking it.

  And after a sentence or two, I realize I’m doing it.

  I’m writing what I believe are logical, coherent sentences. It will definitely require a lot of tweaking and editing later, but it’s words and sentences and they flow, which is all I can ask for right now.

  I feel the long wooden table I’m seated at shift as someone sits down next to me, but for once, I’m too engrossed to notice who it is.

  They don’t speak to me and for a fleeting second, I wonder why they didn’t pick one of the other dozens of open seats that are not next me, but the thought passes quickly as I try to stay focused on my task. I make it two more sentences before an indication that I have a new notification on my Snapchat page pops up on my screen, interrupting all my thoughts.

  I really need to disable that feature, especially since I don’t go on Snapchat all that often.

  Having lost my entire train of thought—which is just sad how easily it happened—I click on the notification so that I can make it go away and get back to work. But when I click on it, it redirects my screen to my damn Snapchat page and to the notification that I was hoping to ignore. It’s a friend request from Brandon Kessler, which makes me scrunch my eyebrows and narrow my eyes at the name on the screen, because that just can’t be right.

  Brandon Kessler is the lacrosse god of our school, and definitely not someone whom I share a circle with.

  I’m about to hit decline, because I’m a bitch like that, but then I feel a pang of guilt and hit accept. Before I can click out of the website and get back to my work, a message bubble pops up from none other than Brandon Kessler with the word Hi in it.

  “Huh?” I say out loud before I can stop myself and then I hear a chuckle next to me from the person that I had completely forgotten was there.

  My head snaps to the right and I’m instantly stunned to see Brandon’s light blue eyes, surrounded by thick dark lashes, peering back at me, from a much higher vantage point. I tilt my head, raising my eyebrows in question, because this has to be some kind of joke.

  I don’t think I’ve ever said two words to the guy.

  And I’m not saying this in a snobbish way either because, personally, I have nothing against him. I’ve heard he’s a nice guy. But his crew, the lacrosse jocks, don’t usually spend time with girls who listen to the music that I listen to and dress the way I dress.

  I look surreptitiously around the room and notice that there are only three other people in this area, none at our table. Plus, there are four other empty tables, and yet he’s sitting right next to me.

  Looking at me.

  I’m confused.

  “Hi,” I say back to him since that’s what he messaged me, though that has me feeling foolish for some reason.

  He chuckles again, and a dimple appears in his left cheek. His dark blond hair is perfectly styled, despite the lacking evidence of product—short on the sides and a little longer on top with a small flip up in the front. He has high cheek bones and a chiseled chin that Greek gods would be openly jealous of. He’s wearing a blue shirt to match his eyes and jeans.

  Brandon Kessler just screams all-American good looks and genetics.

  He’s very pleasing to the eyes, no doubt about that, even for the wholesome boy next door type.

  He leans toward me, which I instinctively want to pull back from, but I don’t because I refuse to come off as intimidated or uncomfortable. Admittedly, I’m a little of both.

  “I was wondering when you were going to notice I was sitting next to you,” he whispers with a crooked smile that I may or may not feel in my stomach. He’s close enough to me that I can smell his cheap male body wash and woodsy cologne, both of which are a rather pleasant combination.

  I shrug, not feeling the need to lean into him when I speak because he’s too close as it is. “I was doing work, which is what one does in the library.”

  I’m trying to hold all of the sarcasm out of my voice, but something tells me that I don’t quite achieve it since his smile grows, showcasing perfect straight white teeth. Usually my sarcasm does not rear these results, but it’s a nice smile, so I’ll take it.

  He opens his mouth to respond when we get treated to a, “Shhhhh,” by some other kid I hadn’t noticed who is apparently within ear shot of us. We are in the quiet section of the library, after all. Brandon inches in a little closer to me and I can feel my eyes widen, unsure of what he’s doing, but then he pulls back and nods towards his laptop.

  His fingers fly across the keys, but I can’t decipher what he’s up to since it’s angled away from me. A message bubble pops up, telling me that he’s messaging me again. Why? I pull my eyes away from the side of his face to read what he wrote me.

  Brandon: I came to do work and then I saw you sitting here and I couldn’t resist.

  Me: Couldn’t resist what? Bothering me?

  He turns, looking at me with a smile and a shake of his head like he finds me amusing. I cock a brow at him, which he ignores and goes back to his computer, typing away.

  Brandon: I have to admit that this is sort of weird to be writing to you when you’re sitting next to me, but apparently it’s the only way I can bother you in the library.

  Me: Yes, this is weird, especially considering I don’t exactly know you and this is the first conversation we’ve ever had.

  I’m hoping that this is enough of a hint for him get to the point, without me being rude. And I’m praying that he’s not going to hit me up to tutor him like the football player in my microbiology class did.

  Brandon: I will concede that we don’t know each other well, but this is definitely not our first conversation and I feel like I should be hurt that you don’t remember it. But I’m not, so you don’t have to worr
y about it. I know that you were.

  Huh? My head turns back to him, this time, I’m inspecting him closer, trying to jog my memory as to the conversation he mentioned. I’m coming up completely empty. He’s giving me a look that I don’t quite understand so instead, I turn back to my computer to type my response.

  Me: When was this conversation? Maybe that will help spring my memory into action?

  I really should be working on my paper right now, but this stupid conversation has me curious and far too enthralled, if I’m being honest. Mostly because it’s ridiculous. I mean, I’m sitting next to a guy I do not know, despite what he says, and we’re talking over a computer.

  Brandon: Freshman year at a party at the Sigma Phi house. We talked for about a half an hour before you left me all alone :(

  Is this a joke? I’ve never been to a frat party in my life.

  Me: I don’t recall ever attending said party, you must have me confused with another girl.

  Brandon: I could never confuse you with another girl, Abby. I’ve been working up the nerve to talk to you since that night and it’s going on 2 years. It breaks my heart you don’t remember me.

  This makes my mouth pop open for many reasons, but most prominent in my brain right now is wondering if he’s telling the truth. Could that have been a frat house? I guess it’s possible, right?

  My head whips around to face him and his eyes are peering into mine with nothing but sincerity, and amusement. No hint of embarrassment or teasing. But then he laughs at my expression and I feel a blush creep up on me. I don’t remember that night, if that is even the night he’s talking about, and I’m pretty sure I know why. Doesn’t make me feel that much better, but nothing I can do about that now. He says I left him alone, so I guess that’s a good sign.

  He leans towards me again, that smile still intact. “Do you want to go get some coffee with me, Abby?” His breath fans across my face and when he says my name, it sounds . . . sensual.

  Do I? I have no idea what day it is right now, that’s how taken aback I am by all of this. Yet I’m so oddly intrigued by this guy and this conversation because it’s so far from anything I would have ever expected that I find myself asking, “Now?”

  Brandon Kessler nods his head up and down, far too close to my face for a guy that I have no recollection of meeting. I shift in my chair, angling myself back so that I can have some much needed distance between us. I really should stay and work on my paper some more, but I’m oddly liking the idea of getting coffee with this guy who says we had a conversation one night two years ago.

  So, instead of doing the smart thing, I say, “Sure.”

  He smiles big, showcasing those perfect white teeth and that damn dimple that I’m strangely fascinated by. Who’s fascinated by a dimple? Me apparently, because I keep staring at it. Brandon leans back in his chair, closing his own laptop without another word to me and tucks it in his bag which is next to it on top of the table.

  I suppose that’s my cue to do the same since I agreed to this, so I quickly save my document, even though I only wrote maybe a paragraph or two, shut it down and put it into my own bag. He stands, waiting for me, and damn is he tall. He has to be close to six-five. I’m going to look like a hobbit or an ewok next to him.

  But I stand anyway, despite my sudden reluctance and he does in fact tower over me by more than a foot. Awesome.

  Brandon steps back after I push in my chair and waves his hand in front of his massively muscular frame, indicating I should walk ahead of him. And as I start to step past him, he joins me, staying absurdly close beside me.

  I’m not really sure what’s happening, but if anyone had told me that a girl who wears combat boots, has a nose ring, a tattoo or two and bright red streaks in her hair would be going on a coffee date with the clean cut, all-American lacrosse star, I’d laugh. Hard.

  But I’m not laughing, instead I’m apprehensive, and as we make our way silently through the library—though we don’t actually have to be quiet anymore in this section—I’m starting to second guess this choice. I’m starting to second guess him. Because what if this is the guy and I’m blindly following him?

  We wordlessly walk into the bright sunshine and I stop halfway down the steps, my need for answers coupled with my growing anxiety, giving me pause. He stops, noticing that I’m no longer accompanying him and twists his head back over his shoulder with an expectant look. Brandon is a step below me, which helps a little with the height factor.

  “Did we really have a conversation at a party freshman year?”

  He nods, laughing a little as he turns to face me. The sun makes his dark blonde hair appear lighter.

  “We did.” He smiles brightly, evidently still amused by my amnesia. “We talked about what we were going to major in and music and movies. Typical college freshman stuff and all very PG.” He smirks, but I look down, shifting my feet, because I don’t even have a flash of this.

  Not even a spark of a memory.

  And that has my gut twisting on an entirely different level.

  “Hey.” His voice finds me and I raise my head to look up at him. “I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything. I just . . .” It’s his turn to shift, but he still looks way more confident than I’m sure I do right now. “I just liked talking to you that night, but you left the party and I never got your number, and we don’t have classes together.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s fine.” It’s really not fine. “I just don’t remember it, is all.”

  He nods, with a strange expression that I can’t read . . . regret, maybe?

  “I’m sorry you don’t remember.”

  Why doesn’t he think that’s as bizarre as I do? Unless . . . no. No way. He doesn’t come off as anything but nice and he said our conversation was innocent. So it may have been that night, but I doubt he’s the guy. I’ve never heard anything off-putting about superstar jock, Brandon Kessler, other than he sleeps around. But what college boy doesn’t?

  “Do you still want to go get coffee with me?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  I shrug a shoulder, surprised that he’d even want to get coffee with me. But I’m already out here, aren’t I? I’ve come this far and maybe if I talk to him some more, I might be able to recall something.

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  He smiles, looking at my hand that I’ve been twisting around a loose string on my bag strap like he wants to take it. He doesn’t, and I’m grateful for that. We walk down the rest of the steps together, naturally heading toward the outer rim of campus.

  “Are you hungry? We could go to Jive. They have sandwiches and stuff.”

  I angle my head to glance up at him, unable to do it for long since the sun is positioned over his head and blinds me. “I like Jive’s coffee.”

  “Perfect. Hey man,” Brandon says, and for a second I think he’s talking to me until I see Xander rounding on us.

  I groan inwardly.

  “Abby, I was looking for you,” Xander starts, stopping in front of both of us. His dark blue eyes bounce back and forth between Brandon and me for a beat, before focusing entirely on me. “Aubrey said I’d find you in the library.”

  Why does it sound like he’s accusing me?

  I’m surprised that he’s looking for me since my brother’s best friend hates me with a passion usually reserved for Hitler or politicians. He rarely looks at me unless forced, and even then, he hardly ever meets my eyes. It wasn’t always this way, but it’s been the policy long enough that I’ve come to expect his blatant I-hate-you attitude.

  “I just left.” I smile sweetly. “What did you need?” I ask as politely as always. I’m never mean back to him, even if he’s always full of sarcastic and biting comments where I’m concerned.

  “Do you have your laptop with you?” he asks curtly, as if being forced to converse with me is ruining his day. “Aubrey said he used it for a project that we’re working on together for our international business class, and I need his work.” />
  “Oh?” I glower, annoyed, propping a hand on my hip, because why Aubrey felt the need to use my computer, again, when he has his own is beyond me. Xander is glaring at me like this is my fault. Of course he is. “What’s the file? I’ll email it to you.”

  “I don’t know. All Aubrey said in his text was that it’s on your computer. When I texted him back about it, he never responded.”

  Of course he didn’t. He’s with Britney.

  “Hey Xander,”

  Brandon cuts in, which surprises me since I didn’t know that they knew each other. “Abby and I were just about to go and get some coffee together.” He gives me a big smile that I get the impression he uses to try and charm people. I bet it works for him every time. “Can it wait or do you need it now?”

  “Uh.” Xander takes a step back like he forgot Brandon was standing there, probably because he’d never expect to see the two of us together. Xander is tall as well. Not as tall as Brandon, about six foot, but still tall.

  “Really?” Xander raises his eyebrows, widening his eyes in complete shock. Does he have to sound so incredulous?

  Okay, maybe his reaction is not that far-fetched.

  I’m sort of there myself.

  Brandon laughs at his reaction, moving into me in an almost possessive way. His hand comes up to run through his short hair.

  “Yes, really,” he says firmly looking him in the eye. “I’d invite you along, but I was hoping for some alone time with Abby.”

  Now it’s my turn to look surprised at just how brazen he’s being. I intertwine my fingers around the loose string on my bag. It’s a nervous habit.

  “So,” he continues as if what he just said was the most natural thing in the world, “do you need it now or can she get it to you when we get back?”

  “I need it before three.” Xander’s response is clipped, directed at me with something close to anger and betrayal in his eyes. It’s not my fault Aubrey used my computer. Sheesh.

  “I can meet you at twelve-thirty, I have a class at one-fifteen,” I offer.