I unpacked pens, notebooks, and chicken-scratched notes for our presentation from my backpack, and somebody near me, a girl with choppy blonde hair and braces two tables down from us, shushed me and told me to be quiet.
I rolled my eyes at her and leaned into Rocco who was still ignoring me. “Look, Roc, I’m sorry if I haven’t been in touch. But I’ve had things to deal with. My Grams died. I had to go to the funeral.”
Slowly, he stopped to dot his I’s and cross his T’s, the pen sliding out from between his fingers, falling across the table in a clatter.
He folded his arms in front of him and leaned back in the red plastic chair. Struggling to make eye contact, I stood and slid into a chair next to him.
Masculine cologne drifted in the air, and I wanted to kiss Rocco’s face. He had been working out, I noticed, the muscles in his arms straining against his skintight T-shirt. Dark circles of sweat stainedhis armpits.