CHESSY!

[cafeteriagirl]

Joel pulls out of the parking lot with one hand on the steering wheel, thankful that it's an empty, smooth exit. Amount of cars that were here earlier, he could only imagine what kind of time Sarah had when she left with a friend of hers in her former cohort.

("Off to get some ramen. Would you behave and text me whenever you get home, if you do?" She'd flashed a grin and told him not to worry about the little guy; she and ma would watch him for the rest of the night and until morning if it meant Dad got to go have some fun.)

He glances at Chessy at about the same time she's finished dragging her finger along his window to complete the 'Y' in her name. There's a smile on the edge of his lips at the thought that it'll be there for some time, at least until rain washes it away or his next car wash does. The latter certainly won't come first. "I get it. You're a, uh, what do they call it? Passenger princess."

And he can't help but chuckle when she calls any old Boston cab a 'T.' Maybe it's a fun kinda slang she made up on her own, borne from one good interaction with a cabbie. Maybe her first ever one, before she realized they were all less-than-pleasant (but got you where you needed to go on time).

"West Roxbury? Yeah, I know where that is," he answers her, and he wants to add: Kid, I've combed and scraped through this entire zip code and beyond. Some corners he can probably get to with his eyes closed. "That's not so far from here. You either picked a good school or you picked a good trailer."

He pulls into the battleground that is Boston traffic, exacerbated by the fact that a game just finished up at Fenway. So everyone's honking and trying to get around one another. They might be stuck around here for a while, at least for now, until Joel swerves and makes his way to an opening.

"A mix between knowing the right people and just demanding I got the opportunity to do certain things," Joel addresses her first question, letting out a chuckle. "It helped that I was, I think, pretty decent at what I do even starting in college. It sounds like I'm full of shit... maybe I am."

His eyes flit over to hers with a playful smirk before he maneuvers toward an exit that'll lead them, eventually, to her house. Even if it's the scenic route. Just to avoid all that ruckus.

"I spent a fair amount of time in Nepal recently, about a year ago. There's something incredible about every place you go to, but that one. I got to get real close to some elephants. One almost stomped on me, seriously."

The lonely part, he doesn't get to— he interrupts himself by wailing on the horn at a Chrysler that just cut him off. "Hey, I'm drivin' here, asshole!" Bostonian accent and all.

[fromchessywithlove]

A laugh tumbles out of her mouth. For some inexpressible reason, the term is hilarious coming from his lips. She cocks her head and glances up, as if she'll find the answer inscribed on the cab's ceiling. "Mmm, I guess so," but now doesn't feel like the time to go into the distinction between a passenger princess and a forever passenger, as she calls it.

"Oh, it's a great trailer, it's pink!" She says, knowing full well that wasn't what he meant. But, again, for some reason, she feels playful. Something about him makes her feel like she can be as silly as she wants, and he wouldn’t find it weird or off-putting — a rarity.

Chessy nods along to his words, her gaze focused on his profile, illuminated by the dashboard and the taillights. It occurs to her — and not for the first time tonight — just how unbelievably handsome he is. Moviestar handsome.

“I don’t think you’re full of it,” she says, shaking her head for emphasis. If anything, he seems honest, another rarity in a man.

She can’t help the smile that comes over her when he starts talking about work. Partially because she gets excited easily, partially because she likes it when people talk about things they're passionate about. It's like that passion is contagious, hopping from one host to another.

She’s so intrigued, so engaged and enthused, there’s almost a luminosity to the canvas of her face. Something more than just taillights and dashboard glow. “Yeah?” There’s a soft laugh at the end of her question. “Tell me about your favorite animal you’ve filmed. Ever worked with sea animals?”

He pounds on the horn, and the trance is broken. She makes a small sound that could be interpreted as a sob if she weren’t smiling so much. And then she laughs in earnest, bringing her palm up to try to stifle her giggles. She throws her head back, laying her palms on her chest as she laughs for maybe too long. “God.”

The road-rage culture in Boston will never not surprise or fascinate her. More than once, she’s found herself settling her cabbie, assuring them it’s okay if she’s a little late. Not that Texas is a walk in the park, far from it, but it’s a difference in culture all the same.

“What do you do when you’re not on assignment? Hobbies, that kind of stuff.” She wants to know more, as much as he’ll tell her.

[cafeteriagirl]

"Oh, you're probably wondering what kinda blue-collar Boston guy has an empty truck bed," he jokes first.

It isn't so much a stereotype as it is a way of life: any man in the city and its surrounding suburbs who owns a pickup truck has to have some junk in it. Work junk, house junk, junk junk. At one point, Honeydaze— the name his grandpa gave the truck before Joel inherited it— did have work junk in the back. But since he's been home taking his sabbatical, it's been clean.

"I'm, uh, I work on nature documentaries." He scratches the base of his neck, right where the hair ends, somewhat of a meek smile on his face. "Take videos of animals and plants and all that."

Even though he's somewhat of a veteran in his field, Joel still isn't over how it sounds whenever he tells someone what he does for a living. Maybe because he should've been just like his dad, working at Boston Sand and Gravel, so none of his friends and especially his relatives could tease him like they do. Or perhaps he's embarrassed because that's just the fate of a creative: to be perpetually ashamed of your own shit.

(Sarah says it's better this way; if he were all hoity-toity and movie star-esque about his career, he'd be less appealing to the ladies and a helluva lot more annoying during family gatherings.)

It's not subtle, the way the two of them linger at the fork on the road. Joel can't help but be a little sensitive to direction, always the navigator when he's out on location— but even at home, it's a responsibility he can't escape, juggling the GPS, merging lanes in ballistic Boston traffic while Sarah scrolls on TikTok. And now, he's noticing one path back to the hall is more of a scenic route while the other's clear cut.

He's not sure why, but his heart dips when Chessy decides to go the way that seems more straightforward. Maybe it's half wanting to continue avoiding socialization, half wanting to get to know the girl more. God knows he's having a better time doing the latter.

At her question, he chuckles. "No, she won't. Well, at least I don't think she will once she finds out what I was doin' out here." Talking to someone. Talking to a girl. A pretty one, at that.

He holds the door open for her when they're back at the hall, and there is his sister, wide-eyed and about to chew him out. Until her face softens at the realization. Joel offers a dismissive wave before turning to look at Chessy again.

"Would you come grab me when you're all done? I don't wanna pull you away more than I already have," he tells her. "I'll stay put and help you clean up and... follow you home so I can drop off the bookshelf at your house? Assuming you drove here."

[fromchessywithlove]

Chessy bobs her head, though it hadn't occurred to her until he mentioned it. His truck was surprisingly clean.

His answer catches her off guard, and her surprise and delight take over her features, bringing a brightness to her doe eyes. "Really?" Her response is almost too loud, too excited. Her hand flies up to her mouth, and she glances around at the empty courtyard before continuing, her interest unbridled. "That is so, so cool!"

She thinks of her father, then. And not for the first time in her life, she wishes he were here, if only to meet the kind of person who creates what he spends the entirety of his life watching. Chessy had grown up watching documentaries — nature and other genres. Her father taught her to love them. That familiar tender sadness swirls in her chest for a second, until Joel speaks again.

The path leads them back where it promised. They linger by the door, Chessy crossing her arms behind her back as they agree to meet up later. She has a mischievous little smile on her face, a premonition of her in the cab of that pick-up truck again flashing across her consciousness.

—

And almost two hours later, that flash of vision, sound, and feeling is a reality.

"I've just never been interested in learning how to drive," she shrugs, buckling her seatbelt, letting her coat pool over her lap. And that's partially the truth. The other truth is that an icy fear bursts in her chest just at the thought of driving; that she thinks maybe humans aren't meant to drive.

The temperature has dropped to the forties since their little adventure, and a sheen of condensation overlays the windows. She raises a finger to write 'CHESSY' in the dew.

"It's not really needed, anyway. The "T" gets me everywhere I need to go!" Her feet swing to a beat only she can hear.

“So, nature documentaries. Tell me about that! How'd you get into that kind of work? What's been your favorite assignment so far?” She has more questions like, “Doesn't that get lonely?” but she keeps them to herself. There is something gentle and lulling in his voice.

"Oh! I live in that trailer park in West Roxbury, by the way. You know the one?" It's the only trailer park in the city, and hers is the only pink trailer.

[cafeteriagirl]

He snickers, letting the force of her hip knock him off balance only slightly, if only to make her feel strong. "Don't worry. I'll handle it. C'mon."

If being partners in crime with this girl is gonna earn him cookies, Joel half-wonders what other mischief they can get up to tonight. What'll earn him a whole cake, for example? Breaking and entering? Only time will tell, he supposes. Not only does Chessy make it easy to break rules— what with how her face makes him feel like he'd do whatever she told him to— but there's something about her that makes Joel want to perform such acts of rebellion just to entertain her.

Maybe this new acquaintanceship of theirs is a little bit dangerous to him, but it's too early to write things off. He can hear Sarah scolding him in her mind as they make their way to his truck in the parking lot: What the hell are you doing with her, Joel? She's almost as young as I am! And if she were to tell him all that, he'd bite right back in his gentle way: You're the one that told me I needed to get out there.

The likelihood of him ending up in jail for stealing someone's forgotten bookshelf is just about the same as pigs up and flying. He'll be alright, Chessy will be alright, and she'll have a neat new piece of furniture to show for her good deeds tonight.

"There's mine," Joel says, nodding out at a '97 Ford F-150 in burnt sienna, the only vehicle of its kind amongst a sea of modern sedans, mom vans, mini SUVs. Even some Teslas. "Hop in, cowgirl."

=

Not ten minutes later, Joel has his truck parked at the gate of the enclosure, its bed hanging open. Chessy's new bookshelf is laying down atop an emergency blanket Joel had tucked away, protecting its surface from getting scratched on the drive over to the girl's apartment— whenever they'd get to doing that, after the event.

There's nothing better than the sound of the bed shutting after he's finished filling the truck up with something good. He brushes excess debris— dead leaves, most likely— off his gloves before taking them off, tossing them in with the bookshelf. A grin splays across his face.

"See? Not so bad, was it?"

Before he can say anything more, his Garmin vibrates against his wrist. It's a text from none other than Sarah: Where r u?

Shit. It's probably been, what, a half-hour, 45 minutes since he and Chessy ditched the event? It was long enough for Sarah to notice Joel was gone, and she's the type to get so lost in a social environment that she forgets who she came there with in the first place. The text is sobering, though not in a detrimental way. He still had fun, damn it, and he didn't want the night to end. Who said it had to?

"I should probably get you back to your booth, huh?"

[fromchessywithlove]

His is the sole pick-up truck in the visitors and student lot. "Pretty," she says, and pops the door open, climbing into the cab with a practiced grace.

Chessy spends the next ten minutes in a state of absolute excitement. She's dreaming, imagining, planning. She can see her bedroom in her head, contemplating exactly where to place it. By her bed would be too close, she might bump her toes on it in the night. By the window would block the sunlight.

He does the heavy lifting while she keeps watch. As it should be. Either way, her father had spoiled her rotten. She didn't even know what 'lift with your knees' meant. For all his faults, he kept her a lady. She would have been useless in the physical part of this excursion.

She is on her tiptoes, peering over the side of the truck at her new bookshelf like a newborn in their crib. There's a dapple of a blush across her cheeks, partially from the cold, partially from the excitement, and a little bit from watching him carry something so heavy. For her.

She shakes her head, agreeing with him. Not so bad at all. She circles to stand beside him, resisting the urge to grab his hand and jump up and down in her elation. She's a touchy person by nature, but she channels it into wrapping her arms around herself. Just then, his eyes fall to the watch on his wrist. Something falls in her chest.

"Oh. Yes, I guess so." But she really wants to say: No, thank you, I prepped for this damn event for a week, and now I can't stand the thought of being around garland and crushed candy canes. But the kids. She kinda wants to go back to the kids, too. She doesn't have an alternative to offer. But, still, with her new bookshelf in his pick-up truck, there's the promise of more to come.

They start walking back. She's slow in her stride, and it's not just her short height that's responsible. Trying to delay the inevitable, she begins a conversation. "What do you do for work?" She throws a thumb back to the direction they came from, toward his work truck. He doesn't quite strike her as the construction type, though he has the build.

At an intersection of walkways, she pauses, and for a second, considers taking the long way back to the activities hall. But that would be selfish. She chooses the right path. "Will Sarah be upset?" She's charmed that he came with his sister, charmed that he's the kind of man who attends community events, whether it's to please Sarah or otherwise. That feels special somehow.

[admireforever]

Twin Peaks

[cafeteriagirl]

"Dead serious,"

He regularly strides quite the fine line between serious and joking, and it's their first time meeting; Joel cannot, and does not, blame her for asking whether he really means what he said. The proposition is equal parts ridiculous, impractical, and maybe even illegal. The truth is, being sober for the two decades has only somewhat tamed the guy's rebellious streak. Sure, he quit drinking, but he's still not the law-abiding type; a fever he hasn't been able to sweat out since it grew on him as a teenager. No, he's not out here trespassing (on the regular), committing grand theft auto, or murdering— however, the lack of those really despicable behaviors naturally makes way for other, more innocent, but still illicit, things.

Joel lets her wheels turn as he gets closer to the bookshelf, having to angle broad shoulders to get between larger, haphazardly placed projects. Upon inspection, he sees powdery white stains on the side; splatter-residue, most definitely, from the ice-melting pellets they'd hurled out on the sidewalk last week after the big snow. God knows what else kinda dirt and grime he could pick up from his finger just from one swipe across the top. He's sure he'll find out soon enough. A good wipe down, though, and it'd be like new— half because it is new, just left behind, abandoned.

Whatta waste.

As the words spill out of her, he stuffs two hands in his jean pockets, stretching back as the cigarette still hangs from the corner of his lips. One of his many mannerisms. What she seems so hung up on, he doesn't quite know. With furrowed brows that soon relax as he takes his cigarette out and blows out smoke the other way, he says, "It's just begging for you to take it and make good use of it. Look at it."

Then, a glance at her, at the same time she seems to be looking up at him. She has an adorable thinking face on, and he bets that is how she looks 99.9% of the time (the other 1% is when she's smiling). If you pan the camera back a ways, you'd see the silhouettes of two strangers, standing side by side amongst a microcosm of small skyscrapers— at least, those are the shapes that the woodwork around them is making, and with the distant honking of cars in the background and the crisp November breeze blowing in the air, it almost feels like they're right in the heart of Boston. Joel swears he can hear Chessy's heart beating, and if someone were to tell him right now that them being here at this very moment is the only reason the city isn't randomly on fire— something something serendipity, butterfly effect— then he would just have to take your word for it.

"No big deal," he answers, then takes one more inhale, bringing fingers up to the white stick before lowering hands down to land on either side of the bookshelf. He gives it another once over before lifting, only momentarily, to gauge the weight. "It's nice. The thing's heavy, well-made. I should be able to carry it by myself, though."

And because he gets the sense that she might want to know the specifics, he chuckles before adding, "We can go get my work truck from the parking lot, and I can pull into the maintenance lot over there." He nods off in the distance. "You just need to be lookout, make sure we don't get caught, make sure I don't drop it, all that."

[fromchessywithlove]

Chessy does as she’s told, an unconscious reaction, and looks at it. It’s so lovely, and she's admired it for so long — years, really. Would anyone miss it?

Her gaze flickers back to him, the broad line of his shoulders, that cigarette hanging from his lips, the way he’s looking at her. Heat blooms on her cheeks, and she glances away, her index finger tracing the heart cut-out. She drops her hand, and he replaces it with his own, gripping both sides and lifting it slightly, and only for a second. Still, she’s impressed, and she meets his eyes again, her lips parted, her already big eyes wider from the shock. “What the fuck? That is pure wood. Be careful!”

There is that we, again. It makes something flutter across her chest. He provides more detail, satisfying the part of her that likes knowing exactly who, what, when, where, and why. The part that makes her an excellent researcher, the best in her cohort. “Work truck,” she hums, her mind catching on that detail. Hot. Chessy twists her mouth up for a final consideration. But they both know she wants to.

“Yes, okay… but now we’re bound to companionship in the name of crime. I’ll make you cookies.” She should be more grateful, but she doesn’t know how to articulate it. It feels surreal, like those 'one day' plans you make with friends just for the hell of it, knowing they will never really see the light of day.

She brings the cigarette to her lips again, taking a long inhale, all those feel-good chemicals simultaneously calming and sparking receptors in her brain. Blowing the smoke away, she gently nudges the bookshelf with her palm, wanting to test something, and again she’s impressed. It’s just as heavy as she suspected, maybe heavier.

Chessy sidles up next to him, bumping his hip with hers, suddenly feeling playful, “What next, Mr. Barrett? You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” And then, a burst of doubt. “Only if you’re sure. I don’t want you getting hurt or something...”

[cafeteriagirl]

Joel scoff-laughs, somewhat resentful of the term 'adult learner,' though he supposes it's a necessary category to acquire some buy-in with donors who are always looking for better reasons to give away money besides the fact that it's just a good thing to do. Though he's more than two decades removed from the whole system, he still rolls his eyes at a lot of the norms in academia. When he was in college himself, he couldn't help but question a lot of the customs that felt unnecessary; with age, he figures he's just gotten a tad more cynical, just about different things.

Twenty-five, though, is old enough for him, as calls it. "Yes," he answers, keeping his gaze on her as she borrows his flame, a smirk ever-present on his lips. He should have known better than to question her age— people are a little cleverer when they've got a fully developed prefrontal cortex— but you can never be too safe. He is already breaking one rule smoking on a smoke-free campus. Perhaps for slightly too long, his eyes hang on the way she blows smoke out from her mouth. Smoking cigarettes is a dirty-ass habit, but she makes it look elegant, like an old-timey movie star. God knows if he'd been sharing cigarettes with Gianna from high school now, it wouldn't have the same effect. Gianna, although a nice woman, would much rather reach for the needle.

Deciding he'd better snap out of it before she catches him practically staring, Joel takes a second to light his own cigarette before shoving his lighter back in his Carhartt. The smoke fills his lungs nice and warm before he blows it out, and all of a sudden his nerves are at ease. He tilts his head up, the cigarette lifting at an angle, and this way— even though this isn't how it works at all— he feels like he's getting more of the tobacco, faster. Fingers grasp at the cigarette to pull it out just as she's asking him about Sarah.

"Sarah," he answers, "Sarah Barrett. She was in the event planning program. Wants to run Fenway someday." As in, "Fenway Park," he chooses to add, because Chessy may not know what it is just by the name. And just for the icing atop the cake: "Where the Red Sox play."

Maybe he should tell her they're a baseball team, but Joel wonders if he's bordering on being plain patronizing.

He glances over at Chessy, and she's not there— instead, she's a few steps away, beginning to walk through the maze of projects with what Joel bets is the same cadence one might have when strolling through a botanical garden. Because he can't deny that magnet, he follows after her, just a few steps behind.

The bookshelf they arrive at is a nice piece of woodwork that reminds Joel of his father, who was the one who taught him how to make things in the first place. "Hmm." With furrowed brows, he leans in, the glare of a nearby lamppost appearing at a certain angle on a piece of paper when he peers deeper into the top shelf. He reaches out for the paper, a laminated card with details of the project and its grade, and pulls his cig out briefly.

"Looks like this was made by some Piper O'Malley, back in..." he doesn't have his glasses— "back in 2020. My guess is she graduated or had to leave campus 'cause of COVID and forgot it existed." He shrugs.

There's a beat. Joel lodges his cig back in, and looks at Chessy.

"I think you should have it," he says, speaking through the corner of his mouth. "We should take it."

[fromchessywithlove]

Chessy's eyes flutter shut, temporarily lulled by the kick of nicotine. She's a social smoker, and it has been a week since her last cigarette. Absence makes itself known. God, that feels good.

She pulls herself back to reality, letting the actuality of the moment assert itself. Joel has a cigarette between his lips. Warmth rushes forward, swirling in her chest, rising to her neck and cheeks. This isn't the nicotine.

"Pretty name," she hums, tapping away ash. She had a childhood friend named Sara, one letter away, but still just as sweet.

Her head falls into a tilt — a habit— looking up at him through her lashes in a manner more disbelieving than flirtatious, slightly squinting. "Mm, heard of it," she says with a laugh, nodding. There's nothing malicious in his informing her, at least that she can detect, so she lets it drop like the ash from the tip of her cigarette.

She senses him come up behind her, his warmth and size casting a shadow over her. He leans forward, the side of his jacket brushing against her. He radiates heat and smells like wood and cologne. Her mouth quivers, and she forces her focus back on what he's saying.

It doesn't work very well. She's too distracted by the way the cigarette looks between his lips to immediately catch the gist of what he's saying. "Hm? Oh." She laughs again. He's serious. "I-I can't do that," her infrequent stutter makes an appearance. Suddenly flustered by his idea — him in general. "I can't... Are you serious?"

She brings her hand to her mouth, biting the first joint of her index finger. She's watching him, trying to gauge... something. "It is a shame to have something so beautiful just sit gathering dust," she trails off. And it would look lovely in her bedroom. She looks up at him, dropping her hand to her side and pulling the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth as she thinks. Two student code violations in one night? Then her mind catches on the fact that he said 'we'. We. It comes slowly, like a languid, unhurried wave lapping at the shore, but still consuming: the feeling that she's met him before. That she knows him, somehow. "How would we do it?"

[cafeteriagirl]

Outside, Boston is only finally melting after a week of sitting in the deep freezer. A bout of rain in the last day or so has properly disintegrated most snow piles at this point, leaving behind a slush that squishes like play-do under his boots. Large grains of salt are sprinkled about the path, and it's that kind of crisp air that doesn't hurt to breathe in. Almost feels like spring at night. Still, there are a few slippery patches here and there, and Joel finds himself hovering a hand behind the girl's back as she leads them to her secret spot, just in case she falls. She seems like the sort of girl who'd get so carried away that she becomes clumsy.

Or maybe it's because he's picked up on the fact that she's not from around here. Without the chatter inside, her voice rings clear, and it sounds like how you'd feel drinking sweet tea. Thirsty for more. In his 20-some years of traveling around the world with his rig, privy to all kinds of human voices and animal chitters, he has always favored the accent of anyone from the south. While accents from the east coast demand to be heard, accents from the south raise their hands for permission before speaking. He's charmed, to say the least.

"Oh, you know. It's been decent. I'm here with my sister," Joel says, now all too conscious about the way his voice sounds too. Try as he might, there's no scrubbing that Boston accent out. "She just graduated in the summer. But she can't seem to get away from this place." The Barrett childhood home is only 20 minutes away from here on a good day without traffic.

He follows behind the girl, and he can't quite decide if he's doing so because that's just what people do when they're being led, or if he can attribute it to that magnetic force he'd felt earlier. He chuckles and entertains her babbling, wondering if she often says exactly what she's thinking out loud. Either way, Joel's not far behind, trusts she won't lead him to his death— and if that's what she has planned, then what a way to go.

When they get to her spot, his jaw opens a little, taking in the scene. There's something cinematic about all the woodwork strewn about, tarps blowing in the wind not doing their job. It is the ultimate test of weather-resistant sealant, though Joel supposes that the real delicate stuff is underneath the roof. He watches the way she opens the door, eyes hanging on her fingers for a moment before they flit up to her face when she introduces herself.

"I'm Joel." He gives her a nice, firm handshake.

Inside the enclosure, Joel pulls out his cigarettes, sticking one out for her and, when she grabs hers, one out for himself, too. He pauses a moment before lighting hers, lighter outstretched and mere centimeters away from the end of her cigarette. Hand retracts back and he tilts his head at her. One half of his face scrunches up ever so slightly, speculative.

"I'm sorry, how do I know you're old enough to smoke?"

[fromchessywithlove]

Chessy peeks up at him, another smile spreading across her face at his reaction. He finds it interesting, too. "Cool, huh?" The familiarity of the place eases some of the tension, though a little knot of nerves remains. It manifests as a tightness in her chest.

"Joel," she repeats, shaking his hand gently. His grip is firm and proper, and sparks a tiny flicker of warmth. "'S a pleasure to meet you."

He brings out the packet of cigarettes, and she makes a small, happy noise, stepping forward to bridge the gap between them. Grabbing the cigarette with a three-fingered pinch, she promptly fixes it between her lips. She's happy to be here, even if it's not with her usual smoking companion. She chases the flame of his lighter until he pulls away.

His question makes her throw her head back with a bright laugh. But, no, he's serious. Oh. “I’m twenty-five, mister. Is that old enough for you?" She leans forward again, catching his ridiculously large hand and drawing the flame to the tip of her cigarette. It catches, and she inhales, turning to blow smoke into the cool night. "I'm an 'adult learner'," she makes quotation marks with her fingers to emphasize.

"What's your sister's name? Maybe I know her." That's not likely. Her academic socialization begins and ends with her research group, but she wants to keep him talking. His voice is paradoxical: soft in nature, but assertive in its accent.

She takes another drag and exhales as she wanders over to the roofed area. The front of her right shoe taps against the hem of a creased tarp, and a rush of melted snow slips down to puddle where her feet stood mere moments ago. "Woops!"

Giving the puddle a wide berth, she points at a wooden three-tiered bookshelf with heart cut-outs. "This one's my favorite. It's been here a while. Don't know why the owner hasn't picked it up."

[cafeteriagirl]

Smiley isn't a bad thing, though— it's certainly contagious and Joel's ma would argue he doesn't smile enough. She wouldn't even call that coyote-baring-teeth thing he does a smile, despite how much she loves him. Either way, this girl's beam is hypnotically warm, and it's not just because the overhead lights are too bright or because somebody turned up the temperature in here. He finds it extremely difficult to pull away, but his body has no choice to when a couple of toddlers whish right between them, shoulders knocking into Joel's knee a little and forcing a gap.

Trailing behind them, an older woman calls out, "Watch where you're going, you two!" and mutters a meek apology on her way past them.

It's when the girl is saying something about a spot that Joel glances over at her again, in the nick of time to catch the way scarlet pools in her cheeks, like the way pigment stains a glass of water when a brush is dipped in. He lifts his brows somewhat involuntarily, genuinely surprised that someone who looks the way that she does— the prim and proper teacher's pet type— would ever know anything about a spot and cravings.

Before he gets a chance to say anything— damn, Joel, don't embarrass her any more than you already are— she's retreating, and he feels this sudden ache in his chest and the sound of it is so loud it's like someone crushed a soda can right in his ear. There is something about her that they haven't invented a word for yet that magnetizes him to her, and has him closing the distance between them. Not too close, but closer. Before the proverbial book shuts, he reaches out— his arm a bookmark— and licks his bottom lip. He doesn't touch her arm, though he almost does.

"Wait."

Another slightly nervous chuckle. Joel lifts that outstretched hand up to mess with his ear, a tic. "If I can, uh, steal you away from your obligations for a sec—" eyes flit to her nametag. CHESSY. "—why don't you show me that spot?"

[fromchessywithlove]

"No worries," Chessy says warmly to the older woman, as if she hadn't let out a little sound of surprise, her hand flying to her heart, when the kids forced a wedge between the stranger and herself. She enjoys the company of children too much to fault them for doing childish things.

Her hand is still over her heart when she asks, "You okay?" And skims over him in a manner more maternal than covetous. Of course, he's fine. He's too sturdy not to be.

She gives him a small wave goodbye, ending the encounter before she can make more of a fool of herself. Wait. She veers back to confirm that wasn't just a hopeful voice in her head. He's there, nervous and something else she can't articulate.

"Yes?" She tips her head again, a smile unfurling as he speaks. Her eyebrows rise and fall as she says, "Yeah?" Bella is frosting a funfetti cupcake, entirely in control. What's a couple of minutes, anyway?

She claps her hands, "Yay! C'mon." Grabbing the sleeve of his jacket, she leads him across the hall, weaving through parents, children, and students alike. "I have been waiting for a reason to step away from that booth." Reasons weren't necessary — she was simply too stubborn to stray without one.

The double doors open up to an uncharacteristically temperate November night. It's cold, but not cold enough that she'd need more than her cardigan for a quick smoke. "Who are you here with? Havin' fun?" She says with a small laugh, shooting a glance back at him, presuming to know the answer to the latter.

They continue through the maze of buildings, turning here and there. "Have you had the hot chocolate? They used real milk." She's babbling now. The reality has just crashed in: she's alone with a stranger, leading him across campus to do something against the student code of conduct, though she's done it before...

There's a spot out back where the carpentry students lay out their projects while the paint dries. It's a small enclosure with half a roof and a chainlink fence. That's where she takes him. "Ta-da!" She says, holding her palms up, a more lively version of the Orans posture in mass. "No one comes by here." She slips her fingers into a diamond in the chain link fence, wrapping her middle and index fingers around the wire. "Oh! I'm Chessy, by the way." She holds a small hand out, the other still clutching the fence.

[cafeteriagirl]

This is the exact kind of thing that could nudge you over to the other side from Heaven to Hell, when the angels are evaluating you mere seconds after you kicked the bucket. You could spend your whole life skewing one side over the other and then bam, this brief display of frivolity and indulgence is what screws the nail in the coffin. (That’s how it works, right, whether you’re devout or a nonbeliever?) Some toddler is gonna crawl over, pick up his cigarettes, pull one out, chew on it, and ask mommy what’s this? with a mouthful of tobacco. Cue the shrieking and Joel’s going to get escorted off grounds by the campus police with handcuffs on.

Or at least, that’s what could happen. His perception of reality is not what it used to be pre-child rearing. All those sleepless nights and long periods without eating did a number on his reasoning skills, which he supposes is part of why Sarah had been so insistent on bringing him out in the first place.

Too busy in his mini, panicked spiral— when has Joel Barrett ever sweated the authorities?— he almost doesn’t process the soft slipping-in of something small and rectangular in his jacket pocket. He turns around with a nervous chuckle, smirk hanging on his lips, thankful that an adult had found what he’d been looking for, and not one of the many tinies romping about. Though, if not for the little name tag on her blouse with her first name and title, he might’ve mistaken her for one, since he’d had to lower his head more than just a smidge to look at her.

In other words, this girl was small.

But sweet, at least somewhat, judging by the tone of her voice. Part scolding, part sassy. She reminds him briefly of his sister in that they’re both young and say anything to anyone without much of a care. Joel is that way enough, but old age has made him approach things with more tact— unfortunately.

He bites back a smile. It’s hard to, when this first look at this stranger’s face has practically knocked him out— and just with a feather.

“I know,” he says, “I was trying to get out of here to find a good spot. But it turns out that 100 feet from this building, there’s another building. And so on.” That’s how a college campus works, Joel.

[fromchessywithlove]

Chessy's beaming up at him, entirely too smiley for just a stranger. (No matter how handsome.) Something between a laugh and a giggle tumbles out of her, and she glances down at their shoes. Boots and Mary Janes. Vastly different. "Yeah, that's how it goes here."

She has to look up at him, which isn't unusual at her size, but she doesn't have to swipe her gaze around to confirm that he's easily the tallest person in this hall, which has suddenly grown a bit warm. It's all these people. If the fire marshal weren't so busy giving Santa a ride, would he cite them? Then her attention snaps back to him.

The girl cocks her head to the side slightly, "Um, I know a spot." A beat. "To light up." She clarifies a bit too briskly, a soft wash of color moving over the apples of her cheeks.

It suddenly strikes that she's being considerably overfamiliar, and she reins in her smile, pursing her plump, candy-apple red lips. "If you'd like. This kind of stuff makes me crave one, too." She's half trying to bum a cigarette, half doing God-knows what. Eager. She seems eager. "I'll just, uh, be over there if you decide you can't take another minute of garlands and LEDs." She gestures back at her mess of a booth with a thumb and index finger thrown over her shoulder.

There's a quiet intensity in his light brown eyes that makes her feel like an open book before him, and she's not sure how much more of that exposure she can take. She wonders if he can see how tired she is, how bored she feels with her life, making aimless circles around empty places and finding their charm died years ago, how much she wants a strawberry cupcake. She turns back toward Bella, taking a deep breath. Jesus.

[cafeteriagirl]

Doing the Unstuck | Joel + Chessy

Dragged is too intense of a word to call it in Joel's eyes, though in the view of bystanders, it's perhaps the most accurate way to depict how his little sister brought him here in the first place.

Not even five minutes ago, Sarah had yanked him by hand into the event space, begging him in her most polite, yet still bratty tone: "Joel, please. When was the last time you went out? Matter of fact, don't answer that. The baby's with Ma, the food they're givin' out here is free. Would you just walk around, mingle a little bit, have an appetizer? I've gotta find my old professor, and then I'll be back here in no time." And he's done just that in the span of approximately three minutes and 15 seconds: walked around, mingled a little bit— Hey, can I have one of those? he'd asked the poor girl refilling the bacon-wrapped dates at the snack table— and now he's enjoying his appetizer. A quick glance about the place tells him that it's just busy enough that nobody would notice if he snuck out and had a cigarette...

In the corner of the room, his eyes land on a placard that warns against carrying guns and smoking of any kind. And bullying.

"Jesus H. Christ," he mutters under his breath.

Across the room, he catches Sarah giving him the death eyes in mid-conversation with her professor. She gestures for Joel to mingle, making her hand talk behind her back, facing away from Mrs. Patterson as they drone on about being anti-artificial intelligence.

Joel cracks a smile, begrudgingly agreeing— though not without a roll of his eyes. He pantomimes back that he's going to have a smoke first, outside. He digs in his back pocket for his packet of Marlboros, but the thing slips out of his fingers and lands on the floor, and in a domino of events it gets kicked underneath the tablecloth of some booth. "Fffff—"

Don't finish that word, Mr. Barrett.

His gaze trails up from the hem of the tablecloth to the paraphernalia atop the booth to the girl who's at it. At it, or just standing around? He doesn't know. All he's thinking is, how the hell's he gonna get under there and get his Marlboros back? All without being caught red-handed, smoking on a smoke-free campus?

// @withlovefromchessy

[fromchessywithlove]

It's a joke in her research cohort: how pessimistic Chessy is about school events just to end up being the most active participant. The cook-off in May, the semester kick-off, the Winter Festival today; it's always the same. Part of it is that she likes to complain.

The activities hall is the heart of the festival. Lights and garland wrap around anything and everything that stood still, Chessy's cupcake decorating booth included. What was once an organized spread of cupcakes, frosting, and a variety of toppings had devolved into a lake of green and red sprinkles with chocolate and vanilla buttercream smears.

"I just don't think the girl is very poli— oh wow! That's so pretty!" Chessy breaks the bounds of gossip to coo as a young girl shows off her cupcake, every inch of which is topped with only snowflake sprinkles, sparse stretches of chocolate frosting visible underneath. "I like snowflakes, too." She isn't from here, and it's immediately obvious when she opens her mouth. There's a subtle drawl in her sweet, slightly raspy voice. A Texas girl in Massachusetts, she's heard all the jokes. She doesn't even have a horse.

She tosses the empty bottle of snowflake sprinkles into a cardboard box under the table. "Well, I told him, but he—" again, she is interrupted. This time, by a soft knock against the front of her black Mary Janes. Her gaze flickers to her shoes, the culprit is a solitary packet of Marlboros, then back up to the crowd. A few feet away, there's a tall, older man looking a bit resigned. He's the owner.

She snatches the packet off the floor before her companion can see it. "Gimme one second, Bells." She circles the table, her hands just small enough to perfectly encapsulate the contraband.

He's much taller up close. Broad-shouldered and a bit rugged. "Excuse me, sir," she starts, slipping the box into the pocket of his jacket. When he turns to face her, she smiles. Jesus, he's good-looking. "You can't smoke within 100 feet of the building," she says, glancing down at his pocket pointedly. There's a playfulness in her voice that she can't quite explain, probably because he's handsome — most definitely because he's so handsome.

[cafeteriagirl]

Joel + Chessy: "You make me feel special."

@withlovefromchessy

[fromchessywithlove]

I adore you, mi amor!

[alexcabotgf]

Mädchen Amick as Tanya Robertson SLEEPWALKERS 1992 - dir. Mick Garris