Noel

Mornings have always been my time. Even when I was younger. Back when I thought red cowboy boots and a farmer's tan were sexy. When I wondered what it would be like to release a hit country single. Or become famous. Mornings were when I allowed myself to get lost in my daydreams. Any other time wasn't safe.

Mornings were the only time I could escape the confinement of my father's abusive behaviour.

In the predawn light, I would explore the perimeter of the farm. Sometimes I'd ride the horse around the property. Being away from my dad and his alcoholism allowed me a chance to clear my mind. Breathing in the fresh air and not having to glance over my shoulder every five seconds was cleansing. It helped me stay sane.

Much like these typical morning runs do.

Sometimes, though, they distract me a little too much.

It's no surprise when I show up late to my Animal Behaviour class on Friday. I'm cursing at myself as I jog down the hallway, trying not to spill my coffee. Before transferring here, I did two years of Environmental Studies. Some credits I earned qualified for the program here. Zoology. It's a branch of biology that studies the characteristics of animals, both living and extinct, and how they interact with the environment.

Back then, I was never late. Today, I'm twenty minutes late. It pisses me off. How did I lose track of time? Running felt good. It always does. Usually, though, I'm able to keep track of time.

The professor, whom I've had before, nods at me as I enter the classroom. I give her an apologetic wave. Thank God she's lenient about being late.What she's not lenient about are the notes. If you miss them, it's your responsibility to get them. The whiteboard is covered in meticulous notes.

Damn it.

I sit down in the first empty seat I see. After setting my coffee down, I remove a notebook and pen from my backpack. Within seconds, I'm following along with the most recent notes. After class, I'll ask someone if I can take photos of the notes I missed.

Right now, the professor is showing examples of diagrams we'll be working with during our lab classes. My lips twist in semi-disgust. Although I love lab classes, working with partners isn't my forte. I prefer to work alone. Hence the reason I'm a solo musician.

Curious, I glance around the classroom. Perhaps a friend is stuck in this class with me. Alas, I see nobody. Nobody I want to be partners with, anyway. There are several faces I recognize, but no friends. Ironically, most of my friends are in different programs.

It weighs me down a little.

Until I glance at the person sitting next to me.

It's Kinsley.

The girl who almost throttled me for saving her from injuries.

As if she can feel her eyes on me, she glances to her left. Her eyes widen. Her lips part.

I flash her a charming smile, raising a hand in a small wave.

Hey, I mouth.

Her momentary look of shock fades into that familiar hard-set glare. She looks down at her notes, scribbling in tune with the professor's lecture.

Speaking of notes...

Trying my best to keep the sound of ripping paper quiet, I tear off a corner of a sheet in my notebook. On it, I scribble a quick message. I then push it over to Kinsley. I also tap her on the arm with my pen.

After shooting me a glare, she takes the note. Several seconds pass before she sets it down and writes something back to me. Her pen makes scratching noises against the desktop.

When she's finished writing, she slides the note back to me.

You can take a picture of my notes after class is over.

I lean back in my chair. I asked if I could borrow her notes. Not take a picture. The whole point was to maybe spend some time with her. It seems as though she doesn't. She keeps pushing me away. For that, I can't complain. Perhaps Kinsley isn't interested in making friends while she's here.

Either way, I'm thankful. At least she's not a total stick-in-the-mud. I'm not stuck searching for someone to copy notes from. That would be a pain.

As class goes on, I watch Kinsley while taking notes. Most of the information I absorb filters through my brain. Kinsley's too interesting.

She's peculiar. While she seems invested in class, she's also distant. It's almost as if she's disconnected from the world. The lights are on, but no one's home. It's concerning. Seeing someone disassociate themselves from people doesn't just happen. There has to be reason.

Concern aside, my attention is also focused on her because she has cute quirks. Like the way she chews on the cap of her pen when the professor asks a question and she's thinking about it. Or the way she aggressively tries to wipe away the smudged ink on her left hand on her jeans.

Over the course of the class, I do my best to focus. Something's thrown me off. And it's not just Kinsley. I'm exhausted. Stress has me taut, like an over-stretched elastic band. School, performances, and knowing Gramps is running the farm alone. Everything is piling up. Even my shoulder is contributing. I'm starting to think I'll need a doctor's appointment. If the pain doesn't reside, that is.

At the end of class, Kinsley turns to me. She throws her notes down on the desk. "Take a picture."

That's all she says. Leaving her notes on the table, she packs up her belongings. She organizes them neatly it in her tote bag.

I watch her for a moment before I pull out my phone. Something tells me if I don't get my ass in gear, she'll confiscate the notes before I can take a photo.

"Had any other encounters with bikes lately, there, Kinsley?" I tease as I flip through the pages in her notebook.

Besides the light smudging of ink from her being left-handed, her writing is astoundingly neat. Her notes are organized, complete with titles and diagrams.

When I don't get a response, I look up.

Kinsley is glaring at me, lips pressed in a flat line. If it weren't for the sharp look in her eyes, I'd assume she was trying to prevent herself from laughing.

"I was joking," I explain.

She ignores my statement. "Are you almost done with the notes? I have places to be."

I suppress a snort. Kinsley doesn't seem like the type of girl that would have places to be. I bet she wants to get back to her dorm room to change into her pyjamas. She seems like the type of woman who would stay up late reading a book. Aside from the outing this past weekend, I doubt she's one to spend time out. I think her presence at the pub was a rare occurrence.

I close the notebook and stuff my phone into my pocket. "Yeah," I reply, holding the notebook out to her. "Thanks."

Kinsley shrugs. "No big deal. Goodbye."

Her "goodbye" is so abrupt I'm surprised. I don't know if she means to be rude, but she is. Can't she tell that I'm trying to make conversation?

She could at least be polite.

I don't understand why she's so defensive. Aside from touching her without permission (when I grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the way), I've done nothing wrong.

She's always playing defence. Never offense. It makes me wonder what's happened in her life. Was it something tragic? Perhaps she has an abusive ex-boyfriend. Either way, my heart aches for her. No one should suffer the consequences of disassociation. I know what it's like. It's something I never want to experience again.

Even so, her attitude makes my curiosity pique.

Kinsley is a puzzle I want to solve. Any woman would have thanked me for saving her ass. She would've wanted to repay me.

Kinsley has done the opposite. She hasn't even acknowledged my actions.

Her ignorance hurts a little.

I tear my gaze away from the doorway, glancing down at her empty seat.

In her rush to leave, Kinsley has left her blue sweater behind. It's hanging on the back of her chair.

I grab the sweater. It's soft, a couple bucks away from being cashmere. It's worn and there's a small stain near the sleeve. To be honest, I don't know why she wears it. Her sweater adds power to the word "vintage."

But something tells me she'll want this sweater back. Folding it, I carefully tuck it in my backpack. If she's kept something with a stain, it must be of important value to her.

I'll keep it safe until next time I see her.