She nods. “I’m planning to major in graphic design now.”

“I should’ve known that class didn’t just fulfill your arts credit.”

She looks up from her hands and narrows her eyes. “I suppose that’s why you’re taking it.”

“I’m like you before the accident. Uncreative with a capital U. The only things I can draw are stick figures.”

“I didn’t say I could draw now,” she says, laughing. “And what are you talking about, claiming to be uncreative? I’ve seen your guitar, remember?”

When has she seen— Oh, that’s right. I had it when I helped her off the roof. “I just play around with it. So you left your old school for PSU’s graphic design program?”

“That and…” She takes a deep breath. “I needed to get out of Lincoln Falls. I couldn’t go back to school there. I tried, but I ended up failing a lot of classes.”

I wonder if she’s got lingering cognitive issues from the brain injury. “Did you have a hard time concentrating? Because it can take a long time for the brain to heal.”

“Yes, but…it wasn’t because of the accident. At least, not entirely.”

Before she can explain further, the waitress shows up with our food, effectively ending the conversation.

Ivy cuts the omelet in half and slides the plate to the center of the table. “You pick,” she says. Then she takes a bite of her waffle, making sure to scoop up some strawberries.

I hesitate, not sure what she wants me to do. There aren’t any extra plates, and I don’t want to put it with my waffles.

She points to the omelet with her knife. “The person who divides the food doesn’t get to pick which piece they get. Since I cut it, you get to pick which half is yours.”

“How equitable,” I say with a grin.

“It prevented all sorts of fights between my sister and me when we were growing up. As the oldest, I thought I was being smart when I got to cut the doughnut or the cake and pick first, but Rose wised up when she realized she was always getting the small piece.”

“Smart sister.”

“Thanks.”

“I was referring to your little sister.” Smirking, I pour maple syrup over my waffles.

She opens her mouth to reply, but casts a glance behind her first. The little boy is still looking at us. His parents must be happy that he finds us so entertaining. Leaning toward me so the little boy won’t hear, she whispers, “A-hole.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh loudly. She can be such a goddamn smartass when she wants to be. And I totally love it.

She’s got something on her chin. I reach over and wipe it off with my thumb. “Strawberry juice.” Without thinking, I lick it off my thumb.

She drops her gaze and her cheeks redden. “Thanks.”

I section off a piece of the omelet, one that has a lot of sausage and mushrooms, and hold the bite out to her. “Here. You first.”

She looks skeptically at my fork, then back at me.

“If you’re concerned about germs, I haven’t taken a bite yet. My fork is clean.”

“I’m not worried about your germs, Jon,” she says softly.

My heart thuds in my chest as our eyes meet. I think about how much we kissed last night and wonder if she’s thinking the same thing.

“Go on,” I say, my voice hoarse. “It’s getting cold.”

“You’re not going to smear it on my face, are you?”

“I’m not five. Now, eat.”

She leans forward, takes the bite from me, and chews.

“Is it good?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Is it a flavor explosion of epic proportions?” I ask in my radio voice, quoting the menu.

“Actually, it is.” Now she gives me a bite.

Okay. It is delicious. Even with the mushrooms. “I could get used to having you feed me. Do you cook, too?”

“Not unless you do.” She looks at me expectantly. Was that an invitation?

If I said I did, would she want to cook with me? “I do sometimes. Next time, you’ll have to come over.”

“What’s your specialty?” she asks, taking another bite.

“What else? Waffles.”

As we eat, I learn that Ivy’s father owns a once-successful construction company, but business hasn’t been good, so he’s been drinking a lot. Her mother works for the local school district and is always stressed out. Her little sister Rose is a sophomore in high school.

“Enough about me. I want to know about you,” she says. “You’re a chemistry major, right? I heard you’re a tutor for the hundred-level classes.”

Sara must’ve told her, which means they were talking about me. Normally, I like being the topic of female conversation, but for some reason, it makes me feel sort of awkward. “For a few different science classes, actually. I’m majoring in applied chem.”

“That’s cool. Now I know who to call if I need help.”

“Are you taking a science class this quarter?”

She nods. “Biology 101 with Professor Weller…along with half the freshmen.”

“Yeah, his classes always fill up fast. You’ll like him. He’s a good guy. Lots of homework, though.”

“Great.” She waves her hands with mock enthusiasm, making me chuckle. “Just my luck.”

“You’ll have to come study in the science library. It’s got a good study vibe, if that makes sense.” She looks confused. I can’t tell if she thinks that’s weird or if she’s never heard of the science library. “It’s in the new building right next to the Fine Arts building, where we have photography.”

“Don’t I have to be a science major to use it?”

“Everyone assumes that, but anyone can go. It’s the best-kept secret on campus. And the coffee shop on the first floor makes the best scones. Better than anywhere else on campus.”

“Good to know. I’ll have to check it out.”

I can’t tell if she’s just saying that or if she’s really interested. Hell, why am I so unsure of her reactions to me? This is, like, basic shit. But with Ivy, it’s like I’m walking in uncharted territory. Everything is new, different.

“So what do you want to do with your Applied Chem degree?” she asks.

Should I give her my standard answer or tell her what I’d really like to do with it? Since she opened up about what happened to her, I decide to tell her the truth. “I thought about going to medical school, but I’ll probably end up working in a lab. Several biomedical companies recruit here, so hopefully I’ll land a job with one of them after graduation.”

“Medical school? You were considering becoming a doctor?”

I instantly regret saying anything. Does she think I’m joking? That I’m not good enough?

“Can’t picture me as a doctor, huh?” I try to sound casual, but I can’t hide the edge creeping into my tone. Although I’m used to people having low expectations of me, I wasn’t expecting that reaction from her, too. I’m not sure what the fuck I was thinking. Turning my attention back to the food on my plate, I stab a forkful of hash browns.

Ivy reaches across the table, her hand closing around mine, making the shredded potatoes fall off my fork. I jerk my head up, thinking I’ll see amusement or ridicule in her expression. But I don’t. Her head is tilted slightly, and she looks…interested.

“Well, that depends,” she says.

“On what?” I ask cautiously.

“First of all, you seem like a really caring person. For a guy who’s on the radio and used to talking, you’re a surprisingly good listener. Since you’re a chemistry tutor, you’re obviously smart and good at explaining things to people who don’t understand something.”

The air around me goes thick all of a sudden and the lump in my throat turns into an elephant. Except for my mom, no one’s ever thought I was caring before, and that was a long time ago. I flex my fingers, recalling how she held my hand that day, squeezing until the bones felt like they were about to crack.

“Mom, you don’t have to do this,” I kept my head turned away from where the tattoo artist was leaning over her chest. “You’re fine just the way you are. Who cares about scars?”

“You’re so compassionate, Jonny. So caring.” She grabbed my hand and held on as if it were a lifeline as the tattoo needle buzzed. “How did someone like me become the mother of someone like you?”

I swallow hard at the memory. “What else does it depend on?” I ask Ivy.

“On how accurate my first impression of you is.”

I’m confused. “The night we met, I helped you off the roof. I thought I was being a nice guy.”

“No, before that. The first time I saw you was when you were beating the crap out of some dude. Remember?”

Oh.

“So, yeah, doctor isn’t the first profession that comes to mind. Now, if you’d told me you were training to be an MMA fighter or hit man, I’d go, hmmm, I can totally see it.”

A huge weight falls from my shoulders and we both laugh.

As we finish breakfast, I hear all about her little sister’s obsession with One Direction, her rescue dog Torque (at first I thought she said his name was Dork), and her friend Deena in LA who is studying to become a voice actress.

When we get back to my bike, Ivy takes the helmet but doesn’t put it on. “About the doctor thing.”

I start to tell her that there is no doctor thing, but she keeps going.

“I do have a slight problem with it.”

This should be interesting. Instead of putting on my helmet, I tuck it under my arm. “You do?”

“If you showed up in my hospital room and said you were going to operate on me, I wouldn’t be able to think straight. For one thing, I’ve never seen a doctor who looks like you.” A mischievous glint sparkles in her eye as she puts on the helmet. “But then, maybe all big-city docs are hot and tatted up, and I’m just some clueless girl from a small town.”