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Save me.
Angie glances at her notification bar and reads the text, recognizing who it belongs to before even seeing the name. It takes her all of fifteen minutes to make it to the frat party, the passenger side window rolled down. And sure enough, clad in all black with the exception of a grey shirt — Victor Vale suddenly manifests on the dark lawn.
Light spills out from the door behind him with the booming and warbled sound of music and too many voices. Quick strides bring him to her car and he slides wordlessly into the passenger seat. Once the door shuts, Angie pulls away and sets them off down the road.
“Do I need to give a stern talking to anyone we know?” Victor doesn’t reply but it earns her a smile that she thankfully doesn’t miss.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asks, and Angie’s lips twitch. She knows exactly where they’re going.
They sit in a comfortable silence. Somewhere nearby, an old-timey clock ticks faintly, marking the seconds and the slow minutes as they pass.
Two milkshakes and a basket of fries sit between them. Neither of them speaks, not yet, and there isn’t any real need to do so. Angie stirs her shake until the last weeping and sinking remnants of whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and sprinkles all mix in together. Hazel eyes watching the slow descent of a bead of sweat from the cold of her glass. Finally, she leans back to toss a fry into her mouth. The second one she pelts across the table at Victor.
“Just another bad night, and a poor excuse for a party. That’s what you would have thought of it.” He picks up the french fry, having made contact against the grey of his shirt and fallen in his lap. It’s abandoned on the table beside their tray, wolfish blue eyes giving her a look. Really, Angie?
She smiles back at him, tucking a few unruly strands of coppery hair behind her ear with a hum. She doesn’t assault him again, only takes a fry and dips it into her melting sugar disaster of a drink. “Why did you even go to it? You hate parties.” She points an accusatory fry at him when she says the words, before it too meets a similar fate to the one before.
Victor watches her. He watches her the same way a meteorologist might track the patterns of the weather; though his features are perfectly composed, he studies Angie Knight with fascination, and something more. The way, he suspects, a lover likely would. He commits this moment to memory. The way her hair, frizzy but likely still undeniably soft frames her face, the red tint of her lips from the cold of her milkshake — and the occasional press of them with an almost laughable face to accompany a ‘brain-freeze’ — and the way Angie roots around the basket of French fries, looking for the crispier ones to dip in her drink. Something that earned her a scoff the first time he watched her do it. She claimed, 'It tastes great and don’t you dare judge me until you try it, Victor Vale.’
Victor still hasn't tried it.
“A night out sounded appealing.” He says, shrugging as if it were normal. That’s what most people expect of college students anyway.
Though, he really doesn't care for the loud and inebriated scenes of parties — neither on or off campus. Victor prefers solitude and the slow drag of a sharpie over the pages of a book. On occasions, he also welcomed the energetic company of the one and only, Angie Knight. But that was because where other people seemed to drain him of energy, wearing away at his patience — she somehow seemed to do the exact opposite. Angie never forces him into conversation, though Victor sometimes finds himself silently wishing she would break the silence, ask him anything at all, or even just tell him a ridiculous story from her day. She never invades his personal space; somehow however, she's managed to be the only person he's felt comfortable with being close or physical. It isn't often, not often enough anyway, but occasionally she'll run her fingers through his hair or wrap her arms around his neck. Sometimes he even gets a hug.
More and more Victor finds himself expecting these small gestures, wondering if there was a secret code to them too. And it isn't that Angie is strict or reluctant or sparing of them, just that they are spontaneous, and not always thought to be provided. They were those spur of the moment sort of gifts. It became a blessing and a curse.
“You could have just texted me to get dinner. Would have saved us both.” Angie says, not buying his claim but letting it slide.
And for that, Victor is thankful. They settle into quiet and easy conversation - mostly with Angie talking to fill the silence. She knows it helps, and won't pressure him into talking. Occasionally Victor teases her for her French-fry-to-milkshake disastrous habits. To which they wind up laughing over, and Victor gets to watch the way her eyes shine and listen to the melody of her voice.
And in that moment, in their favorite burger place, while she's smiling and glowing in the low light of the restaurant, he thinks of ordering another milkshake - one for them to share - and telling her that he might be falling in love with her. The moment doesn't pass, and Victor does get them a drink to share. But his secret remains unspoken and Angie goes on to change the subject, redirecting it to the endless possibilities for summer vacation.