Upsy Daisy: A First Love College Romance

by Smartypants Romance

  “Freshman?”

  “I—uh—yes.”

  She’d sounded so demure and unsure I’d wanted to reach into that car window, tug one of those plaits, give her a wink, and reassure her that all would be well.

  It was baffling. I didn’t even know this girl, but I hadn’t been able to get her off my mind or to shake the lingering desire to protect her.

  We hadn’t even really spoken. I didn’t know her name, and yet . . . and yet, I’d been replaying that insignificant five second exchange in my mind for the last twenty-four hours.

  What was it about this girl?

  The first ecumenical service of the year was traditionally just for freshman and their families, so I was pretty sure she’d be present, maybe even with that sister of hers.

  I’d wondered where her parents were. I’d never ask of course; I’d gotten enough of that when I was moved into college myself.

  People were so nosey sometimes.

  Most folks didn’t know Jules and I were distant relatives, they certainly didn’t know I’d been raised by his parents, and that was exactly how we liked it. As the saying went in our household, “Marshall business is Marshall business.”

  I told myself that after my long hiatus it was past time for me to attend a church service. I told myself that I had a duty to participate as a role model, as Student Body Vice President. Then I came clean and told myself I was a liar.

  The simple truth was, I went to church because I’d wanted to see her again.

  From the moment I’d watched her depart the cafeteria yesterday I’d been both anticipating and bracing myself for the impact of seeing her again.

  And it felt just like that: impact. My body reacted viscerally to her; she’d already hijacked my mind.

  And that couldn’t stand, because there were plenty of reasons I shouldn’t want to see her again. Not the least of which was that I didn’t have time for her, no matter how pretty or intriguing she was. I'd also made a promise—a vow—to Elodie and I never broke my promises. I gathered my resolve as I filed through the church doors and determined that I didn’t want to see her. My mind corrected me immediately, No, Trevor, you don’t want to want to see her.

  I sighed too loudly and it earned me a hard, censorious look from a lady dressed in a St. John suit and a white pillbox hat who walked in beside me.

  Ashamed, I dropped my head as the usher escorted us to our seat. I glanced over my shoulder, searching for any other upperclassmen that may have been in attendance. This was my way of preventing myself from searching for the one person I really wanted to see.

  I recognized a few faces and offered either quick smiles or nods by way of greeting. When I turned back around, I realized I’d made a miscalculation.

  One pew up, seated directly in front of me was the girl. I didn’t need to see her face to know it was her; my body reacted the same way it reacted each time I’d seen her. My heart hammered, my hands twitched as if wanting to reach for her, and it became harder to breathe.

  It was too late—church was too crowded to try to move.

  I resigned myself to two hours of torture, because while I’d wanted to see her, I didn’t want to be this close to her. I couldn’t afford to be this close to her, with the way she made me feel out of sorts.

  After our initial meeting, I’d taken to calling her Sunshine in my head, because of the pretty yellow dress she’d worn and because of the way she’d lit me up inside.

  But perhaps I should’ve named her Angel because she was a vision in white. Her dress dipped slightly in the back, teasing the skin between her shoulder blades. She wore a strand of pearls around her neck—and her hair.

  That hair.

  She’d undone the French braids and her hair just grazed her shoulders, cascading in dark, kinky, coily waves.

  Shoulders that appeared to be freshly oiled, that looked soft and biteable. Shoulders I most definitely should not have been noticing, but noticed just the same.

  I felt a rush of blood to my nether regions and on cue my groin began to tighten.

  Oh no, oh no. My palms began to sweat.

  This was not happening! Not here in the house of God.

  I diverted my eyes to the floor, while strategically placing the program over my lap. While doing so I noticed the opening hymn, which the congregation sang standing, was happening next.

  Wonderful.

  I breathed deep. I wouldn’t let this happen, I was a grown man in control of my body, not a fourteen-year-old boy, for Pete’s sake.

  I spotted a Bible sitting in the back of a pew and focused my mind on scripture, For God so loved the world . . .

  In my periphery, I saw motion. I looked up just in time to see her glance over her shoulder.

  I immediately wished I’d never looked up.

  Imbecilic, bad move, Trevor.

  She wasn’t wearing sunglasses today and her eyes were revealed to me.

  That revelation felt like a gift and a punishment. All at once I was swamped with forlornness, because I’d been right. She was a manic kind of beauty.

  The kind of beautiful that stole a man’s breath and sanity all at once. The kind of beauty that made men warriors, that made them fools. This girl was dangerous.

  Her eyes captured mine. Our gazes clashed and held. The feeling of forlornness gave way to something more . . . something I couldn’t or wouldn’t put a name on. I allowed myself to give in to the feeling of sinking—of drowning, and cataloged as much of her face as I could.

  Her eyes.

  Chestnut brown, hypnotic, wide, and indescribably deep—those eyes held multitudes, they held secrets, they held promises.

  They called me. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to. I felt my palms twitch; my breath was already gone as my heart had already begun doing calisthenics in my chest.

  She stared back at me, unblinking, seemingly frozen and then in a burst, her long dark lashes fluttered in rapid succession.

  Mercy, she was literally batting her eyelashes at me, and for one morose second I thought, she was trying to kill me with her beauty.

  Her breathing hitched—or mine did—and I could hear it, the din of folks settling in around us fading into the background.

  It felt apropos to see her face close and clearly for the first time in this hallowed space because something about the experience felt holy.

  My body’s reaction to that sight was anything but holy, and react it did, in a painful way despite my efforts to stay in control.

  I was already suffering, painfully hard, close to mortification, and still unable to stop from looking my fill.

  Those lips. They were pillowy, perfect, and coated in eye-catching pink. She parted them ever so slightly and if any of my earlier progress with controlling my body had remained it would have been erased with that simple motion.

  The blare of the organ startled us. She blinked as if dazed then slowly turned to face the front.

  The sudden intrusion of the opening chords of the Call to Worship had been a sobering dose of medicine allowing a modicum of self-control to break through quickly followed by a flush of shame.

  You are in church, Trevor! The house of God!

  And while I still felt warm under the collar, I realized it was probably God letting me know first-hand that I was going straight to hell.

  Forgive me, Lord.

  I worked to concentrate my attention on the service, to ignore the girl in front of me, to focus on anything except the way my blood seemed to race through my veins in her presence. In the end, my tenuous grasp on self-control was moot.

  She did not turn around for the remainder of the service.

  Daisy

  Thank God for the opening chords of “The Lord’s Prayer” or I might have developed a permanent crick in my neck with how hard I was staring.

  Shame. Shame. Shame on you, Daisy Marie Payton.

  I buried my face in the hymnal Odie and I shared, and endeavored to block out the prickle of awareness from the hairs o
n the back of my neck that radiated throughout my whole body.

  I squirmed, trying to get comfortable, fighting to ignore the fluttering low in my belly.

  After the third time I shifted in the pew Odie raised her eyebrows and mouthed, “Are you okay?”

  I smiled weakly, apologetically, and nodded.

  James, that devil, looked at me, inclined her head slightly in Trevor’s direction, and cut her eyes back and forth between us.

  Oh Lord, am I that obvious in liking this boy? And why did James have to be so obvious in looking between us? Had he seen her do that? I wouldn’t turn and look at him again.

  I wouldn’t. One glance and I might’ve gone up in flames. Trevor all dressed up in his Sunday finery was just too much.

  As if my thoughts were written all over my face, James smirked and then she reached forward to dramatically hand me a church fan.

  I wanted to kill her.

  Smiling her devil smile, she raised her own fan, and began rapidly flickering it in a motion that covered her mouth. She spoke lowly, “My, it sho’ is warm in here, Miss Daisy. You look overheated. I thought you could use some air.”

  But because I was warm. I flicked my wrists rapidly, taking in the cool air of the fan as I covered my mouth and responded quietly, “James, as of today we are no longer friends.”

  She hid her grin—but not her snicker—as she continued fanning and pretended to skim through the second chapter of John.

  When we stood a moment later, I could feel the heat radiating off Trevor’s body like a touch. I battled the urge to sway toward him, certain his arms and chest would feel divine.

  Divine.

  It was going to be a long service.

  “Well if they gave out medals for church service length, this would be a contender for the gold,” James quipped as she stood, demurely yawned, and then walked toward the end of the pew.

  She was right; church had felt unendurably long, and not just in the traditional Southern Baptist way. The true torture was being saturated in Trevor’s nearness. I could hear the deep tenor of his rich, melodic voice when we sang the hymn. I felt him looming behind me both in and out of my space when we stood for prayer.

  I was too aware of him.

  When service ended, I pretended to be extremely fascinated with my hymnal, leafing through Responsive Readings and studying the musical notations on my favorite hymns. Odie, still seated to my right, gave me a sympathetic smile and then rifled through her purse to hand me a mint.

  I took the mint and unwrapped it slowly. I was stalling after all, trying to stay still, and more importantly staying facing forward until the gentleman behind me left.

  Unfortunately, everyone wanted to speak with him. There must’ve been nine or ten people who swooped on him immediately after service ended.

  Trevor, when will the packets for the freshman officers be up?

  “Two weeks and some change. Gotta get Jules to sign off on the qualifications. I’m assuming you’re running? Good for you—we need everyone to be interested in being a student leader.”

  Iceman, when’s the first party?

  “Gotta wait for the rest of the bruhs to return, but best believe it’ll be the coldest party.”

  Trevor, I’m taking Dr. Long for Intro to Differential Equations and he says you’ve got the best study notes of any student he’s ever taught.

  “Ha! He told me he was changing all his tests this year because he was tired of my notes being the blueprint for everyone else. I knew he wouldn’t go through with it. He’s a curmudgeon for sure, but he wants everyone to succeed. Come by the office next week and I’ll give you a copy. Better yet, check with Francine—she has a copy from last year. Also, don’t forget Long works for you the same as all the professors. Don’t be afraid to use office hours—how do you think my notes got so good? I spent half that semester in his face making sure I had things down.”

  He was kind to everyone. He was helpful to everyone. And that voice. It was smooth and deep and had a quality that made you feel like he knew you or wanted to know you.

  Also, differential equations? Of course. Of course he was good at math because close to perfection wasn’t enough. Someone made a joke behind me, and when he laughed in response, my heart thudded hard, then raced.

  After what felt like an eternity, his fan club began to dwindle. Finally. However, my gratitude at the fact that Trevor was about to make his leave, and that we in turn could finally leave, was short-lived. From the corner of my eye, I saw James turn from where she’d been standing at the end of our pew. She took two short steps toward Trevor, threw him a friendly smile, and extended her hand saying, “I don’t believe we’ve formerly met. I’m James Jones.”

  Trevor’s response was simple, wonderful. “Pleasure to meet you, James.”

  I was impressed.

  There were no follow-up questions or jokes about her name. In the three days since we’d met, I must’ve heard every variation of James joke, from King or Queen James, James Brown, James Bond, to St. James. It was exhausting for me and it’s wasn’t even my name. Apparently, James must’ve felt the same way because she didn’t wrap the conversation up—her usual response when someone said something idiotic about her name. Instead I heard my friend formerly known as James, now known as Brutus say, “This is my friend Odessa.”

  Odie looked up from where she’d been doodling on her program beside me, gave him a slight head nod and breathed, “Hello,” in that Marilyn Monroe voice of hers.

  “And this saint—that seems content to live in church instead of leave—is Daisy.”

  I was going to murder James.

  He smiled at me, warm, gorgeous, affable. I felt a twinge of annoyance at the friendliness and instantly chastised myself.

  What did you want, Daisy? For him to look at you like he wanted . . . to . . . like he wanted?

  No.

  I definitely, positively did not want that.

  “Daisy,” he repeated slowly. He said my name as if he were tasting the way it sounded. I angled myself toward him, still seated and definitely not meeting his eyes—I’d learned my lesson with that, as I offered him my hand.

  He nodded his head in greeting and added, “Did you get all settled in at Jubilee?”

  He captured my hand.

  The second we touched, I felt a tingle in my toes that zipped up through my spine. My stomach burst with butterflies and my thighs clenched.

  Trevor’s hand was firm and warm, even through the white lace of my gloves.

  His thumb slid back and forth over my knuckles, causing my breath to catch and those butterflies took flight full speed.

  My eyes—of their own volition—snapped to his.

  Trevor looked down at my hand, something like confusion on his face. But then his expression morphed, he looked at me, smiled, released my hand, and slid his own into his pocket.

  My own hand felt his departure acutely. It felt colder, abandoned.

  No that’s not right, Daisy, you’re being silly.

  A hand couldn’t feel abandoned, could it?

  I realized I hadn’t answered him and rushed to add, “Yes, thanks for your help. You were very . . . helpful.”

  I sounded like an idiot. A bona fide dolt.

  James’s widening eyes confirmed it.

  “It’s funny that your name is Daisy. That pretty yellow dress you had on the other day was fitting for a Daisy, but to me it made you look like a ray of sunshine,” Trevor said in a tone that may have been teasing, but I was suddenly too distracted to tell.

  My muscles seized, locking involuntarily at the innocuous little word. I dully heard him say on what seemed like a rush, “Are you sure your name isn’t Sunshine?”

  I wanted to respond. But all I heard was Ado’s voice clear as a bell in a memory I’d buried.

  “You can do it, Sunshine! That’s it! Keep it balanced! Just like I showed you.” My brother’s heavy footfalls as he ran, keeping pace beside me. The click of the wheels of my sist
er’s ten-speed as she rode just in front of me to make sure no cars were coming up the drive. My mother shouting for us to be careful as she watched from the veranda.

  “Steady . . . Steady! Go, Sunshiny! Go! Go! Go!”

  My brother had taken the training wheels off my bike and stayed with me as I’d mastered riding on two wheels. I’d been so proud. He’d been so proud. And the first time I’d worked up the courage to follow him and Dolly as they rode downhill . . . there almost hadn’t been words for the joy. I’d felt like I had gone to heaven and was an angel flying.

  I heard someone cough. I blinked and the memory dissolved as I became aware of my surroundings again, but a heaviness still clawed at the center of my chest.

  Trevor’s expression had turned concerned. He stared at me with his brow furrowed and James and Odie and were looking equally puzzled.

  I slipped into my best Daisy Payton smile. It was my default response to any tense public situation.

  “Kill ‘em with kindness,” my mother always said. What were we talking about? He’d asked me if I was sure about something . . .

  I looked up at those amber eyes of his, looking so troubled and confused, and in that moment I would’ve said almost anything to reassure him.

  “I’m sure!” I blurted a little too loudly.

  James eyes grew even wider.

  Trevor rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, nodded to James, then turned to Odie and said, “It was nice meeting you, ladies. I’ve got to attend to some business but I'm sure I’ll see you around campus.”

  He avoided looking at me directly but gave a polite nod in my direction then turned and headed out of the church doors.

  I sighed. Bona fide dolt. Dolly’s voice reverberated through my ears as I fought the urge to smack my palm against my forehead.

  “Coulda been worse,” James said eyes still wide.

  I shot her a look. “How?”

  She opened her mouth to speak and then paused, no words coming out.

  “Well, even if I have made a fool of myself . . . at least I have the distinction of saying I’m the first person in maybe the entire world that has rendered James Jones speechless.”