I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Just get through the day, Blythe. You can fucking do this. It would have helped if I hadn’t woken up at the crack of dawn, thereby making this day longer than necessary. But I’m out of bed, out of my room, I have coffee, and I even have my earphones so that I can listen to NPR. I don’t listen to music much. Not anymore. Before—when everything was good—I would spend hours flipping through radio stations, downloading music, and dancing around my room. I’d drive around in my parents’ Honda and get lost in music. Music that had heart. That moved me. It used to be fun to fantasize about the future.

I open up the NPR Web site and scroll through stories until I settle on a rather disgusting-sounding piece about a former vegan learning to embrace butchering. Just as I near the end of the story and am learning that said former vegan’s favorite cut of meat is pig’s feet, someone crashes into the seat across from me.

“Hey! You got me a coffee! That was very thoughtful.”

Startled, I look up. A scruffy-looking guy in a ripped T-shirt and jeans faces me. He removes a cowboy hat, revealing black hair that is sticking out every which way—although in an admittedly adorable manner—and he has at least three days of good stubble going. Even though they’re bloodshot, his eyes are sharply blue. He is a big guy. Not fat, just bulky. Based on his general aroma, I guess he’s carrying a fair amount of beer weight. What’s most noticeable, however, is the big grin plastered across his face. Well, that and the fact that he is helping himself to the second cup of coffee that I so recently purchased.

He takes a sip. “You know, this really isn’t bad coffee. Sure, sure, everyone likes to make a fuss and complain that campus coffee is grotesque sludge, but that’s just an excuse to get Mommy and Daddy to fund repeated trips to that overpriced coffee shop down the street. What’s it called? Beans, Beans, right? What a dumb name. Not, however, a dumb name for the show that I’m producing, called Beans, Beans: The Musical. Since you generously got me this coffee, I shall thank you for your kindness by giving you front-row seats. And backstage passes! Wait until you meet the guy who plays Evil Grinder Number Three. He’ll scare the hell out of you in the show, but he’s a really good person deep down.” He pauses to take a long drink from the cup, and then bangs his fist on the table and grins. “This is hot as shit, huh? Just how I like it.”

I blink a few times and wait to see if his one-man show is over. He tips his head to the side and continues looking at me while I try to figure out what to do next.

He leans forward. “Too much?”

Yes, you weirdo, just a bit. But I say nothing.

He sticks out his hand. “I’m Sabin.”

“Blythe.” I put my hand in his. As much as I’m uncomfortable with physical contact, I feel surprisingly at ease when his big hand engulfs mine. The touch is somehow soothing.

“Blythe, it is my true honor to meet you.” He claps his other hand on top of mine, and I still don’t pull away. “Now tell me, what are you doing up so early?”

“Just … I don’t know.” I wrinkle my forehead. Who is this guy? “I couldn’t sleep. Why are you up so early?”

“You caught me! In my case the question should be, why am I up so late?”

I smile shyly. “Oh, I see.”

We sit without speaking for a few moments, my hand still in his, while he looks at me expectantly. I should take my hand away, but I simply can’t. He is too odd and too endearing.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I haven’t gone to bed yet? Given our close relationship, I’d think that my whereabouts would be an extremely pressing issue here. Your curiosity should be driving you insane. Was Sabin at an all-night karaoke amusement park? Was he abducted by alien cowboy goats?” He points to the hat on the table and raises an eyebrow. “And subsequently subjected to a humiliating yet arousing strip search? Or did a well-intentioned but inept and drug-addled tattoo artist foul up ‘Jesus Loves Me’ and forever brand him with ‘I Love Cheese’?”

“Oh.” Even given this bizarre speech, I feel less uncomfortable than I normally do talking to strangers, although I am still quite lost. “I should have immediately asked those questions. Sorry.” I try to get a handle on the situation, wondering if he is trying to flirt with me. It doesn’t quite feel like it. “So,” I say, “why haven’t you?”

“Why haven’t I what?”

Good Lord. “Gone to bed yet?”

“Oh! Yes!” He grips my hand tighter and stands, pulling me up with him and then pressing my hand into his chest. “I have met a woman, so technically I have gone to bed already. I just haven’t slept. Her name is Chrystle, and she is utterly ethereal. Heart-stoppingly beautiful. And,” —he says with a wink—“angelic in the most unangelic way. I am in love.”

I can’t help but laugh. Especially because he most certainly didn’t seem to be hitting on me. He is already in love. Or at least lust. “Saved by a good woman?” I offer.

“For now.” Another wink. He drops my hand, flops back into his chair, and puts on his cowboy hat again. “So now you know all you need to about me. Let’s hear about you, Miss Blythe. You’re a freshman?”

“What?” I say too defensively. “No. I’m a senior.”

“My apologies. You have that lost lamb way about you. It’s sweet. Sitting here alone, a backpack probably full of overpriced textbooks… . I know the type. Besides, I’m a junior and I haven’t seen you around before, I don’t think. And you don’t seem to know who I am.”

“Understandable, I guess, but the truth is that I don’t have a backpack full of textbooks. And I’m not really around all that much. I’m more about counting the days until graduation at this point.” I shrug. That’s not entirely true, of course, because it’s not as though I have plans I’m looking forward to—but it’s one way to explain my lack of engagement with campus life. “Am I supposed to know who you are?”

“If you’re not a big fan of the theater scene here, then probably not. When I’m not wooing the lady folk, I’m in the theater. So you didn’t see me in The Glass Menagerie? My performance was none too shabby, if I do say so myself. And I directed A Doll’s House last winter.” He waits expectantly. “No? Nothing?”

I stare blankly at him. “Sorry.”

“I’m hurt. Very hurt. Considering that you and I are close friends now, I expect you to attend each and every performance of mine from now on. Deal?”

“We’re close friends now?” His shtick is both disarming and amusing.

“We are. Don’t you think? This feels right.”

“Sure,” I say. He is, in fact, onto something. The mood in the room has shifted. My mood has shifted.

“So you’ll come to see me in The Importance of Being Earnest? It opens four weeks from last night.”

“Fine. I’ll be there.” I can tell that it is easier to agree than to try to explain my general aversion to public events. At least sober ones.

“And I, in turn, will attend anything you invite me to.”

“That’s … sweet. I don’t expect to have occasion to invite a guest to anything in the foreseeable future, but I’ll keep you in mind.” The lid on my coffee cup keeps me busy as I avoid looking at Sabin. He has to be as hyperaware of the differences between us as I am. I’m mortified and feel as though being honest about my complete lack of a life looks like a cry for attention. The last thing I want.

“Wait a minute!” Sabin suddenly exclaims. “I have seen you! You funnel beer better than any girl I’ve ever met!”

“Oh God.” I drop my head into my palm.

“I’m friends with a true champ. This is fantastic.” He folds his arms across his chest and beams.

“Fantastic, indeed. So, so fantastic,” I mutter.

“Listen, new friend Blythe, thank you very much for the coffee, but I have to get back to my dorm and get some sleep.” He helps himself to my phone and begins typing, then pulls out his own phone and coaxes me into telling him my number. “There. Now we have each other’s digits. What dorm are you in? I’m in Leonard Hall, room 402, if you want to stop by.”