As the professor launched into Plato’s beliefs that well-being, happiness, and virtue are the epitome of ethical practices and a moral life, I sat trying to figure out how to trick this human statue into talking to me after class. I would have taken any acknowledgment of my presence as a win. Standoffish wasn’t my type, but here I was, drawn to figuring out how to get this seemingly lone wolf among the pack of assembled scholars to notice me.
The second the professor ended his fifty-minute lecture, I pounced with a proclamation that I was hungry and issued an apology for my stomach growling throughout class. Quinn and I predicted that this planned admission, whether true or not, would result in an invitation to buy me a bagel at the Rotunda, the café in the student center. It was a scheme we both were sure would work because boys are always hungry and searching for something to eat. Plus, Charles had bought Quinn every bagel she had hinted at.
“The dining halls are open until 10:00 a.m. If you hurry, you have time to grab something there,” was the rational response I got to my feigned girl-in-starvation distress.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” was all I could think of to answer as my pale winter complexion turned sunburn red at the failure of Quinn’s and my scheme. I gave it one last shot. “Did you maybe wanna grab a bite with me?”
“Nah. But we can head over to Rocky, and I could sit with you while you eat. I need to pick up some things from my room for my next class and get a head start on the reading for Wednesday.” This was clearly a guy who preferred words on the page to those spoken out loud, but there was something intriguing about his thick, slow voice and rich brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he talked. And then there were those abs I was dying to see again.
“Are you sure?” I was now acutely aware of coming across as desperate. I wanted him to want to join me, not feel an obligation to escort me through the dining-hall doors.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Maybe you could call me by my name, rather thanma’am?” I invited, not wanting to embarrass him but hoping to distinguish myself as being younger than his mother. “I’m Callie Steele.”
His full lips parted, revealing perfect, even white teeth. “Nice to meet you, Callie Steele,” my fellow literature lover drawled. “I’m Porter Beaumont.”
Chapter Nine
February 1990
“Are you not getting anything?” I asked, reluctant to be the only one to load up my plate.
“Oh, I already ate.”Had the guy not heard of a snack?
“Before our 8:00 a.m. class? What are you, a vampire? Were you up all night and now you’re going to bed after this?” I attempted to joke, pushing my tray past the eggs station, eager to see Porter smile again. But his face remained serious, and despite his assertion that he had already eaten, he began adding hash browns, three pancakes, and an enormous orange juice to my tray, taking advantage of Princeton’s all-inclusive, eat-as-much-as-you-want meal plan.
As we sat down, I noticed the dining hall was practically empty; most students had moved into the full swing of their days. A few kids stuffed fruit and cereal boxes into their bags, hoarding snacks for between classes. When Porter had devoured his second breakfast in eight bites and one big chug of his juice glass, I suddenly felt self-conscious that there was somewhere else he might want to be, like in the library, studying or hanging out with his friends rather than keeping me company while I ate.
“I grew up on a farm in South Carolina, so I eat early.” True to his word, once Porter had wiped his mouth before I had even had three sips of coffee, he started digging into his backpack to pull out our assignedreading. “I had chores to do before school, so I guess I’m a practiced sun-riser and fast eater.” He retrieved a flagged and annotated volume of Plato and grinned like he’d harvested gold.
“Chores like what?” I asked, biting into my egg sandwich. He gave me a look of confusion when I asked yet another question rather than reaching for my matching copy. Porter hesitantly put the book down next to him on the long oak table. He rested his right hand on top of the cover, ready to read at a moment’s notice.
“Mornings are the best time to set fence posts. Gets too hot later on.” Porter’s viselike grip when taking notes must have come from the daily work he grew up doing that I’d only ever seen on episodes about rural America onCBS News Sunday Morningwith Charles Kuralt, which my parents religiously watched.
“So tell me what happens on the Beaumont farm,” I toss out flirtatiously, flipping my thick chestnut-brown hair behind my shoulders to show off my neck.
“We grow things.” This guy was making me work for every word of this conversation.
“I assumed as much. Like, what things do you grow?” I sensed Porter wince as he shifted his body on the hard bench. I thought I was merely making small talk, but I may have leaned too far into personal territory too soon for this reserved mountain of a man. I rolled my lips in on each other to keep myself quiet, hoping I hadn’t blown it.
“Soybeans and corn, mostly. Some peanuts. Used to be cotton a long time ago,” Porter said with a slight dare in his glance at me. I was smart enough to keep quiet. “Where I grew up, we are kind of known to have the sweetest corn.”
“And what do you like to do when you’re not working on your family’s farm?”
“Read, mostly.” There was no way this guy had that body by reading mostly. Plus, being well read described pretty much every student at Princeton, so there had to be more to the Porter Beaumont résumé.
“That’s all?”
“I’m also good at football.” Porter sheepishly smiled at me, clearly understanding what I was wondering and would never ask. When you are one of the chosen few to make it to Princeton, everyone wants to know how you got it done and how you stack up compared to them.
“I’ve been to a few football parties with Charles Street; I don’t think I’ve seen you.”
“Charles Street’s a good dude.” Porter tells me what I already know. “I show up occasionally with my teammates, but I usually don’t stay too long.” With his hand still resting on Plato, it’s not hard to guess what Porter would rather be doing than drinking crappy beer.
“A farm boy from South Carolina who loves literature and plays football. That’s not your average Ivy League story. You must be talented.”
“I’m okay, I guess.” Porter bit his lower lip and diverted his eyes from me to gazing around the dining hall, like he was embarrassed to divulge his skills, or ready to be done with our conversation.
