I squint up at him, wondering if this is some kind of front. His answers are the exact opposite of what I expect him to say, and I can’t figure out what to make of them. I can’t decide if he’s tailoring them to his audience or if he’s speaking from the heart.
Tailoring them, obviously,says the cynical voice in my head.Don’t be an idiot.
“Alright, enough about me,” he says. “What are your hobbies?”
I frown because designismy hobby, but that seems too nerdy to admit to someone like him. “Um, I like to read,” I tell him, glancing down at my hands. “I’m pretty boring.”
“Please.” The desk creaks as he leans closer. “I happen to find you fascinating.”
My head snaps up, caught off guard. “Y-you do?” I wince, but he only nods, looking like he’s biting back a smile. I clear my throat a little and try to get the next word out right the first time. “Why?”
He laughs. “Your eyes. When you finally work up the nerve to look at me, they say tenfold what your mouth does.” My mouth bobs open, but when nothing comes out, I snap my lips shut, not sure what to make of that statement. Wes grins like I just proved his point. “See? You’re trying to decide how offended you should be.”
My brows pull together. “Lucky guess.”
He shifts closer, lowering his voice. “You didn’t want to come to Stratus University. I could tell by the pained look in your eye during your first response. You like design, though, way more than you’re letting on with your answers. Maybe too much in your opinion. And the entire time we’ve been doing this assignment, you’ve been trying to determine if I’m completely full of shit or not. I’m not, just so you know, but I totally understand the concern.” He leans back again, chuckling at my stunned expression. “So, what kind of books?”
“W-what?”
“You said you like to read. What kind of books?” My face flames, and he smirks, looking down at his notebook. This time I’m able to make out his handwriting as he scrawlsromance booksbeside the question number.
“How did you…”
“Your blush. Says it all.”
Before I can process that little response, Markham stands up from his desk and claps his hands together. “Alright, everyone. My lecture ran a little long, and it looks like none of you are wrapped up yet. Homework is to read chapter one of the textbook, and we’ll finish up these interviews next time.” Around us, students start getting to their feet. “Hey, hey. Move the desks back where they started before you go, you hooligans.”
I close my laptop, then stand to rearrange my desk. After tucking my computer away, I slip on my thick, winter coat and sling my backpack over my shoulder. Following the girl in front of me, I head for the door?—
“Hey, Ivy,” Wes calls, loud enough that a couple students turn. My face heats from the unwanted attention, but I pause my steps, glancing back at him. He winks. “See you Thursday.”
My cheek twitches becausewas that really necessary?But I nod before scurrying out of the room, questioning how in the hell I’m going to survive another class across from this man’s overly perceptive gaze when the only thing I want is to disappear.
Not in themood to tiptoe around my roommates and hibernate in my bedroom, I hide out in the library.
Seated at my usual table on the second floor, secluded from the rest by monstrous bookshelves, I spread my assignments over the wooden surface. My Wednesdays are packed this semester—Color: Theory and Application in the morning, Survey of Western Art just after lunch, and Basic Mathematics in the late afternoon—and it’s important that I stay on top of my workload.
Not that grades matter to my parents. I could graduate summa cum laude, and they’d still be disappointed that I’m majoring in design instead of something “useful” like my brothers.
“I hope you’re happy, Ivy.”
“Are you doing this to punish us?”
“Don’t ruin your life like this.”
Inserting my headphones, I hunker down for the next couple hours, coming up for air only when I’ve exhausted my brain’s mental capacity for understanding the difference between permutations and combinations.
I close my textbook and leave my sheltered little corner in search of the bathroom. Walking through the more populated area of the library, I spot my third dormmate, Quinn, seated across from her boyfriend, a junior whose name I can’t remember.
She gives me a small wave of acknowledgement, and I return the gesture. Quinn doesn’t have an issue with me (that I know of), but she’s scarcely ever at the dorm. She spends most of her time with her boyfriend in his off-campus house, and I really only see her when she’s packing or unpacking an overnight bag.
Pushing open the door to the women’s room, I freeze in my tracks. The dark-haired girl primping at the sink glances up, eyebrows raising as she catches my reflection in the mirror. I recognize the butterfly tattoo on the back of her neck instantly.
Shit.
Alexis Cane turns to face me, and I clench every muscle in my body in an effort not to step backward, away from her. Seeing my former friend standing in front of me drains the air from my lungs, and the memories assail my mind before I can stop them.
I see us, gossiping during weekend coffee dates. Suffering through gym class and sophomore English. Laughing in the car on the way home from school. Texting about crushes and parties and any random shit that popped into our head.
