I approach him and say his name a couple of times to test his level of consciousness. With my pent up frustration, I shake his shoulder. He still doesn’t stir. Carefully, I roll him onto his side and press the back of my hand to his clammy forehead. He’s warm but not enough to run a fever. Alcohol poisoning. My other fear.
“Is he okay?”
I jump at the voice, momentarily forgetting Connor. He leans a hip on the door frame, looking impassive as he watches me take care of Lo.
“He’ll survive,” I say. “Thanks for your help.”
He shrugs casually. “It’s good for me. I’ve been holed up in the library for the past four years that I’ve forgotten what real problems look like.”
Riiight. I brush off his hundredth offensive comment of the night. “I’ll see you tomorrow then? If you still want to tutor me.”
“For the fifteenth time,yes,”he says. “You need to work on your listening skills. I’ll see you at six.”
I frown. “Isn’t that a little late?”
He flashes one of those prep boy smiles. “Six in the morning.”
Oh. I glance at the digital clock on the desk. “That’s in five hours.”
“Then you better get to bed.” He looks inscrutable, glimpsing at Lo one last time, and then slips out the doorway, leaving the apartment.
Lo is dead to the world, and I decide to sleep in the guest bedroom. I curl in my purple sheets and realize that I’ve been so concerned for Lo’s safety that I haven’t thought about sex at all tonight.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Connor arrives promptlyat six with steaming coffee and a box of croissants. Unlike me, no dark circles shadow his eyes, and he saunters in, all too chipper. He must run on five hours of sleep.
“Are you on drugs?” I ask. “Adderall?” Lots of college students abuse stimulants to study, basically performance enhancers for the intellectual elite.
“Absolutely not. You can’t taint natural genius.” He pauses. “Have you tried it? It may work for you.”
“You do realize you just insulted me?” I finally “out” his rudeness.
He rips a croissant in half and smiles. “I apologize,” he says,unapologetically.“I was just trying to be helpful. Some people can concentrate better on Adderall. It’s not for me, but maybe for you?” Strangely, rephrasing the question helps mild the insult. That may be one of Connor Cobalt’s intricacies. Or just a gift.
“No drugs,” I tell him, never liking stimulants, downers, or any narcotics. I have an addiction already—I don’t need another. “I want to do this the right way, even if I’m not a natural born genius.”
“Then let’s get to the books.”
We study a few more hours, and I retain the information this time, working on problems while Connor busies himself by making me flashcards. His handwriting is neater than mine, and I’m sure he’s already inflated himself with that knowledge.
When he finishes his last stack, he peeks at the clock on the oven. Studying eats time like a beast, so I’m not surprised it’s already noon. “He’s still asleep?” Connor asks, sounding surprised.
It takes me a moment to realize he means Lo. We dodged the subject since Connor stepped through the doorway with sweet smelling coffee and baked goods. He asked if Lo was okay and that was that.
“He’s passed out,” I correct him. “He’ll probably wake up within the hour.”
“Does he do that a lot?”
I give him a noncommittal shrug, not wanting to discuss Lo right now. Thankfully, he catches the hint and flips open my notebook to review my problem sets.
Twenty minutes later, we order Chinese for lunch. As soon as I hang up the phone, the toilet flushes in the other room. I focus on the sound of heavy, sluggish footsteps. I have zero interest in speaking with Lo, only to get slurred responses with irritable jabs.
I turn to the books, pretending that Lo hasn’t risen from bed, and ask Connor to explain chapter four to me again. Lo must hear another guy’s voice because only seconds pass before he braces the sunlight that streams through the kitchen windows.
Connor’s words taper off as Lo lumbers in. His matted hair sticks up in different directions, his complexion peaked and clammy, and the pungent smell of scotch permeates around him. If he was a cartoon, he’d be Pepe Le Pew with a smoky cloud circling his body. I should have helped him shower or at least tried to change him out of his clothes last night. He would have done the same for me.
Lo runs a hand through his hair and shuffles to the coffee pot. His eyes briefly flicker to the bar where we sit. “I know you,” Lo says, filling a mug.
