Chapter Nineteen
Molly
Evan gathers the index cards, taps them twice on the table with a little flourish, and lines them up into a perfect stack. Then he slides the neat arrangement precisely between us, right in the dead center of the map of scribbled napkins and scratch paper. The lamp above our booth spills gold over his forearms and turns the dregs of the cheap wine in our glasses into something that looks expensive and rare. The bookstore bar is almost empty except for us and a pair of grad students arguing about poetry in the corner, each trying to out-obscure the other. We are the last survivors, the stragglers on the far side of last call.
My brain still feels like a battered drumhead, reverberating with equations and concepts, but the panic has faded into a manageable hum. In its place is this quiet, comfortable warmth that feels dangerous in a different way.
I cradle my mug of cold coffee and stare at the last scribbles in my notebook. The pages are a mess, but they’re my mess, and suddenly I feel a kind of pride in the chaos.
Across from me, Evan sits back within the U-shaped booth, arms stretched over the seatbacks, as if this is his living room and I’m the only guest worth having. “That’s it,” he says, but his voice is soft, almost reverent.
I blink at him. “That’s it?”
He nods, stacking the satisfaction on top of the note cards. “That’s it. You just bullied macroeconomics into submission.”
“Bullied?” I try to sound offended, but I can’t quite muster the energy.
He grins, showing a sliver of front teeth. “You’ve got the intimidation down. I think you scared the IS-LM curve into behaving.”
“The IS-LM curve wasn’t the problem. It was the bullshit open economy stuff.”
“Ooh, listen to you,” he says, like he’s genuinely impressed, like I didn’t just parrot the terms minutes ago from his own mouth. “You’re going to destroy that quiz. You’ll see.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling, which feels like a weird betrayal of my own principles. “You should go into motivational speaking. Seriously.”
Evan leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced.
“I know effort when I see it,” he says, so softly and plainly that it lands with the weight of an anvil. “You could do anything if you wanted to.”
I look away. Something in my throat wants to escape, and I bury it under a scoff.
“Now you’re just making stuff up.”
He shrugs. “You don’t believe it, but I do.”
I glance away, because if I hold his gaze too long, I’ll do something stupid. “So now what? You going to give me a gold star?”
He huffs a laugh — real, low, warm. “If you want a gold star, I’ll find you a gold star.”
“I don’t want a gold star.”
“Sure you don’t,” he says, and the teasing edge in his voice makes my stomach flip. “How the hell could anyone not want a gold star? Or a sticker, for that matter?”
“OK, you didn’t say stickers were on offer,” I say, smiling despite myself.
A server swings by, clearing plates and chocolate wrappers and the last remains of our fruit. “Need anything else?”
Evan looks at me first. Always me first. “You good?”
I should say I’m leaving. I should say I’m going home, alone, where my rules can wrap back around me like armor.
Instead, I hear myself say, “I’m good.”
The server grins like she can smell trouble. “All right. Call me if you need me.”
When she leaves, I shove the pens and cards into my bag with more force than necessary. Evan watches me with that patient calm that makes me want to throw something at him.
I stand. “I should go.” I check my phone and blink. Holy shit, it’s late. It’s been way more than an hour, though it doesn’t feel like it. Being with Evan, studying with Evan, has felt… not unpleasant.
