“Before you panic,” she said with a slight smile, “I’m going to be randomly assigning partners today, and then once everyone’s been paired up, I’ll hand out the project parameters and give you the rest of the class time to brainstorm project plans.”
Random assignment. That could either be good or disastrous.
“I’ll be using this random generator to select pairs,” she said, clicking to a new slide that showed a spinning wheel interface connected to her laptop. “Let’s start at the top of my roster.”
I half-listened as I grabbed my water bottle and took a drink while she began calling names, watching the wheel spin and land on various students.
My phone buzzed with a text, and I discreetly glanced at it.
Rachel
Coffee after class? Need to vent about my theory professor.
Me
Meet you at the Grindhouse.
“Drew Dumontier,” Professor Keene called.
My head snapped up involuntarily. Drew straightened in his seat, and I could see his shoulders tense slightly. He was probably hoping to get paired with someone who’d beimpressed enough by his hockey star status to do all the work.
Professor Keene clicked the generator, and the wheel began to spin. Names flashed by in colorful segments—the names unreadable until it started to slow.
Sarah Kent…David Parker…Ryan Talbert…Delia Terrell…
No. No, no, no, no, no.
The wheel stopped, my heart right along with it.
“Harper Tinsley,” Professor Keene announced cheerfully.
The water bottle slipped from my shocked grip, spilling across the desk.
“Shit,” I whispered, watching water spread across my carefully organized notes as I fumbled in my bag for spare napkins to dry up the mess.
“Next pairing,” Professor Keene continued, completely oblivious to the fact that she’d just assigned me to academic hell.
I glanced behind me at where I knew Drew was sitting across the lecture hall. Even from this distance, his expression was perfectly clear—the same “what the fuck” look I was probably wearing. His eyes found mine across the lecture hall, and for a moment, we just stared at each other in mutual horror.
This could not be happening.
Professor Keene’s TA handed me a piece of paper with the project instructions printed on it.
Your project will involve selecting a behavioral pattern or psychological condition, researching current CBT approaches, and developing a treatment plan with evidence-based interventions.You’ll present your findings to the class during finals week.
Finals week. That was nine weeks away. Nine weeks of having to work with Drew Dumontier. Nine weeks of forced collaboration with the person who likely wanted to destroy me after the revenge stunt I’d just pulled on him.
I was going to be sick.
“I’ve posted the complete project guidelines and research requirements on the student portal so you can get started,” Professor Keene said after everyone had been paired up. “Please coordinate with your partners to establish meeting times and your project focus. I suggest you exchange contact information today before class lets out.”
Contact information. I’d have to give Drew Dumontier my phone number. The thought made my skin crawl.
Drew was still looking at me, and now he had that infuriating half-smirk on his face. Like this was all some cosmic joke instead of a complete disaster.
I wanted to throw my water-soaked notebook at his stupid perfect face.
What fresh hell was this?
