So, I am here at Wexley University to get a degree that can make money. My own money.
I wish I had the brain for engineering or computer science. Both prelaw and premed seemed like a circle jerk of ego stroking, so those are out too. However, after living around Sydney Graves for most of my life, I learned that rich people are happy to make money with almost anyone. But they only trust a select few to handle that money, and that trust comes at a price.
When my adviser saw my stacked course schedule, she encouraged me to hold off on economics until next semester in favor of knocking out an elective. With my work schedule and other classes already firmed up, my options were limited to Intro to Theater and Pottery 1.
After taking advantage of my pricey meal plan and grabbing a sandwich at the cafeteria, I get to class early to claim a seat at the back of the room, which has rows of tall tables and stools. Theclass, housed on the third floor of Bachrach, fills in quickly when a herd of art majors file in looking exactly like… well, art majors.
Just before the professor—an older woman with long gray hair pulled back into an intricate braid—closes the door, a tall golden retriever of a boy steps inside and seats himself directly next to me. He is also very hot.
“You look as uncomfortable as I feel,” he says.
“Oh, um, I sort of got forced into this class.”
“Elective?”
I nod. “It’s my first semester, and my adviser didn’t make taking an elective feel very… elective.”
Golden retriever boy grins, his chin dipping down as he laughs quietly. “Yeah, it’s like they want us to be well rounded or something.”
My stomach flutters at his easy charm. What can I say? I’m living with Bennett. The bar is low.
He is an overgrown Ken doll but with warm chestnut eyes instead of blue, a square jaw, and an open smile. The only things he has with him are a beat-up notebook and golf pencil. He is clearly the kind of guy who is completely unconcerned with making himself unnoticeable even as he strides into class nearly late on the first day. His stool is a little too close to mine, and normally I would find the manspreading and the constant brushing of his elbow invasive. But he’s watching me with this loose smile that makes me feel like we’re old friends, and the golf pencildoesmake me laugh.
“We should make some sort of pact,” he says.
“What were you thinking?” I whisper as the professor begins to pull up the syllabus on her screen.
“You stop me from getting brainwashed into an art major, and I’ll do the same for you.”
“A united front,” I say.
“Exactly.” He grins and wags my hand up and down before giving me a sly little wink.
For the rest of the class, my tablemate mutters commentary under his breath, and I have to cover my mouth several times to hide my smile, especially when the pottery examples we are shown take a turn for the phallic.
After class, my neighbor steps in front of me and holds a hand out to help me up. Like everyone else in my life, he is tall. I can’t really say how tall because when you’re short, there is a single binary: eye level and definitely not eye level. But he’s probably close to Bennett’s height. “I’m Tate, by the way.”
“Clover,” I tell him.
“That’s a good name,” Tate says, and then his expression lights up. “Have I seen you at the Cannon Beach Country Club before?”
I opt for a noncommittal shrug. “Years ago, maybe.”
He nods to himself. “I went to a boarding school back East, but I’m sure I saw you there during the summer or something.”
Tate hands me his phone with a blank contact form open. “In case you’re having a moment of weakness and need someone to talk you off a ledge before you change your major to performance art or comparative textiles.” He has a smooth sort of confidence that flows so easily I don’t even realize he’s successfully asked for my number without even posing the question.
I fill in my name and number before passing his phone back, and his fingers wrap around mine, warm and firm, before the moment is gone.
He winks and then calls back to me as we part ways, “See you soon, Clover.”
After class, I find a missed call from my mom and decide to call her back.
“Hey, you,” she says on the second ring. “I’m just walking back in from my lunch break but wanted to see how your first day was going.”
“Well, I haven’t failed anything yet.”
“That’s my girl!”
