Page 30 of Rent a Bad Boy

By Wednesday—today—I’ve had enough.

I spot him on my way to the science building, leaning against a brick wall with his arms crossed and a coffee in his hand. He looks exactly like somebody who’s trying very hard to seem casual and completely failing. When I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stare at him, he takes a sip of coffee like he just happens to be here. Like this is where he always drinks his coffee. Outside a building where he doesn’t have a single class.

“Okay,” I mutter, walking over to where Everett stands. “We need to talk about this.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that you’ve been following me for three days.”

He takes another sip but doesn’t deny it, I notice. “Following is a strong word.”

“What word would you use?”

“Keeping an eye on things.”

“That’s five words, and when you put them all together, it means stalking.” I hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder and look up at him, which requires actual neck effort because of the height difference. “You’re not subtle. Your textbook was upside down yesterday.”

“I noticed that after.”

“After what? After I walked past you three times, and you pretended to be reading a chapter on organic chemistry that was literally facing the wrong direction?” When he gives me something close to a smile, I throw my hands into the air. “Why are you doing this?”

He’s quiet for a second. He takes another sip from his coffee, then lowers the cup and says, “You told me you needed time to think.”

“I did.”

“Okay. So you’re thinking. That’s fine. Take all the time you need.” He shrugs. “I don’t need time.”

I don’t need time. Like he’s already thought about everything—the fight, the blood, the concrete floor—and come out on the other side with his answer. Like the answer was never in question.

I don’t have the first clue what to think about it. “So you’ve just been... what? Hovering?”

“Making sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t texted me since Sunday.”

“Because I’m thinking, like I told you.”

“And I’m letting you think. From a reasonable distance.”

I’m going to kill him. I swear to God. Doesn’t he understand? “There is nothing reasonable about this distance. You were ten feet away from me outside the dining hall this morning.”

He almost smiles again, and I hate that it does something to me, because I’ve spent the last three days very deliberately not thinking about his almost-smiles or his hands or the way his voice sounds when he says my name or any of the other things I told myself I was going to sort through rationally, like an adult, like a person with a working brain.

Instead, I’ve been lying in bed every night replaying the fight in my head. The sound of his fist connecting. The way the other guy crumpled. The blood and the crowd screaming for more.

And then I’ve immediately replayed everything else. His hands in my hair. His mouth on my neck.

It’s very confusing to be simultaneously horrified by someone and unable to stop thinking about them. I don’t recommend it.

“I don’t hate you,” I tell him, because I realize I haven’t said that. Based on the way he’s watching me right now, it’s possible he’s spent days wondering. “I want you to know that. I don’t hate you, and I’m not afraid of you, and I’m not trying to...” I gesture vaguely between us. “End anything. I just needed to process.”

“I know.”

“You don’t seem like you know. You seem like you’ve been standing outside my buildings for three days making sure I don’t disappear.”

“Both things can be true.”