Definitely, Maybe in Love(12)

"Sustainability."

I frowned. "You know what that is?"

"I do." When I didn't go on, he gestured for me to continue.

"Anyway, since you know what sustainability is, you're probably also  aware that land development is destroying the environment. Yeah, I know,  this isn't news, but I'm trying to prove that the continued usage of  developed land could be even worse; it should be revitalized back into  nature. No new patches of forests or mountainsides or wetlands are  suddenly going to appear in the middle of an urban system. We've got all  we're ever going to have right now, today. And it's not enough."

"Isn't that an overly simplistic way of looking at it?" he asked.

I stared across the table at him. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Look, do you want to hear the rest of this or do you want to argue?"

His eyebrows pulled together like he was about to say something else, but then he shut his mouth and sat back.

"Like I was saying." I gave him a look. "At this rate, we're going to be living in a dystopian world in three generations."

"A what?"

"Dystopia. The yang of utopia. Think: opposite of the Garden of Eden. Like The Hunger Games. Have you read that?"

He shook his head, bewildered.

"It's a novel, similar to 1984 in the-"

"You're getting your research from novels?"

"Of course not. I was making a comparison." I kneaded a fist into my  temple, annoyed with all the derailing. "Anyway, what I mean is, we have  to take back industrial land, that's the only way to save it. I've got  the environmental research, but Masen, my professor, wants me to learn  more about the business end, the economics of it, the legal side."

Frustrated at the thought, I cupped my hands over my face, feeling-not  for the first time in three weeks-at a complete loss. If I thought too  much about it, I would worry myself sick. Then … I would drown.                       
       
           



       

"I've got a hard deadline coming up," I mumbled through my fingers,  mostly to myself. "I've read some articles and books and sat in on a few  urban econ lectures, and I've even talked to a couple econ majors. How  can no one at Stanford understand what I'm talking about?"

"Email me your outline."

Knowing I must have misheard, I peeled away my fingers and looked up. "What?"

"Your facts are wrong."

I dropped my hands. "No, they aren't."

"They are. I can help."

"No, you can't." I pushed back my chair, wondering if he was  purposefully insulting me or if this was his personality. "Why would you  want to help me, anyway?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I think we got off on the wrong foot," he answered. "Maybe I've been wanting to make up for that."

"Do you have another foot?" I asked skeptically.

He stared back. "What?"

My bad joke was lost on him. "Nothing," I said. "Anyway, I'm not letting you read my outline. I don't even know you."

He leaned forward, resting his crossed arms on the table. "Spring, do you know what I'm studying to be?"

"A lawyer," I said. "You're in law school."

"That's correct." He rubbed his chin, reminding me a bit of Professor  Masen. "My undergrad was in finance, but I'm studying corporate law with  an emphasis in property development."

I stared at him, my brain grinding into gear at what his words implied. A  second later, I felt cold fingers slide up my spine, and my heart  started pounding under Henry Knightly's heavy gaze, but it was for a  different reason this time.

"Does that mean … "

"That means," he said, "if you're an environmentalist, then I'm your  worst nightmare." We stared across the table at each other, an invisible  wall bricking between us. "But it also means that if you want to learn  about the economics of land development"-he steepled the tips of his  fingers under his chin-"then I'm the man of your dreams."





Chapter 8

I lingered outside the doorway of the private study room on the third floor of the library, unwilling to step inside just yet.

I still couldn't believe it, couldn't believe my stupid luck. Of all the  people who could help me-who were willing to help me-with my research  project, it was Henry Knightly.

Stupid, fracking karma.

After breakfast at the café, I ran home through the rain and looked him  up online. Or his family, rather. They were land barons, all right, had  been for generations. When I'd Googled the Knightlys last year, digging  up dirt when Knightly Hall was under construction, I had only scratched  the surface. They did indeed own land all throughout North America, the  biggest chunks around Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana. Prime farm and cattle  real estate.

What they must have done to the landscape, I didn't want to imagine.  They'd had no issue bulldozing a strip of green to erect their namesake  building at Stanford. Why would they treat twenty thousand innocent  acres in the northwest any differently?

Halfway through my statistics class, my phone had vibrated with a new  email. Again, he'd asked me to send my outline. I put off the inevitable  for as long as I could, but as I calculated how many days I had left  before Masen would be breathing down my neck, I finally realized I had  no choice. I sent him my outline and fifteen minutes later, he emailed  back, wanting to meet.

"Are we doing this or not?"

I jumped at his voice coming from inside the study room. How had he  known I was there? Had he seen my shadow? Heard me tiptoe toward the  room? Jeez, could he smell me? Could money buy super senses?

"Spring, I've got my own class in an hour."

I closed my eyes for a second, gripped the strap of my backpack, then entered the room.

Knightly sat at a small table, a stack of books off to the side, and one  of those slick black mini-laptops in front of him. He wore the same  shirt and tie as this morning, only the top button was undone now, and  his tie knot was loose. It was a good look on him. Now if he'd flash one  of those smiles, this might be bearable.

"Hey," I said, "sorry I'm late, I-"

"It's fine." He didn't look up as I sat down.

Okay, so we were back to Mr. Charm then.

"I've been going over your outline and the list of resources you cited,"  he said, clicking the down arrow about twenty times, staring at the  screen.

"And?" I asked when he didn't go on. "And you think it's crap, right?"                       
       
           



       

"Not all of it," he said, highlighting a paragraph on the screen.

"Well, that's a relief," I muttered, leaning on an elbow. "I didn't  assume we were going to see eye-to-eye on this, obviously. I know about  the land your family owns."

He finally lifted his chin but didn't speak. I'd expected him to jump  in, to debate with me like at breakfast, to say something. But he was  just sitting there with a blank expression.

His silence made me tense.

"I … I know what they-what you-believe in," I added, unable to stop myself  from filling the silence. "And you should know, I didn't come here to  argue with you, or to hear a lecture, or for either of us to change our  minds. I'm here because I have no other choice. Just so we're clear.  Okay? Don't think you can trash my whole belief system then walk away."

He leaned back in his chair. "I haven't said anything yet."

I blinked. "Oh. Well …  But I know what you're thinking."

A tiny smile twitched the corner of his lips, a hint of that same smile  that had halted me at breakfast. "How could you know that?" he asked,  smoothing down his tie.

"Because I know your type," I said, choosing to continue the argument  instead of focusing on how looking at his smile made me want to lick my  lips. "You've got a finance degree, you come from money and drive a  sports car. You voted Republican, didn't you?"

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Is that a crime?"

"I wish," I muttered, turning to a clean page of my notebook.

"Wow," he said, deadpan. "Anything else about me you'd like to get off your chest?"

Suddenly, everything Alex told me came flooding into my brain. How  Knightly had been jealous, judgmental, accusatory, and then Alex was  suddenly expelled from high school. The memory of what Knightly had said  about me at the party-what I'd heard him say-was also front and center  in my mind. And how he'd yelled at the movers to not touch his precious  car, and how he hadn't spoken one word to Julia.

He may have been helping me out of a pretty huge bind, but I wasn't  about to trust him, despite the way he was watching me with that  almost-smile, and the way one stray lock of dark hair had fallen across  his forehead, begging for my fingers to push it back then continue  running through his hair.