Teach Me(27)

I ignore everyone but Harper. “Ms. Reed, thank you for the notice. Drew, have a good one.” I toss a twenty-pound note onto the bar, never mind that it’s almost double than the cost of my last drink, and storm out of the bar.





Harper




Patrick’s arm is still wrapped around me, his fingers toying with mine, trying to slip between them and grab onto any part of me I’ll let him hold. It feels nice enough, to have his warm body pressed up against my side, and his soft, vaguely beer-scented breath brushing my neck.

But he’s not the one I want.

The one I want just stormed out of this bar like the place is on fire. Oh right, after acting like a total jerkwad. Again.

I lean over the bar to grin up at the bartender. “Can I get another JD and coke?”

“Whoa, easy there.” Patrick squeezes my hand. “You already had two. That a good idea?”

“I’m fine,” I reply imperiously, shrugging his arm off of me with more confidence than I actually feel. He’s probably right; I should wait a little before the next one. But right now, with the way my day has been going, and now running into Jack again on top of everything, I’m just ready to shut off my brain as fast as possible.

“Okay, okay. You heard the lady,” he calls to the bartender, unnecessarily, since the bartender’s already pouring my drink. “One for me too.”

I toss it back faster than I probably should, and meander back to our table with Patrick in tow. Mary Kate and Nick have been exchanging shots of Fireball chased by cider backs, so they hardly seem to notice our return—or that we had left in the first place.

“So what’s with Professor Butthurt?” Patrick inquires as we slide into our seats across from one another. “Sounds like you sure got his pants in a twist.”

I bark out a laugh. If only you knew. “Oh, he’s just mad that I called him out for being totally unrealistic. I mean, he gave me this assignment today, right?” I tug open my bag to expose the folder, which, now that I’m looking at it in the bright light of the pub, seems a lot thicker than it did when we were studying it in his office this morning. Blinded by infatuation, I didn’t notice exactly how extensive this project would be, I guess. “And he asks me to finish it by tonight. While he’s out here . . . ” I wave a hand in the bar’s general direction.

Okay, so maybe I’m at the bar too. But something about it still feels unfair—that he blew me off the way he did this morning, only to go out carousing himself.

“Professors these days.” Patrick huffs in sympathy. “It’s like they expect us to just be their servants, while they get fat on their tenure payments. I mean, can you even read all that in a single day?”

He reaches for the folder, but I snap it shut, some instinct of self-preservation telling me not to reveal too much. Jack hasn’t told the whole class about Eliot yet. He must want to keep it under wraps while we’re working—probably because he’s not sure the poems actually belong to him yet.

I’m sure they do, though. You only have to read through them all, listen to the cadence of the words, the depth and texture of each poem, the kind of writing you could dive into, swim through for days and still find something new on every reread.

“I did read it,” I reply as I run a hand through my hair. “I just didn’t have time to analyze the part I’m supposed to. Not properly, anyway. I need to spend a lot of time with this one. More than just a day.” I groan and sink in my seat before snatching up my drink for another long draft.

“Screw him. Forget about the project.” Patrick gestures in the direction of the folder, his drink sloshing dangerously close to its rim above the file. I grab it before it can be subjected to a cider bath. “Just have fun. It’s start of the term, you don’t need extra credit yet.” He tips his glass in a salute, and I drink with him.

Forgetting about the project for the time being is easy. But forgetting about Jack? Not going to be this simple.

A whole glass of bourbon and coke later, followed by a round of beer that Patrick bought while I was in the restroom, and I’m still no closer to driving the image of him out of my mind. It doesn’t help that Patrick is clearly a few sheets to the wind and has started taking every chance he gets to pat my hand on the tabletop, or brush his foot not-so-casually along my calf.

Maybe it’s all the alcohol I’ve had, or maybe it’s my usual penchant for making the wrong decision at the wrong time. But my eye lands on a small square beside our table: Professor Jack Kingston’s business card. Complete with home address. The address where he demanded I drop off this assignment before the night is through.