The Learning Hours(16)

He’s slouching, hunched over his table.

Defeated. Tired.

My stomach rolls with guilt, guilt that has me rooted to the spot in the doorway, watching him.

Just watching.

For the entire four minutes I stand here, he sits immobile, studying his laptop, eyes moving along the screen, completely transfixed by whatever he’s reading.

Learning.

“Just go over there,” I whisper to myself, blowing out a puff of pent-up air.

I put one foot in front of the other and begin toward him, spine ramrod straight, steeling myself, prepared for another argument.

Twenty feet.

Fifteen.

Eight.

Two.

“Hi.”

No reply.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” I lay my hand on the back of the wooden chair across from him, intending to pull it out.

He stiffens but doesn’t lift his head. “Yes I mind.”

“Would you mind if I sat at the table next to you?” I’m pushing his buttons, looking for a reaction, but he only spares me a brief glance.

Shrugs. “Free country.”

I bite my lip to hide a smile, glad he didn’t tell me to take a hike. “I guess I deserve that rebuff.”

Up goes one eyebrow. “Rebuff?”

“Yes, that’s when you—”

He snorts but still doesn’t look at me. “I know what a rebuff is, Laurel. I’m just surprised you do.”

Shit. I get that he’s pissed, but does he have to be such a jerk?

I huff, loudly. “You don’t have to be mean.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you, of all people, were so sensitive. Guess you’re not a fan of being on the receivin’ end of a joke.”

My fingers grip the chair across from him tighter. “I get what you’re doing.”

“Jokes are supposed to be funny, right? Ha ha.”

“I guess I deserve that,” I allow, shifting on the balls of my feet, transferring the weight of my backpack from one shoulder to the other. It’s getting heavy and I don’t know how long I want to stand here holding it. “So, can I sit here?”

“I don’t know why you’d want to.”

“Because I…” I can’t finish the sentence because I don’t know what to say.

“You want to sit here because you feel bad? You feel guilty? You want to apologize again?” He’s rattling off questions, rapid-fire, but still not looking at me. “Trust me, whatever you have to say, you can stop worrying about it. I’m over it.”

What a liar.

“Rhett, please, I’m trying here.”

He grumbles under his breath in a language I can’t understand. “Oui en effet.”

“Why won’t you at least look at me?”

This time his hands pause above his laptop keys. He lifts his face and narrows his eyes—his dark brown eyes.

“You’re a real bitch, do you know that?”

“I-I…” My mouth falls open. “No need to be so harsh.”

“You honestly thought all that shit was cute, didn’t you? Texting and sexting me then showing your fucking cousin.”

“No. That’s not how it was.”

“Do you think you can pull that shit because you’re pretty? Think you can do whatever you want?”

“No.” I mean, sometimes, yes.

“God, I’m such a fucking idiot. I should have known.”

“I didn’t show my cousin the texts, I swear. I just told her about them because she kept asking.”

“What’s the difference? Telling and showing are still invading my privacy.”

I roll my eyes. “Only if you’re going to be literal.”

“She knew you texted me as a joke.”

“Yes.”

“And she knew about the sexting.”

I blush. “Yes.”

“Sex isn’t a big deal to you, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you don’t believe in privacy?”

I groan. Why is he being so stubborn? “The only thing I lied about was my name. Fine, and my hair color. It’s not like I did anything terrible. I’m sorry. How many times are you going to make me say it?”

Those wide shoulders lift nonchalantly. “You’re the one who walked over here. I told you to leave me alone.”

True, but this is going to drive me nuts. “You’re wrong about me, you know—sex is a big deal, and so is my privacy,” I say in a defeated voice, bravado gone.

“Whatever.” Rhett takes a pair of ear buds off the table, stuffs them in his ears. Lowers his head.

My bag is heavy and I hoist it, unsure.

I know he doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I respect and understand why, I just…

Can’t let it go.

Can’t.

And yet, I don’t know what else there is to say to him. What can I do to make it better? Nothing.

There’s nothing.

Just as I’m about to give up and walk away, “Laurel, either sit down or walk away.” He shoves the chair I’m gripping out with his foot.

Thank God.

I hurry to set my bag down in the extra seat before he changes his mind, pulling mine the rest of the way out so I can join him. To study.

Study him.

I take another good, hard look while he’s pretending to ignore me.

He’s certainly not what I’d call cute, or good-looking, or handsome by any stretch of the imagination—and I presume he already knows it.

However…

There is something drawing me to him, and I wish I knew what it was so I could make it stop, make this weird fascination I have with him go away.

Maybe it’s the fact that he wants nothing to do with me. Maybe it’s the challenge he presents. Maybe it’s his broad shoulders and corded, athletic neck.

The shaggy brown hair hiding his eyes.

The scowl that crosses his face every time he turns his hurt eyes on me.

And, of course, let’s not forget this small fact: his friends are determined to get him laid. Plastered his face and number around campus. If that means what I think it means, Rhett is hard up.

Or maybe his friends are just giant assholes.

Total douchebags.

Either way, I love a good challenge, and he’s giving me one whether he intends to or not.

The idea thrills me.

Plopping down across the table, I spread out my supplies, making myself at home as if I have every right to be here. Flip open a textbook, crack open my laptop.

Proceed to ignore the fact that Rhett is resolute in his determination to ignore me.

Get to work on my homework, determined to word vomit enough characters to constitute an entire English Lit paper on the importance of strong female protagonists. It’s just riveting enough I might actually pull off near perfect points.

Satisfied with what I’ve written after forty-five minutes of actual working, I hit save then go to save it to an external drive. As I’m about to do that—

“How long are you going to sit there pretending you’re not dying to say something?” His low timbre sounds both irritated and resigned.

I raise my head and smile in his direction, pleased he’s finally paying me some attention. “Long enough. I was waiting you out, hoping you’d be the first to speak, and you were.”

I give him a wide grin, biting down on my lower lip, feigning bashfulness.

He blinks.

Blushes.

Runs a big hand through his hair and blows out a puff of air, like an angry dragon.

I hone in on the fingers in his hair, those rough man hands. The hair on his forearms. The big palms flattening over his unkempt locks.

Okay, so maybe he’s not horrible looking after all. He’s not Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame horrible, he’s just not…

Cute, or pretty, like some guys are. He’s not hot.

At least, not in the conventional way.

Everything about him is too something. Too rugged. Too unpolished. Nose too broken. Eyes too serious. Hair too disheveled. Forehead too scarred. Ears too bent.

Ears too bent? God I sound like an asshole.

But I like that he is kind and charming and southerly sweet. A gentleman.

And he definitely seems to need friends—new ones, not the guys who keep shitting on him and leaving him hanging out to dry. Those guys are nothing but trouble.

I’ve dated guys like that, obviously, the athletes who think they’re the kings of campus. They train hard, party harder, and seem to only want one thing.

Sex.

Uncomplicated sex. No-strings-attached sex. No commitments. No emotions.

Just sex.

I wonder if Rhett is the same way, but it’s highly doubtful—not with the way he rejected my advances. Didn’t bite when I was flirting. Seemed embarrassed by my attention.

Although…he did get off by our sexting because he told me he came all over his stomach. I know he came because I did too.

My cheeks flush, remembering the conversation that’s saved on my phone. I may or may not have peeked a few times since, just because. No harm in that, right?

“So you might as well tell me what you’re workin’ on,” Rhett finally says. “Since you’re determined to stay sittin’ here.”

Sittin’ here.

“An English paper.”

“How’s that going?”

I beam. It’s nice that he’s asking. “Almost done.”

He grins then, and I stare, struck by how nice his smile is. How it lights up his face. How straight his teeth are, how white. He actually has really nice, beautifully shaped lips.

A small divot in his chin beneath his five o’clock shadow.