The Learning Hours(21)

“Agreed,” Gunderson chimes in. “She either has horribly bad taste in guys or is mentally unstable. Are you sure she’s hot?”

“Yes.”

“Can I interject again?” Eric interjects. “Members of the jury, I’d like to point out that this chick has been dicking you around for days, and you’re letting her lead you around by the balls. You need to either fuck her already or tell her to stop messaging you.”

“Yes! Thank you!” Gunderson shouts, banging on the coffee table. “Exhibit A: first she lies to you about who she is. Exhibit B: she lied about her car and faked needing a ride.”

My roommates are on a roll now. “New Guy, I don’t give a shit how hot this chick is, you need to dump her.”

Gunderson nods enthusiastically “You cannot let bitches treat you that way, dude.”

I listen to them rambling on and on as if I’m not standing here, wondering what the fuck is wrong with these two? Seriously, they’re so fucking ridiculous. And the way they talk about women? Not cool.

No wonder they’re both single.

Not that I have any room to talk, but still…

“Can you not refer to her that way, please? Laurel isn’t a bitch.”

“Maybe not, but she sounds calculating.”

“Well, it’s your fault I’m in this mess to begin with, isn’t it? The whole thing with those damn flyers is the reason she and I are talking in the first place.”

“But you admit she’s been lying from the beginning.”

“Are you pre-law and didn’t tell anyone about it?” I ask him, narrowing my eyes at his cross-examination.

He ignores me, ticking off Laurel’s offenses on his fingers. “And she’s a cock tease.”

“How is she a cock tease?” These guys really are aggravating. “I’m not trying to sleep with her.”

“Fine. I’ll give you that one concession—she’s not the cock tease, you are. Look, all we know is that this chick likes you for some ungodly fucking reason—she must to be panting around after you like this.”

I sigh. Why did I bother asking these two for their opinion?

“That is not what’s happenin’ here, not at all. We’re friends—she wouldn’t date a guy like me.”

“That’s probably true—you are pretty ugly.”

“Fuck you, Gunderson.”





Laurel





I’ve been up every night this week.

Night after night, fitful, lying in bed, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. After hours of restless tossing and turning, I finally gave up and let my mind wander. I could not get that boy out of my head, and for the life of me, couldn’t figure out why.

Maybe deep down inside, I still harbor guilt over the whole texting thing, the lying, or maybe I feel sorry for the shitty way his friends treat him—they really are dicks. Watching him be the brunt of jokes isn’t funny now that I’ve actually met and spent time with him.

Rhett Rabideaux might not be Prince Charming, but he’s something else entirely: he’s real. He is who he is, and makes no apologies. He’s polite and sincere and…

And this morning, I’m paying for the fact that I lay in bed awake until nearly one AM thinking about him.

His body, his voice, his face.

What is my problem?

Yawning, I stride toward campus, long legs stepping over every crack in the sidewalk, the heels of my black boots hitting the concrete with a tap tap tap.

I look both ways when I approach a curb before stepping down.

“Laurel, wait up.”

At the sound of my name and the tread of tennis shoes hitting the pavement in a light jog, I stop dead in my tracks. Whip around to see who’s behind me, my heart skipping a beat.

Be still, my silly, racing heart.

Stop it.

Maybe it’s the cold weather, but my cheeks flush at the sight of Rhett jogging toward me: gray athletic pants hanging low on his hips, dark navy sweatshirt, backward baseball cap, black backpack slung over his broad shoulder.

His gait is easy as he hits a stride, slowing to a walk once he nears, a crooked smile playing on his friendly mouth.

“Hey.” He’s not even panting. “Mornin’.”

Mornin’.

“Hi.” I bite back a smile at his sweet southern drawl, lowering my head to the sidewalk so he can’t see my stupid grin. “Headed my way?”

“Looks like it.” His eyes rake up and down my body, my cool weather outfit. The apple green sweater that sets off my fiery red hair to perfection. The knit cap pulled down over it. The skinny jeans tucked into tall boots.

Together, we head toward campus, walking side by side. Squirrels dash out of our way and I squint at one in the middle of the sidewalk up ahead.

“I swear these squirrels are out to get us. I don’t trust the way that one is staring at us.”

Beside me, Rhett laughs. “I hadn’t noticed.”

I pause. “You haven’t noticed all the squirrels? They’re everywhere! I’m convinced they’re trying to take over the world—in fact, I’d bet my life on it.”

We near the gray fox squirrel, his shaggy tail pointed in the air, balancing him as he rises on his haunches, nose sniffing the air.

“He’s checking for bad nuts,” Rhett quips.

“Well if he’s sniffing at you, I doubt he’ll find them.” I can’t help the words when they slip out of my mouth. Rhett is a good guy, and I find myself wanting him to know that’s how I feel, what I think about him.

He’s one of the good ones.

“Did you just imply that I’m a good nut?”

“Yes, is that corny?”

We laugh again, the crisp morning air filling my lungs with satisfying contentment. It feels good to be walking next to Rhett, his large body taking up the entire right side of the sidewalk.

“This whole morning has been…good.” Off to a great start and getting better by the second.

I shiver inside my fuzzy sweater, but not from the cold. When the light changes to walk at the corner, we hustle across the street, step up onto the curb. Enter the edge of campus, heading for the commons.

“What class you headed to?” My curiosity gets the best of me.

“Nonverbal Communication. What about you?”

“English. Nothing groundbreaking or cool, like French class.”

“Cois-moi, ce n’est pas si intéressant.” He chuckles. “Trust me, it’s not that exciting.”

It’s way too early in the morning to be getting turned on by his mastery of the French language. Way too early.

Nonetheless, my girl parts give a quiver.

“Do you do that on purpose?”

“Do what?”

Since I’ve decided to start being honest with him, I might as well confess. “Do you speak French knowing it drives me mad?”

His face scrunches up. “It makes you mad?”

“No. It drives me mad.” I shoot him a coy, sidelong glance. “There’s a huge difference.”

“Oh.” He falters on the sidewalk, perplexed. “There is?”

I laugh, despite myself. “Yeah Rhett, there is.” That shit is sexy as all hell. But I’m not about to fill in the blanks or point out what they are. He’s a big boy; he can figure those out for himself.

We pass the union   and the art building. Pass the large fountain in the middle of the square. It’s time for me to head left and Rhett to head right, but for whatever reason, we both delay parting.

“Well, I guess this is where we go our separate ways.” This is also more awkward than the uncertainty of standing on my front porch in the dark; part of me wants to reach a hand out and touch him, the sleeve of his hoodie, or the lock of hair sticking out from under his ball cap. “Will I see you around at any parties?”

“No, we’re leavin’ for another match. They’re usually every week during the season.”

“I didn’t know that.” I should, because I’ve dated athletes before, but something about this guy is making me a little nutty.

“How soon do you leave?”

“Early.”

“Does that mean an early night, too?”

“Usually, yeah.”

“Well good luck this weekend.”

“Thanks.” He shuffles his feet uncomfortably, stuffing those large hands inside the pocket of his hoodie, as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he wants to do something for dinner—I mean, everyone has to eat, right, so what would be the harm in grabbing food?—but I’m unable to do so. A commotion in the quad distracts me, voices growing louder behind us.

Rhett’s eyes get wide, head tips back. My gaze strays to the column of his throat as he moans. His muttered curse is followed by new voices.

“New Dude!”

I crane my neck and gawk as two huge guys approach, tall and big and crazy good-looking. Kind of pretty, ripped from head to toe, the two of them couldn’t be more dissimilar: one jovial and friendly, the other sullen and broody. I recognize them both from the billboards gracing the entire façade of the track and field house.

Wrestlers.

Wrestlers I don’t remember seeing at the dine and dash, though I’d bet money they were probably there.

I narrow my eyes.

“New Dude, hold up. Don’t try to hide from us, we’ve already seen you.” The guy’s smile is cheeky—he’s clearly entertained—as he runs a thorough body scan of me from head to toe, checking me out despite the fact that I’m with Rhett. “Your friend here is hard to miss.”