Chapter 16
16
My head lands on Scott’s chest. The rest of me lands in the mud.
“ Ufh ,” I hear him exhale.
“ Ew ,” I declare.
I push myself up, feeling the wet squelch of mud everywhere. I’m covered in river muck. Forget pride in my filthiness. I regret everything.
We’re right where the grassy incline meets the murky current of the river. It’s calendar-page worthy, with swaying green foliage overhead, rocks dotting the river’s edge, and the cloudless sky overhead. Comically lovely, except for the pair of mud-covered intruders.
When I wrestle to my knees, I find Scott similarly coated in mud. It’s small, grim consolation. At least I have this sight as a cherished memory forever.
Scott sits up, grimacing at the grime on his hands. His eyes meet mine, and—
He laughs. How dare he .
“You look worse,” I inform him.
Scott stands. “Do I?” He doesn’t sound furious, which I can’t quite make sense of. He holds his arms wide, showing off how, yes, he’s completely mud-covered.
Yet the grime is not what I notice most. It’s how unfairly endearing his smile is.
Unfairly . I cling to resentment like I clung to the obstacle course fence. “I would have won if you weren’t here,” I say.
Scott nods, like, Yes, reasonable point, Jennifer .
“Alternatively,” he remarks, “ I would have won if a certain irritating colleague of mine hadn’t thrown herself at me.”
I flatten my gaze, hearing his double meaning and in no mood to entertain it. He’s here for one reason. Here at the Experience, here at the obstacle course, here in this muddy river. “Did you know the winner would get a clue, or were you just determined to outdo me?” I demand.
His expression doesn’t change. If the clue reveal was new information, he conceals his reaction well. Or I don’t know—perhaps he had the same knowledge. He could have had his own nocturnal flirtations with Kethryn in the dining hall. “Your competing was reason enough for me to sign up,” he replies, evading the question.
“Don’t we do enough competing at work?” I return. It’s funny—we’ve never outright discussed the quiet war we wage in every presentation and departmental meeting. Until now, covered in river mud. “Itemizing your objections to my pitches for every weekly meeting wasn’t doing it for you? Had to add obstacle courses into the fun?”
“I did think it would be amusing to beat you,” he admits. “As it always is. But no. You were avoiding me, and I wanted to quickly follow up on the rebound comment.”
It’s equal measures annoying and darkly comic, how he’s co-opting email phrasing for our present, very unprofessional discussion. Just following up. Just like he does in our inbox exchanges when he pings me on an unfortunately overlooked deadline, with everyone cc’d.
“Sorry, I’m out of office today,” I imitate. “Could we circle back or connect live? How about end-of-day never?”
He watches me like the Scott I know, but fraught with emotions I don’t recognize on him. Familiar, yet unknown, like the new installment in an old series. One I’m not sure I’m going to enjoy. Scott Daniels, the next chapter.
“Cute,” he replies, droll. As I study him, he holds out his hand to help me up.
I hesitate. Ultimately, not wishing to incur further embarrassment by slipping onto my ass on my way up, I reach up and put my hand in Scott’s.
He starts to pull. The mud makes our fingers slick against each other’s, and Scott needs to grip me hard to get purchase. The contact is firm and gentle, warm and rough—and damnit , I want him to hold on.
“Gross,” Scott comments.
Meaning the mud. “Disgusting, yes,” I reply hastily.
I drop his hand as soon as I’m on my feet, feeling like I’m losing something instead of releasing it. Hating my unreliable heart, I storm off—only to hear Scott’s footsteps following me up the wooded hillside.
“So returning to our discussion,” he prompts.
“We weren’t having a discussion, Scott,” I say. “I don’t even want a rebound, honestly. I’m not a rebound girl.”
Seconds pass in which only our footsteps crunching dried leaves fill the silence, until Scott speaks up. “Sure, that makes sense,” he says.
Wow , I nearly comment, your first ever instance of agreeing with me. What character development! Then I decide I do not wish to prolong the conversation, if possible.
Scott’s stride once more easily outpaces mine. He comes up next to me, then slows to fall into step.
“For my research this week,” he ventures, “I’m curious why exactly you were so opposed to me. As a hypothetical hookup, of course,” he clarifies.
I’m quietly relieved. He’s not playing with me. He only wants to know for his little book boyfriend project.
“You’re going to write what I say in that journal of yours?” I inquire.
Scott nods once. His stride is loping and comfortable next to my muddy stomping under the North Carolina forest cover.
“ Everything I say?”
“Yes, Jennifer,” he replies with put-on patience.
I feel the muddy squelch of my steps less now. The sun seems to shine warmer on my drenched clothes despite the heavy canopy of leaves overhead. “Well, hypothetically ,” I commence, “I think it has something to do with your face.”
Scott stops.
Innocently, I pause with him, turning to him in inquiry.
“My face,” he repeats.
I keep my expression neutral, mustering my most reasonable countenance. Like he’s just proposed sharing our presentation templates with each other instead of hoarding our own files in pursuit of PowerPoint domination. Reasonableness, not rivalry. “Yes, your face. It’s just off-putting,” I reply. “Thank you for being so professional about constructive feedback. It’s a skill I’m pleased to see you progressing on.”
He scowls while he wipes sweat and mud from his forehead with one precise hand. It’s almost like he’s—drawing my eye intentionally. “I don’t think my face has anything to do with it,” he informs me. “In fact, I think you like my face.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time we disagreed,” I reply.
Scott shakes his head, undeterred. “No. I’ve watched you watch me . Our morning outside the showers. Wrestling on the green. The way your eyes…linger,” he describes slowly. “Yes, I think you like my face just fine.”
Hot irritation flames in me. Presumptuous much? I wish I could reply with withering sarcasm.
Except then Scott would press me on whether he was wrong. I’m not confident I could convincingly lie—not when I do, in fact, find his face less than loathsome. “It’s your personality,” I return stubbornly. “Hypothetically, it sucks.”
“I’m working on that,” Scott replies. “Would you say I’ve improved or worsened since arriving here?”
I stop, thrown. Nothing in his earnest response sounds sarcastic or performed. I wasn’t expecting him to…take my insult seriously.
Still, it’s impossible to imagine he’s not pursuing some agenda, some subterfuge. Remembering the Jennifer I envisioned dashing into combat with demons, I decide I need to reassert myself. “Well, your personality couldn’t possibly worsen,” I say. “Nothing’s worse than rudely rejecting someone who was just trying to be friendly.”
Instantly, the memory of our first conversation stings me. The embarrassment hurts even now. In hindsight, invoking Scott’s dismissal of me perhaps was not the wisest avenue for insulting my nemesis.
He studies me. “When?” he asks hesitantly. “You mean—”
“You know exactly when I mean,” I snap. “Charlene’s party. When I invited you out for drinks, hoping to make a new friend in the office, and you acted like I was…nobody.”
Scott falters. I don’t dare wonder whether I catch the faintest hint of regret on his familiar features. The forest stillness descends over us. When Scott opens his mouth, I resent how I know I’m going to hang on to his every word.
“I would just point out…” he says, “considering you did want to get drinks together, my personality can’t be that bad.”
I utter a cry of frustration. Of course he doesn’t care. Of course my shame is his punch line. “Clearly,” I say, “it was a mistake I am continuing to suffer for.”
Furious, I spin on my heel and march off. I refuse to wait for whatever painfully precise retort I’ll receive from Scott.
Of course, he follows. We continue along the river, heading away from the obstacle course finish line, where the winner, a six-foot-two woman I saw overcome the fence challenge in five seconds flat, is receiving a rose from Kethryn.
Scott lets a few moments pass. Until—
“You want to know why I said no, don’t you?”
My cheeks flame. I stomp forward, decimating leaves underfoot with deliberate vengeance now. “Not at all,” I reply.
Of course, I’ve only wondered for the past year why he said no.
What’s more, I’ve given him the opportunity for the perfect comeback. He could say my face. My personality. It…would hurt, I realize, which makes me regret my own insults flung his way.
Instead, Scott responds with his infuriating calm. “I heard you and Amelia talking in the lounge on my first day,” he says.
I don’t reply, having very much not expected his answer. What could I possibly have said? I wrack my mind. Were we shit-talking someone he was friends with? No, we very rarely complain about people. Only when they’ve done something egregious—like, say, rejecting me with only a judgmental dismissal. “What conversation?” I finally surrender to asking.
“You were talking about a guy who had just broken up with you. It was…a shitty way to dump you,” Scott elaborates. Even wandering in the forest, winded from the obstacle course, I hear unique hesitation strain Scott’s voice.
I struggle to remember. Fact is, sharing my romantic misfortunes with Amelia in the Parthenon lounge on extended visits to the coffeemaker was not unusual. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” I say.
“You had, um, gone down on him,” Scott clarifies, “and when you asked if he’d return the favor, he said that actually he was thinking you two should break up.”
“Oh. Right,” I say, sighing. “Malcolm.” Of course. I’d completely blocked him from my memory, for understandable reasons.
“Him. Yeah,” Scott says hastily. Glad the only uncomfortable part of this conversation is over for you, Scott! “I remember you were recounting this, and then…at the end, you said you wanted to give it one more shot because you thought he might really be the one.”
“Obviously, he was not,” I say. I don’t understand, though. What does Malcolm have to do with Scott? “ That story made you hate me?” I ask, uncomprehending.
Scott shakes his head. “I never hated you,” he says. “I understood you. And I was right.”
We’re nearing where the slope up from the river rejoins campus, the end of our muddy journey. “Enlighten me,” I say, hiding my curiosity under sarcasm. “You understood me ?” I repeat.
“I mean, yeah,” Scott insists. “You were the kind of girl who wouldn’t let anything be casual. You fall fast and sweep yourself up in the idea of a love story that doesn’t even exist. Malcolm was clearly shit and you were still ready to commit to him.”
Stomping up the hill, I consider his assessment. Scott…isn’t wrong, I guess. Nevertheless—“What did that have to do with us?”
He shrugs. “We had no common ground. You’re a romantic. And I’m not.”
“Books. Publishing. New York City. Yes, no common ground at all,” I reply.
I don’t even know why I’m debating him. I don’t want to be his friend anymore. I guess debate is just my habit when it comes to Scott Daniels. One could even say it’s our common ground.
He exhales in impatient discomfort. “Is it such a crime to just want to show up to work and do my job and go home? I didn’t need any more than that. I didn’t need to listen to you romanticize everything that actually just sucks. And you didn’t need a friend who either lied to you about what he thought of your choices and philosophy or constantly scoffed at everything you were swept up in hope over.” He shakes his head, frustrated. “It was better for both of us to remain…nothing.”
I’d never known why he rejected me the way he did. Nonetheless, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to let Scott off easy for the embarrassment I felt leaving Charlene’s—and if I’m honest, for weeks afterward. “Well, we didn’t remain nothing, Scott,” I say coldly. “We don’t like each other.”
“I know that,” he replies. “Look, you asked me why I thought you didn’t dump Jordan when you knew you should. It’s not because you’re a coward. It’s this,” he concludes. “You’re desperate to treat every day like you’re living in some romantic fantasy, and if we’d become friends when you asked, I would have told you this then. Happy? Was I wrong to say no to you?”
I say nothing, stunned.
No, indignant. So I sometimes get swept away! So what?
I find my voice while we continue up the hillside. “Being a romantic isn’t a flaw, you know,” I say, vehement.
“Has it made you happy?” he retorts.
“I—” I swallow. “I’m happy. Not right now. Rarely in your presence,” I snipe. “But yes, I’m happy.”
“I think you’re so obsessed with a fairy tale that you overlook reality.” Scott’s voice matches mine for intensity now. “You’re stuck in a dream, Jennifer. You need to accept that reality sometimes sucks or you’ll never know how to have a real relationship,” he declares. “And I was right, because Jordan said much the same thing.”
“Being on the same side as Jordan is not something I would brag about,” I inform Scott. “His favorite book is his Call of Duty strategy guide.”
“Oh, Jennifer,” Scott replies. “See?”
I fall silent, understanding his point.
Okay, yes—maybe I am a romantic. Maybe I let the magic of hope enchant me instead of wallowing in discouragement or embracing the dullness of the ordinary world. It doesn’t mean I can’t have something real , I insist in my head, promising myself with fraying confidence. It just means I’m optimistic . Optimism is good, isn’t it? Positivity?
I have to fight the whispers of doubt infiltrating my reassurances. Haven’t I felt uncertainties just like the ones Scott is describing? The dangerous magic of hope, casting a spell I no longer know if I want enchanting me? Jennifer Worth, fending off demons like none found in Elytheum now.
In the end, it’s Scott who strengthens me. Not in any encouragement he offers. Definitely not. My defense against Scott’s words is remembering it’s Scott who said them. I neither need nor want any life advice from a guy with a notebook of things he thinks he can do to distract women from his shitty personality. He was right. I never should have wanted to be his friend.
“Don’t worry,” I say quietly, my voice sword-edged. “I know very well how much reality can suck, Scott. I have you to thank for that. Good luck getting any woman to fall for your whole book boyfriend scam. You’re no Val,” I say, “and you never will be.”
I don’t let myself imagine his face falling. I don’t permit myself to wonder whether I’ve wounded him. He’s certainly wounded me. I start walking faster now, marching toward campus. I feel my intention is clear—I’m obviously walking away from him now, not walking with him.
Scott doesn’t pick up on my standoffishness.
He follows me on his long legs, like he’s keeping pace on a course of obstacles much more complicated and harder to see. “You really don’t think I could find someone who thinks I’m as amazing as a dude with goat horns?” he inquires.
“They’re not goat horns ,” I reply. Honestly, how dare he insult Val’s polished ebony horns, pride of the Elytheum Courts?
Scott says nothing.
“Well, so what if they are!” I amend. Flustered, I stomp up the path, welcoming the sight of the familiar campus commons nearby. When I pick up my pace, Scott matches me. Fortunately, it means we reach our dorm quickly. We’re still dripping mud and river water on the walkways.
In front of our building’s entryway, Scott reaches his arm out ahead of me. He pulls the door open for me, his movement abrupt, like he was polite on instinct and then remembered he was angry.
I nod angrily in thanks.
Our shoes quelch unpleasantly on the stairs with every stomp up the four goddamn flights. “My point is,” I say, feeling confident I’ve composed myself, “a real Val, goat horns and all, would encourage romanticism. He would believe in a true love.”
Once more, the hmm Scott makes sounds pointedly growl-ish. “A real Val doesn’t exist,” he grinds out.
“Actually, I plan to go on a date with the real Val this week, thank you very much,” I announce, holding my head high as we round the stairwells. “That’ll be all the rebound I need.”
“You’re going on a date with an actor ,” Scott rejoins. “And you’re not even going on the date with him, because you’re not going to win the scavenger hunt. You clearly haven’t even figured out your scroll clue yet.”
I fume. We’re finally reaching our floor . I would dash the rest of the way up if the obstacle course hadn’t left my legs utterly decimated.
“You know what I think?” Scott goes on as we approach my door. “Forget Malcolm, or Jordan, or whoever else. Staying with shitty guys isn’t the worst problem with romanticizing everything.”
Surprise keeps me from offering Scott the retorts I otherwise would, like, I don’t want to know what you think and You have no right to say “whoever else” like that.
Unfortunately, he knows I’m curiosity’s captive. He continues on. “It’s writing off the right person,” he says, his voice low. “If you can’t accept that your dream guy is a fantasy, then when you do find someone great, you’re not even going to realize it if they don’t fit into the story you’re telling yourself. You’ll eventually push them away after you’ve stopped romanticizing them because they don’t live up to the fictional character you’ve built up in your head.”
I’ve reached my limit for Scott’s dismissals and judgments, his exhausting condemnations. I have nothing more to say to him—I want only to get into the shower and wash the mud and this whole conversation off me. He’s just claimed the last ounce of fight I have.
At my door, feeling like I’ve only barely survived the battlefield, I reach for my key card—
And find the pocket of my shorts empty.
No, no, no . I hide how the misfortune makes my heart pound. The key must’ve fallen out in the obstacle course fiasco. Of course it fucking did. We pretty much Princess Bride -ed it down the entire hill into the river.
Hoping I’ll fool Scott with my nonchalance, I grab the door handle anyway. I figure he’ll assume I’m going inside and finally freaking leave.
He doesn’t. I push down on the handle.
The door does not move. Neither does Scott.
Fuck . I’m going to have to march all the way down to the river, get on my hands and knees, and rummage around in the mud for my key card. Perfect. Remind me again how reality is supposed to live up to fantasy?
“Having trouble?” he inquires, like he hasn’t just reduced my entire romantic outlook to rubble.
I refuse to dignify his impertinent politeness with a response. Instead, I settle for pushing hard against the door, slamming the lock lightly. I don’t know, maybe I can push past it, or dislodge something, or—I don’t know! I just need to change out of my clothes. If I could just—
I’m wrestling with the handle when the door opens.
No, someone opens the door.
The man standing on the other side is…well, he’s hot. He’s very tall, his dark hair perfect, his jawline impressive. He looks like—Val.
He’s not dressed like Val, however. He’s dressed normally. Although, I mean, the word normal does not apply for the newcomer. Nothing he’s wearing is fantastically ornamented. His jeans and heather-gray T-shirt don’t scream “Elytheum.” They’re impeccably fitted, though. He looks ready to coach high school sports or sing on a Nashville stage, not spar with recruits in the Elytheum royal guard.
He’s gorgeous. And he’s…real.
At least I think he’s real. I suppose it’s possible I hit my head when I fell off the fence.
“Hi,” he greets me with pleasant amusement. “Why are you trying to break into my room?”
“I’m—” I say, then stop. My room?
Which means…
“I’m your roommate,” I say in realization.
While my heart races now for entirely non-frustration-related reasons, his confusion clears. He smiles a smile capable of stopping the Northern Court’s infamous archers’ arrows midair. “Of course!” he exclaims warmly. “Jennifer, right?”
“Yep,” I say.
He opens the door wider. Grinning, I cannot help glancing at Scott.
His dismissive demeanor has disappeared. He’s scowling as my oblivious roommate retreats into our suite.
“Maybe,” I say, “I don’t have to solve the rest of the clues. I think fantasies are real after all.”
Scott says nothing. He only gapes with storm-clouded eyes while I follow my ripped-from-the-pages-of-a-favorite-book roommate into our suite.