The Charlie Method (Campus Diaries #3)

Chapter Seven Charlotte

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHARLOTTE

More like a Greek tragedy

T HERE ’ S THIS HOCKEY GUY IN MY C LIMATE P OLICY ELECTIVE WHO thinks he’s charming, but really, he’s just obnoxious and full of himself. His name is Beckett. Of course it’s Beckett.

And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, we always arrive at the social sciences building at the same time. I swear he’s stalking me. Fine. Probably not. He probably likes showing up ten minutes early every Tuesday morning, same as me. If I weren’t in a toxic relationship with my schedule, I’d adjust my own habits and arrive fifteen minutes early or five minutes later. But I’m a ten-minutes-early girl, and no hockey player will ever make me compromise my principles.

Still, my least favorite part of the morning is reaching the limestone steps at the same time as him. The guy is more good-looking than he deserves to be, with blond hair, devilish gray eyes, and a broad frame always encased in denim and a black-and-silver hockey jacket.

He always flashes me a dimpled smile, and then, without fail, every single time I walk up, I’m ambushed with—

“Morning, sugar puff.”

Because one day, one fucking time, I ate a sugar puff.

And I haven’t even eaten one since! It was just a new pastry that the bakery in the student center had been advertising at the beginning of the semester. I kept walking by these signs with a picture of an oversize doughball shimmering with white sugar granules. It looked so delicious but horrifying at the same time, because it’s a literal sphere of dough and sugar the size of a baseball, and I needed to know why it existed. So I went inside, and I bought one. I bought a fucking sugar puff. I brought it with me to this building and walked to these steps, and I bit into it just as Mr. Hockey strode up. When he said hello, I could see how hard he was trying not to laugh at me, all the while feeling my entire face covered in sugar.

Something about his grin annoyed me, so I defensively blurted out, “It’s a sugar puff, okay?”

And to this day, I’ve hated him.

“Did you finish the carbon-pricing assignment?” he asks, his hair perfectly tousled like he just rolled out of bed looking like that.

“Yes.” I climb the steps, hoping he’ll get the hint, but he matches my pace.

“I sent mine in five minutes after midnight. You think she’ll still count it?”

He doesn’t sound overly concerned. I’m not concerned for him either. Our professor has the biggest crush on this guy. She makes googly eyes at him whenever she walks up to the lectern.

“You shouldn’t be submitting things at the last minute,” I tell him. “That’s a habit you need to break.” And I’m a massive hypocrite, because I turned my own paper in at 11:56 p.m.

But he doesn’t know that.

“Well, not everybody is as studious and punctual as you, sugar puff.”

“They could be if they made an effort, Ice Boy.”

I’ve spent a lot of time trying to find a nickname that bothers him as much as sugar puff bothers me, waiting to debut it at our next encounter. He has a faint Australian accent, so for a while, I was dipping into the Australia well. I’ve called him Dingo. Crikey. I tried Mr. Outback. Unfazed. So now I’ve moved on to hockey terminology.

Ice Boy is pretty lackluster. I accept this. I’m still workshopping.

“Kind of sounds like a superhero,” he says, thinking it over. “Ice Boy. I’m into it.”

“I’ll think of something else,” I grumble.

His phone vibrates in his hand as we approach the lecture hall. He checks the screen, then edges away from the doors. “See you in there.”

Ha. He wishes. The room has assigned seating by alphabetical order, which is a relief because it means I don’t have to sit with Agatha or our sorority sister Ciara. They’re in the front row with their B last names. As a K, I’m in the middle of the room, next to a redhead named Nikki Kepler.

I’m making my way to our row when a male voice says, “Hey, Char.”

I hide my reluctance and stop to greet Mitch. Of all the electives I could’ve picked this semester, I somehow wound up in a class with Ice Boy, Agatha, and my ex-boyfriend. It’s like the setup for a bad joke.

“Hey,” I answer, forcing a smile. “How’s it going?”

“Good.” He folds his arms against his chest, and while I suspect he’s trying to appear casual, the posture comes off combative.

For the past eight months, I’ve done my best to avoid conversing with him. Things didn’t end well between us, which makes every encounter with Mitch beyond awkward and often hostile.

This morning is no different.

I shift my feet as his dark eyes assess me. He’s lost a lot of weight since we were together, and he wasn’t exactly beefy before, so he’s giving off sickly Victorian prince now. What was that illness they were always coming down with back then? It was…consumption! Right. Mitch looks like he has that.

“Charlotte?” He sounds annoyed. “I asked how you’ve been.”

I blink out of my thoughts. “Oh, sorry. I’m great. Never been better.”

“Yeah?” He tips his head, a smirk forming. “Finally finished your exhaustive search?”

Confusion knits my brow. “Huh?”

“To find that one magical dick that can satisfy your uncontrollable needs.”

My mouth falls open. I shake my head, anger and disbelief warring inside me. “Fuck off, Mitch.”

“Jeez, relax. I was just kidding.” His arm snaps out when I try to walk away.

“Well, you’re not funny. And don’t touch me.”

I shrug his hand off me and stalk to my seat, inhaling slowly to calm myself. This is why I blocked his number after we broke up. Because of his snide little comments and total inability to accept that I hadn’t meant to hurt his fragile ego.

Sometimes I wonder if Mitch specifically wanted to date an Asian girl because he thought I’d be submissive or something. He never liked it when I argued with him or stood up for myself, and God forbid I have a high sex drive. Sex was only allowed when he was in the mood.

It must’ve really burst his tiny brain bubble when he realized I didn’t quite live up to the stereotypes.

“Hey,” I greet Nikki, taking my seat beside her.

She lifts her head from her phone. “Hey.”

After sliding my laptop out of my bag and organizing my stuff, I pull out my own phone to check it for the hundredth time this morning.

My heart races as I wait for the BioRoots app to load. I sent the message to HLS315 on Sunday, and I know he read it because there’s a little green checkmark at the corner indicating it was opened. He’ll respond today. It’s Tuesday. Clearly, he needed a couple days to let my message marinate, and now he’s going to—

Zero messages.

Disappointment lodges in my throat. Damn it. Why isn’t he responding?

My brain scrambles to reframe things. It’s only Tuesday. Some people require more than a couple days to invite a brand-new sister into their lives.

He’ll totally respond tomorrow.

I’m opening my laptop with my notes document on deck for the lecture when a disturbance in the force—otherwise known as my seatmate’s dreamy sigh—has me lifting my head from the screen. From the corner of my eye, I see Ice Boy.

He swaggers down the aisle, while Nikki practically melts into her chair.

“Oh my God. He’s like a Greek god or something.”

I roll my eyes. “More like a Greek tragedy.”

As if on cue, Mr. Too-Hot-For-His-Own-Good reaches his seat two rows below us and stops to unzip his jacket. He has a whole routine going, like he’s a magician about to reveal a rabbit from his hat. Only instead of a rabbit, he reveals a well-defined arm as he shrugs out of his coat. I swear Nikki sighs like she’s watching a scene from a romance movie.

“I want to be that coat.”

I snort.

Beckett slings the coat over the back of his chair. Then he glances over his shoulder and catches both of us staring. A slow, lazy grin spreads across his face, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Glad you’re enjoying the show, ladies,” he calls out, loud enough for half the lecture hall to hear. “Especially you, sugar puff. I can take the shirt off next if you want?”

My face flushes as a few students turn to look at us. Including Mitch, whose lips thin in a slight frown.

Nikki swivels her head toward me. “Sugar puff? Do you know him? Oh my God, have you hooked up with him?”

“Ew. No.”

I direct a glare at Beckett, hoping my expression conveys how little I care about his stupid invitation. “Keep the shirt on, thanks,” I call back.

He grins harder, unbothered by my frosty demeanor. “Suit yourself.”

Nikki gapes at me like I just turned down an all-expenses-paid vacation to Fiji. “How are you not into this?”

“Into what? The self-absorbed jock show?” I ask, genuinely curious.

She shakes her head, exasperated with my lack of enthusiasm. “Not all jocks are self-absorbed, you know.”

“Right,” I answer with a smirk. “And not all puppies are cute.”

She huffs and turns back to her phone, but not before sneaking one last longing glance at Beckett.

I’m baffled by the general Briar population’s obsession with these hockey guys. But as the lecture starts and I try to focus on the professor’s words, I can’t help but notice how broad his shoulders are. Commanding. I take a deep breath, and my fingers hover over my keyboard.

Nope. Still unimpressed.

The next time he looks back at me, I make sure to glare extra hard, just in case he needs a reminder.

To recap, I hate Tuesday mornings because of Beckett and his annoying sugar puffs.

But I hate Tuesday afternoons even more.

Normally, you’d say “cell and tissue engineering” and watch me orgasm at your feet. But this lab has been a total nightmare. In September, when I was still young and naive, I predicted this would be my favorite lab. Nearly two months later, I’m a grizzled old fool who prays for the semester to end.

My lab partner is an idiot.

Fine, maybe idiot is the wrong word. IQ wise, he’s probably intelligent because you don’t take a senior-level engineering lab if you’re stupid. So perhaps the right word is…irritant. He’s an irritant. Like birch during allergy season. I hate birch. And I hate George.

The guy seems determined to drag down my average by spending all his time mooning over his girlfriend, Lourdes. They even text each other in class, and she’s only two workstations away. I feel bad for her lab partner. He and I are like soldiers in the same prisoner-of-war camp.

Except this afternoon, on a cloudy October day, something glorious happens.

“Charlotte,” our TA, Monica, calls when I enter the fluorescent-lit laboratory. “You have a new lab partner.”

I can barely contain my glee as I approach her workstation. “What? Since when?”

“The request was approved yesterday. Professor Bianchi deemed it necessary for the well-being of the student.”

My brow furrows. “The well-being?”

She glances around to make sure nobody is listening, then lowers her voice. “It was a mental health issue.”

“Wait.” I stare at her in horror-tinged confusion. “I’m sorry—is George alleging I’m a danger to his mental health?”

“Oh, no, no! Nothing like that.”

“Then why—”

Monica waves a hand, a wry smile playing on her lips. “Just take the win, Charlotte. You know you hated working with him.”

I shrug. Busted.

“You’ll be paired with Will for the rest of the semester.”

She gestures to the table where Lourdes and Will usually work. I don’t know anything about the guy other than he’s a fellow senior and another hockey jock. He wears the same black-and-silver jacket as Beckett from Climate Policy, with the Briar U logo and two crisscross hockey sticks over the left breast.

I don’t know a thing about the sport, and since my only example of a hockey guy comes from Beckett, I just hope this one spends more time working than flirting.

At the very least, I’m praying he’s an upgrade from George.

I slide into the chair next to him and set my bag on the floor beneath our table, next to his backpack.

“Hi,” I greet him. “I’m Charlotte.”

“Will.” His voice is deeper than I expected. I realize I’ve never actually heard him speak.

His gaze sweeps over me, so I give him a once-over in return, because fair game. He has those classically good looks that most guys would kill for. Symmetrical features, straight nose, great jawline. And although his clean-shaven face and easy smile lend him that all-American vibe, he also has the jock build that fits my hookup criteria. But I’m not going to hook up with my lab partner, no matter how cute he is.

His brown eyes, intense and focused, seem to pierce right through me, revealing both intelligence and a hint of mischief.

“Why are you staring at me?” I ask him.

“Sorry, I was trying to figure out if that’s a beauty mark or a poppy seed over your lip. I didn’t want to be all, hey, you have a poppy seed on your face and then it turns out to be a beauty mark. I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“It’s a mole.”

“See? Well, now I’m glad I didn’t say anything.”

I snicker. People are still filing in, but I’ve yet to spot our former lab partners.

“Do you know what that’s about?” I ask, gesturing to my old table, which sits empty.

Will grins. “George didn’t fill you in?”

“I’ve never spoken a single word to George outside this lab. Why? You talk to Lourdes?”

“You’re so lucky. Lourdes made us exchange numbers on the first day, and she texts me at least once a week begging me to do her homework for her. She sent me a whole update last night. Basically, they can’t bear to be apart, and it’s affecting their work. They wrote a letter to the department head insisting that’s the reason they’re doing so poorly in this lab, and if they were partners, they’d be able to pass every assignment with flying colors, fueled by their love.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re lying.”

“Nope. She sent me a copy of the letter.”

“Oh my God. Text it to me now .”

He grins at me. “If you wanted my number, all you had to do was ask. Didn’t need an excuse.”

“That wasn’t an excuse. I really want to read this letter.”

“Trust me, you need to. It’s the most melodramatic nonsense I’ve ever read. Beautifully written, though. Which I guess isn’t surprising since Lourdes is a writer.”

“She is?”

“Sort of?” His lips twitch with humor. “She writes historical romance fan fiction. Or maybe it’s a historical adventure? I proofed one of them for her. It’s about Queen Elizabeth—the virgin—getting deflowered by Alexander the Great.”

“I’m no history whiz or anything, but didn’t those two live, like, two millennia apart?”

“Yup.”

“Okay then. I guess time knows no bounds in love and fanfic. Anyway, it’s probably a good idea to exchange numbers regardless. You’re my lab partner now.”

“Yet you didn’t do that with George…”

“He seemed like the kind of person who would abuse the privilege.”

“Oh, one hundred percent.”

“And you seem like the kind of guy who won’t do that.” I pause. “Despite being a jock.”

“Despite? What, you think jocks are more likely to abuse phone privileges?”

In my experience, absolutely. Some of the ones I’ve been with still send me lewd messages in the middle of the night hoping for a repeat. But Will seems like a normal, noncreepy guy, so I’m willing to take the chance.

When our former lab partners finally walk in, hand in hand, George catches me looking at him and stops at the table.

With a dramatic sigh, he rakes his hand through his frizzy brown hair. “I guess you heard.”

Somehow, I manage to mask my amusement. “I did.”

“It’s better this way, Charlotte. You’ll see.” He pats my shoulder and continues to our old station, sitting next to Lourdes.

Will snickers under his breath. “That was truly brave of him to switch lab partners right before midterms, knowing it would leave you devastated.”

“Heartbroken.”

We’re starting a new unit today. Monica emailed us the experiment instructions this weekend, and it sounds straightforward enough. We’re supposed to create a tissue scaffold and determine its ability to support cell growth.

I give Will a stern look. “This is your first test.”

“What am I being tested on?”

“How well you follow instructions. And whether you love my jokes.”

“Loving your jokes is a requirement?”

“To being a good lab partner, yes.”

We organize our supplies and go over the experiment. The first order of business is to prep the polymer solution needed to create the scaffold.

“Want to take the lead?” I offer.

He narrows his eyes. “Is this another test?”

“Obviously. Don’t screw this up.”

“But no pressure, right?”

Grinning, he pours the solution into the scaffold molds, which are going to be placed in a controlled environment where they can solidify and form the scaffold.

“Hey, Will,” I say as I watch him pour. He has steady hands. I like that. “What did the biologists name their son?”

“I don’t know, what?”

“Gene!” I’m unable to contain my laughter.

He groans, but when he lifts his gaze, I don’t miss the smile that’s crept onto his face. “That was terrible.”

“You entered into a formal agreement to love my jokes,” I remind him.

“I propose we amend the phrasing of love to tolerate .”

“Motion denied.”

He returns to concentrating on the task at hand. When I hear my phone buzz in my bag, hope explodes inside me. I knew I’d get a message from him today.

Noting that Will has everything under control, I fish out my phone and check the alert.

My excitement dissolves.

It’s not from BioRoots.

Once again, disappointment flutters through me, but it’s not as crushing as before because the notification is another I’ve been awaiting. A message from one half of my abs sandwich. I think about this chat so often, it’s starting to get embarrassing.

LARS & B:

Hit us up later tonight if you’re around—B

My heart does a teeny flip. I’ve still only spoken to B, who told me he’s the one with the blond hair and gray sweatpants. Which feels all wrong, because Lars fits the blond bill better with his Swedish name.

Then again, who’s to say B doesn’t have a Swedish name as well? Ooh! Like Bjorn.

I mean, if it’s not his name, it is now.

I slip my phone into my bag, a small smile playing on my lips. Then I look over to find Will watching me.

“Who was that?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Nobody. Just a friend.”

“Just a friend who makes you smile like that?”

I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. “Shut up.”

“Boyfriend?” he guesses.

“No.”

“You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Your face is bright red.”

“Whatever. Get back to our scaffolds, or I’ll ask to work with George again.”

He laughs. “All right, I’ll drop it.”

We return to our work. It’s quiet for a while, until Will breaks the silence.

“So…if a plant is depressed, do you think its other leaves photosympathize with it?” he asks with a straight face.

I groan. “Oh my God. That was atrocious.”

“Hey, just trying to keep up with the queen.”

After class, we walk out of the lab together into the usual buzz of chatter filling the hallway. We won’t be able to seed the cells until tomorrow, since the process we’re using for scaffold fabrication takes up to a day for the solvent to evaporate and everything to solidify.

As we head out of the building, we make plans for Will to pop in to check on the scaffold in the morning. It’s windy outside, and the late-afternoon breeze snakes underneath my hair and whips it into my face.

I shove it away in time to catch sight of a few hockey guys at the bottom of the front steps. One of them calls out to Will, and I stifle a groan when I realize it’s Beckett from my morning class. Ugh, I hope he doesn’t notice me.

Sadly, any hopes of flying under his radar are squashed when another gust of wind buffets into me and lifts up my skirt.

I smack the gray wool skirt back down, but not before I’m subjected to an exaggerated wolf whistle from Ice Boy and a few grins from his friends.

“Control your dogs,” I grumble to Will.

He gives a sheepish look. “I mean…your skirt just flew up.”

“Not that you noticed,” I say dryly.

“Of course not. I would never notice the color underwear you’re wearing.” As he ambles down the stairs, I hear him coughing, “Pink.”

I’m pretty sure I’m blushing again, but I manage to keep my composure as I pass the group of hockey players at the base of the stairs.

“Later, sugar puff,” comes Beckett’s drawl, followed by chuckles from his friends.

I keep walking without turning around.