Chapter 1
ONE
FRESHMAN YEAR OF COLLEGE
Second semester starts with my worst nightmare.
Public Speaking.
I don’t want to take it, but all the other classes I need for my curriculum requirements are booked up because freshmen get last pick.
I thought about going with some sort of unrelated elective, but my parents would chew me out if I took an unnecessary class like Sculpture 101 or Intro to Jewelry Making.
Never mind Noah lost his baseball scholarship his junior year of college and cost them thousands of dollars.
He was “going through a rough time,” as they put it, but I don’t get the same luxury.
It sucks not being the favorite.
Dread keeps me awake the night before the first day of class, thick and metallic in the back of my throat. Come morning, my stomach can’t handle food, so I bundle up in my winter coat and boots and trek across campus with uncomfortable rumbles in my abdomen.
As I trudge through the sludgy remains of last weekend’s snowfall, I daydream hundreds of different scenarios that would prevent me from making it to class—a broken bone, a burst appendix, a sudden onset of the flu.
I arrive at the Foundations building without so much as a runny nose, unfortunately.
Exhaling, I step into the empty classroom. It’s small. Intimate, even, and I start to panic as I realize the people in the first row will be able to count every pore on my face, every bead of sweat on my forehead. I want to turn around and walk right back out, but I don’t.
I’ve made it this far.
Twenty minutes early, I have my pick of the seats. I hurry through the rows of desks to the very back corner. Out of sight, out of mind…until I’m forced to stand in front of my peers and make an absolute fool of myself.
You can still drop, I remind myself. You have time.
I could drop, sure, but Public Speaking is a Foundations class for every student enrolled at this school. Drop it now, and I’ll just have to take it at another time.
You could take it when you’re mentally stable.
I fixate on my hands, noting the slight shake in the fingers. I tuck them between my legs and count backward from ten.
Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.
Mentally stable. Ha.
Five. Four. Three. Two.
Who knows when that will be?
One.
One by one students trickle in, each looking more unhappy to be here than the last. No one wants to take this course, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out half the people in here are juniors and seniors who put it off until the last minute.
The difference between me and them, though, is that they’ll muscle through.
They’ll hate it. It’ll be uncomfortable.
They’ll wish it was over. But they’ll do it.
Me, on the other hand? I have difficulty making eye contact (not to mention conversation) with one person. A room full of people judging my stutter and scrutinizing my body and dissecting my every word?
Well, I’ll definitely hyperventilate.
As the room fills up, I keep my head down.
I stare at my desk and trace patterns across the surface with my finger, focused on keeping my breathing even.
By the time I glance up again, an older man I assume to be Professor Markham is at the front of the room, shuffling papers around on the long, wooden desk.
Unease crawls up my throat, and I clench my teeth, checking the time on my phone.
One more minute.
It’s silent in the classroom, probably because my theory about the class roster containing all ages is correct and no one knows each other.
I don’t recognize anyone, though it’s not like I expected to.
They say college is supposed to be the time to broaden your horizon and make new friends, but my social circle is smaller than it’s ever been.
To be fair, it’s my own fault.
Finally, Professor Markham glances up from his desk and scans the room from behind a pair of wireframe glasses. His eyes spark with something, either amusement or empathy, as he taps his fingers against the tabletop.
“So,” he begins, addressing the room. “You have to take Public Speaking, and let me guess. You’re not happy about it.”
After a loaded pause, the room breaks out in murmurs, heads nodding in the affirmative.
I keep still and quiet in my corner.
“In my twenty years in academia, I’ve heard it all. Pleas for fire alarms. Natural disasters. Alien abductions. The apocalypse. I bet some of you are even hoping I’ll fall incredibly ill, and they won’t be able to find a replacement for me until it’s too late.”
A couple people snicker, but I shift in my seat, unnerved. Wasn’t I just fantasizing about breaking a few bones on the walk over?
“That’s all fine,” Markham says, like he’s seen this a million times.
“You don’t have to be happy about this class.
You can pray for the end of the world just so you can get out of it, but I’ll let you all in on the big secret.
Everyone’s terrified—every single person—which is why I’m here.
I can guarantee you that this course will be less painful than you think because it’s my job to teach you all the tips and tricks you didn’t know befo—”
The door to the classroom swings open, cutting him off, and all heads swivel to the student filling the doorway. And when I say filling the doorway, I mean it, because the guy standing there, interrupting our class, is not normal sized.
Abnormal height. Abnormal width. Abnormal build. Even if he wasn’t wearing a gray and navy Stratus Athletics sweatshirt, there would be no doubt in my mind that he’s a student athlete. They all look like that—intimidatingly fit and generically attractive—not that I’m ever paying much attention.
He’s the exact kind of guy I made a vow to stay away from.
He flashes an easy grin. “Sorry to disrupt, Professor Markham.”
Our professor purses his lips, but he’s got a twinkle in his eye that proves he’s more amused than annoyed. “You’re late, Mr. Tucker. By almost four years. Really procrastinated taking this one, didn’t you?”
“Nothing to do with your esteemed teaching, of course. Freshman Lit was my favorite class.” The giant clears his throat, and his smile turns sheepish. “I just, uh, forgot to take this one.”
Markham rolls his eyes and looks around the room.
“Out of curiosity, how many students in here ‘just forgot’ to take this course until second semester senior year?” he asks.
More than a few reluctant hands go up, and Markham sighs.
“If only you people realized how beneficial this class would be in everyday life.” He jerks his head toward the back corner of the room—my corner—and my stomach clenches.
“Go sit down, Wes. Looks like there’s a seat in the back there. No more tardies.”
Wes grins again and gives a little salute. “Sure thing, Professor.”
And then he starts walking. Toward me. Stratus University’s resident Hulk starts walking toward me with zero hesitation about invading my little corner.
I lower my gaze so as not to make eye contact, but I hear the wood shift and creak as he manages to fit that big body of his into the desk beside me.
Hunching in my seat, I try to go unnoticed, wishing for that invisibility power that only seems to kick in around my family, but it’s like I can feel his eyes on me, trained like a sniper on the side of my face.
When Professor Markham launches into an overview of the syllabus, the weight of his gaze lifts away, and I breathe easier.
Kind of. My relief is short-lived as Markham informs us that there will be not one, not two, but three spoken assignments, each making up thirty percent of our grade.
My stomach revolts, and I’m grateful for its emptiness.
Markham provides brief summaries of the assignments, but I barely process them, too preoccupied with my own panic.
When he plugs in his computer and drags a slideshow up on the giant screen, I follow the lead of the people in front of me and pull my laptop out to take notes.
Not that it really matters. The moment I leave this room, I’m vowing to never return.
“Hey,” whispers a voice to my right, and my senses go immediately on high alert.
Please tell me he’s talking to someone else.
“Hey,” he tries again, this time a bit louder. The eyes are back, burning like a brand on the side of my neck, and my palms begin to sweat. I rub them against my thighs and turn my head toward the disrupter. “Hey, I’m Wes.”
My eyes meet his for the briefest of moments, before dropping down to his mouth, which is turned up in a friendly-sort-of grin.
Charming. My heart jumps in my throat, my pulse pounding out of control, because this is the moment where I’m supposed to say hi, I’m Ivy, like a normal fucking human being.
But, of course, my tongue twists up and my teeth clank together and my name gets stuck behind my larynx, popping like a trapped air bubble before it can make it anywhere near my lips, let alone past them, and I fuck everything up.
I have no idea if Wes notices, though, because I’m too busy staring at his hands, the long, blunt fingers fiddling with a leather-bound notebook on his desk. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pencil, would you?” he asks. “I will be forever in your debt.”
I frown at the request.
He wants a…pencil? Who uses pencils anymore?
As if reading my mind, he adds, “A pen would work, too. Or a highlighter, even. I’m not picky. Just desperate.” He tilts his head at the door, his smile turning a little bit embarrassed. “I left in a rush, as I’m sure you noticed.”
I hesitate for a moment, and then I wordlessly twist away from him and reach for my backpack, which is slung over the back of my chair. The quicker I give him what he needs, the sooner he’ll leave me be.