Chapter 3
THREE
Thursday morning is unwelcome, but it arrives anyway.
I feel emotionally bruised. Beaten. My eyes are puffy—my whole face is swollen, really—but there’s not much I can do about that besides splashing cold water on my skin and hoping the inflammation goes down.
The world’s best concealer couldn’t disguise the fact that I was crying for most of the night.
After bundling up against the thirty-degree weather and twenty-degree wind-chill, I make the painful walk to class. I am dreading seeing Wes, and I mean even more so than usual. He’s too observant, and I’m not in the mood to be read like a book.
Alone in the empty classroom, I shed my coat and take my seat, staring out the window.
I zone out, and before I know it, Markham’s calling for us to get to work, and we’re pushing the desks together again.
I didn’t notice Wes come in, I’m that tired, but now he’s sitting across from me with his dark hair curling around his ears and his cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Hey, Partner,” he says. His eyes, bright and enthusiastic despite the early hour, dull when they register my face, and a crease forms between his brows. He leans over the desk, voice laced with concern as he asks, “Are you okay?”
It’s an innocent question. Expected. Unwanted.
I hold his gaze for one second, two seconds, three—before looking down at my hands folded in my lap. They’re shaking again, and I tuck them underneath my thighs.
“Yes. Can we just…get started?” I peek up at him.
He hesitates before leaning back in his chair. “Sure thing, Poison Ivy.”
I blink. “Poison Ivy?”
He gives me a tentative grin, some of the earlier excitement seeping back into his expression. “I’ve been saying it in my head since you first told me your name. Clever, huh?”
If my eyes weren’t burning, I’d roll them, because Wes seems like the kind of person who compulsively nicknames everyone he meets. Concentrating on the list of questions from last class, I ask, “What three qualities do you like about yourself?”
“Hmm, that’s a tough one. There are so many.
” He grins at his little joke, but when I don’t laugh, his smile falters.
He clears his throat. “Let’s go with…my perseverance, my sense of humor, and my ability to make a mean chicken piccata.
” I blink at him, registering his words, and then my stomach rumbles at the thought of Italian food.
I learned my lesson about avoiding the dining hall after a horrible bout of food poisoning first semester, so most of my meals are eaten from a can or a carton.
As I type out his response, he waggles his eyebrows at me. “Wanna know the secret?”
“I guess?”
“You have to pound the shit out of the chicken. Flatter the better.”
“I’m sure you’re great at it,” I mutter, unable to help but glance at his arms. They’re definitely…large. So large that I can make out the toned muscle through the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt.
“What? Pounding?” His smile turns mischievous, and my eyes widen as I realize what I said.
“N-no! I mean, yes. I-I was referring to your size—” I snap my mouth shut, because that doesn’t sound right either. Face flaming, I drop my head, thinking, kill me now.
Wes laughs. “I’m just messing with you, Poison Ivy. What three qualities do you like about yourself?”
Fighting off the lingering embarrassment, I stare at my keyboard, eyes trained on a tiny crumb between the D and the F. My mind’s blank. I can’t think of a single thing. “I’m…not sure.”
“Come on,” he urges with an encouraging smile. “There’s gotta be something.”
“I guess my attention to detail, my creativity, and my…” I trail off. My shoulders sag. I’m not in the right mental state to wax on about my own personal merits. “I don’t know. Just write two. I just…don’t know.”
I peek up at Wes in time to see his eyes dull again, a shadow passing over his face as he regards me. He looks like he’s going to ask me again if I’m okay, so I blurt out the next question. “What’s one thing you would change about yourself?”
He perks up and reaches for a giant thermos on the floor beside his desk. I didn’t notice it before, but I’m struck by how monstrous it is, even held between his two enormous hands. “Oh, my caffeine addiction. It’s shameful, really. It’s barely eight-thirty, and I’ve already had two of these.”
“Is that why you’re so—” I pause, trying to find a non-offensive term for the ball of energy that seems to radiate him from the inside out. “Animated?” is what I settle on.
He blinks at me for a second and then throws his head back in a laugh. “You’re too nice. Believe me, I’ve heard it all, especially as a kid. Hyperactive. Manic. Wired. Restless. Wild.”
My brows shoot up. “People called you those things?”
He nods, setting the thermos on his desk. “Oh yeah. Parents. Teachers. School administrators. Turns out I’m just a naturally animated person. They should put me in a Pixar film.” I almost crack a smile at that. Almost. “What would you change?”
This answer is obvious. “I’d like to wake up tomorrow and be a phenomenal public speaker.”
“None of us are good at public speaking. That’s the point of this class.”
“You seem very comfortable.”
He grins, leaning forward. “You bring it out in me.” I give him a look as if to say, yeah, right.
“As we just discussed, I was born a people person. I’ll talk to anyone about anything.
But giving a speech? Yeah, trust me. I’m going to go up there and fuck it up like everyone else in this room.
Why do you think I put it off for so long? ”
“I’ll do more than fuck it up,” I say. “I’ll throw up. Or pass out. Or throw up and then pass out, and someone will film it and put it online and it will go viral, and my life will be over.”
“You just need practice. And a practice buddy.” He raises his eyebrows, as if to say, I’m your guy.
My heart rate spikes. Is he seriously asking to practice our speeches outside of class? Despite the earnest expression he wears, those warning bells go off again. “Um, I-I don’t—”
He holds up a hand. “Think about it. No rush. We haven’t even picked our topics yet.” I don’t respond, too busy trying to remember how to breathe, so he asks the final question. “Okay, last one. What wise words of advice would you give?”
“Be careful who you trust,” I say quietly, averting my gaze so he won’t think I’m talking about him. I’m not. At least, not specifically. Maybe in the grander sense of the entire male population.
When I finally look back at him, a smile plays at his mouth, and he’s regarding me curiously again, like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “Poison Ivy strikes again with that cryptic messaging. You should write fortune cookies in your free time.”
I shrug a shoulder. “What’s yours?”
“Don’t judge a book by its cover has always been one of my favorites.”
I can see why. He’s not at all what I expected…if the friendly, good guy act is to be believed, that is.
Be careful who you trust.
Now that we’ve completed all the questions, I’m happy to sit here in silence and begin work on our outlines. Wes has other ideas. “So, what are you up to this weekend?”
I glance up at him, my pulse quickening at the unnecessary small talk. I open my mouth, but the question gets trapped behind my teeth, and my cheeks warm. I clear my throat before trying again, hoping he didn’t notice. “Why?”
His dark eyes glimmer like he’s amused by my wariness.
“I’m curious.” But why? I want to ask again, half suspicious, half confused.
He must read the question on my face because he speaks before I can.
“So, I’m allowed to know all of your deep, personal struggles but not something as simple as your weekend plans? ”
I can’t deny that he’s got a point—most of the questions on Markham’s list were kind of invasive—but it doesn’t matter. I’m a loser who has no plans to share except for homework…not that I care about impressing this guy with a sprawling social calendar.
Sure, you don’t.
“Binge-drinking,” I mumble, looking back down at my laptop because the weight of his gaze is too heavy and I’m starting to feel a little unbalanced. “Maybe throw some hard drugs in there, too.”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, when you’re already that far down the rabbit hole, why not?
” I nod, still staring at the screen but not really registering it.
Wes leans across the desk, the wood creaking with the weight of his body, and I have no choice but to look up at him again.
“No offense, Poison Ivy, but you don’t seem like a big party person. ”
He doesn’t say it like an insult, but it stings like one, nonetheless. What I wouldn’t give sometimes to fit in with my roommates.
Before I can formulate a decent response, Markham claps, drawing our focus to the front of the room.
“Alright, folks,” he says. “Looks like all of you have wrapped up your questioning. Homework is to organize the info into an informative outline, due Tuesday. Let’s move the desks back to their rightful places, and I’ll give you a fascinating lecture about introductions and attention grabbers. ”
I spend the rest of the time taking notes, and when we’re dismissed, I stand, conscious of Wes’s struggle to extract himself from the flimsy desk as I tug on my coat.
When he finally succeeds, tucking his pencil behind his ear and grabbing his notebook and thermos, I wonder about his lack of jacket.
I don’t care how big you are. No way that sweatshirt is warm enough in this weather.
“See you Tuesday, Poison Ivy,” he says, dragging my eyes up to his smile.
My face heats as I realize I was staring thoughtlessly at his broad chest. “And good luck with that binge-drinking. Remember, hydration is key. Oh, and stay away from second-story windows. I have a friend who once fell off a roof into a rose bush after a day of pounding Four Lokos. He had thorns in places you can’t even imagine. ”