CHAPTER 8
Hold My Hand
Gabriela
Vesta University had one of the most beautiful campuses in the city. Various buildings for various studies spanned the streets of downtown Montardor, rich in their magnificent architecture, cobblestone pathways, and vibrant in their lush greenery and fountained parks.
Hunter parked his car a minute of a walk away from the arts building, where the Horror & Cult Classic Cinema class took place.
He offered me his arm when my heel stumbled on the cracked pavement and with my hand resting in the crook of his elbow, we ferried to our destination.
His leather messenger bag was slung over one shoulder and he held our coffees in a takeaway tray, while I held my purse and the box of donuts.
Silence reigned between us as we enjoyed the September morning sunshine and the view of our landscape.
The realization that I wasn’t fond of silence but didn’t mind it with Hunter struck me again.
I liked our silences. They were gentle and companionable.
No words were needed to fill them. I also liked this newfound friendship we formed.
Deciding not to act on the attraction I felt for him was the right choice.
It wouldn’t be easy, but I was determined.
He was extremely handsome, but like an expensive flower bouquet, I could appreciate the beautiful sight and fragrance without needing to actually touch it.
The fact that we both agreed that our kiss meant nothing eased my mind.
As we entered the class—a giant auditorium with a large screen framed by red curtains, a podium for the professor, and cinema-style seats—a few people who arrived earlier craned their heads to stare at us.
We were a bit overdressed, but most business students at Vesta University frolicked in similar attire as ours.
It was what happened when you were in and out of business classes, team project meetings, presentation preparations, networking events, or even returning from your day corporate job to attend school in the evenings.
I always thought it was important to dress immaculately because if you looked good, you felt good, and you’d most likely perform good too.
Alongside me, my pretty rich boy swanned into the room like an unbothered prince amongst paupers, over six feet of pure muscles donned in a designer suit and his delicious cologne guaranteed to turn every woman within a ten-foot pole radius feral.
Hunter was so dapper and it came to him naturally.
We both wordlessly agreed to take seats in a back row. As we ascended the stairs, he put a gentle hand on my back to guide me ahead of him, and the touch practically seared me.
“Sweetheart,” he purred in my ear from behind, his warmth radiating off of him in waves. “Now’s a good time to tell you that your middle-aged guard is following us but doing a poor job at blending in.”
“Is that so?” I threw a glance over my shoulder, welcomed by his broad chest. The height difference was killing me.
I’d always had a weakness for tall men. I had to peer around his frame to catch sight of Oscar—one of Papà’s men—disguised in a tracksuit reminiscent of something you’d see a boy band member wearing in the ’90s.
The backwards cap and overexaggerated swagger only made him stand out. “Well, fuck.”
Hunter chuckled. “Fuck is correct.”
“Just ignore him. He’ll sit further away but keep an eye on us.”
“Noted.” Hunter waited for me to sink into a seat before he sat in the one beside mine. He placed a hand on my knee and brought his mouth near my ear to whisper, “Are you doing okay? Have your dad or Josh found out anything more?”
The only thing I could focus on was how big his hand looked against my smaller thigh and the heat of his lips so close to my skin.
“I-I’m fine,” I stuttered. “There have been no leads, but I’m sure this will get resolved soon and I’ll be able to move around freely, sans bodyguard.” I tried to muster a smile and nudged him with my elbow. “And move back into my apartment so we can resume being neighbours.”
“I hope so, Gabby,” he whispered sincerely. “Fingers crossed.”
I was saved from saying anything more when the professor—Dr. Richmond—entered the room, booming a loud greeting for the class.
We drank our coffees and I ate my donuts while Hunter tucked into the blueberry muffins I baked for him as Dr. Richmond orated on.
He gave an introduction to himself, the class’s curriculum, and his expectations for this fall semester.
Every class, we’d watch a movie, have a discussion at the end, and our assignment was a short essay on said movie, completed in teams of two.
The final dissertation, worth thirty percent of our overall grade, was the only solo paper.
The workload was easy-peasy, lemon squeezy. I had a good feeling about this class.
Once the lights shut and the screen turned on to play the movie—one I’d both seen twice in the past and enjoyed—that good feeling quickly morphed into panic.
I could hear Hunter’s soft breathing. I could smell his addictive scent. And I could feel his strong arm brushing mine on the shared armrest between us before his muscular thigh pressed against my right one as he shifted in his seat.
Shit.
I was all too aware of him and the darkness only amplified every sense. So much so that my sanity felt like a ribbon unfurling and falling down a steep edge with no purchase, drifting into the ether.
Instead of paying attention to the movie, my mind replayed moments from Friday night.
Us on the terrace.
Us on the dance floor.
How Hunter went from this sweet, good boy mischievously bantering with me to this nasty, bad boy kissing me with a salacious quality. If it weren’t for the fact that we were in public, would we have crossed another line?
“Say please like a good girl…And I will.”
God, I think we would have.
Hunter didn’t kiss like a gentleman and based on the way he talked…
he wouldn’t fuck like one either. Which was exactly what I liked.
A man who could take control and pound me into submission until I could barely walk the next day.
I wondered if he was a gentle or rough lover.
If he was quiet or a dirty-talker. Then I wondered what position he liked best and how he felt about being ridden.
No, no, no. Bad Gabriela. Stop it. You’re friends and not the kind with benefits.
After the mental pep talk to wrestle my thoughts back to a more chaste route, I risked a glance to my right, where Hunter sat.
And frowned.
Why did he appear so rigid?
Was something wrong?
Not wanting to be the asshole who talked during movies and ruined it for everyone else, I flipped open my notebook to a blank page. On the top line, I scribbled the words: Are you okay?
I discreetly slid the notebook and my pen in his direction.
A borderline imperceptible jolt shook his body at my interruption during an engrossing scene, and his head snapped my way, eyes wary.
I chin-nodded towards my stationery.
With nimble fingers, he grabbed it and read my message.
I watched him scrawl a deft response and hand it back to me.
The first thing I registered was his handwriting. It was elegant, sophisticated, and cursive. The kind you’d find in old romantic letters. I closed my eyes briefly, hustling aside the imagery of romantic letters from Hunter running rampant in my mind.
Then I read his message.
No, I am not.
My stomach flipped with concern. In less neat handwriting than his, I replied: What’s wrong?
The notebook was passed back to him. He swallowed, the tip of my pen barely poised against the paper as though he was debating whether or not he should reveal his woe. Eventually, with a resigned flourish, he wrote some more and slid the notebook my way.
I hate horror movies. I’ve never liked them.
For a few seconds, I was absolutely speechless.
He hated horror movies? He never liked them?
What in the ever-loving fuck was he doing in this class then?
Instead of replying, I just stared at him, confusion etched in my features. Hunter stared back, miserable. It was then that I realized he was rigid from fear.
Clearly, he was being sarcastic Saturday night when he said via text that this was his favourite genre.
Shaking my head, I penned: Hunter, why would you pick this class?
He cringed visibly at the gruesome scene on the screen and plucked my pen, writing back: It was the only elective that fit with my schedule. I also thought it would be a great way to overcome my dislike for these kinds of movies. Completely regretting it now.
Tenderness swept through me. It was admirable of him to take a class on a subject he didn’t like for the sake of conquering his aversion to it. I may be a seasoned horror-movie-loving fiend, but I sympathized with him. His feelings were valid.
I added in the notebook: I’m proud of you for doing this. I promise, before the end of the semester, you’ll actually enjoy these movies.
He simply wrote: That’s what I’m counting on.
We went back and forth for a few minutes. Whenever our fingers touched as we passed the pen and notebook, a heady buzz rocked through my veins.
A jump scare popped on the screen and the whole class, including Hunter, reacted jarringly. I just giggled. He glared at me good-naturedly and I rolled my lips into my mouth, attempting to stop my laughter. Hunter wrote another message. So far, we used up three pages in my notebook.
You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?
Just a little bit.
I’m reconsidering our friendship.
I pretended to pout and give him my best puppy face expression. His lips tipped up at the corners in a mild smirk, like staying fake-mad at me was just too hard because I was that adorable.
Do you want to hold my hand? Will that make you feel better?
I meant the words in a half-teasing manner.
I didn’t think he’d actually take action.
Hunter slithered his hand over my lap and presented me with his awaiting, upturned left palm. It was darker than mine and callused with deeper grooves. I wondered about his destiny and how long we would remain in each other’s lives. For a short while or for a long time?
Knowing he’d want to continue talking through notes, I slid my left hand in his.
Hunter braided our fingers together and gave a gentle squeeze.
My breath hitched.
It was just holding hands. No biggie. I’d held his hand on Friday as well.
So why did my insides feel warm and fuzzy when he drew an absentminded circle on the back of mine with his thumb, almost softly and reverently?
I glanced down at our joined hands and went over the moment from his car, watching him try to preserve the bouquet I gifted him.
I’d cut those flowers from my backyard on a whim, minutes before he arrived to pick me up.
I was certain he’d throw them away at the end of the day.
They were just from my garden, not fifty-dollar roses from a florist. But the way he handled those little blooms in his big hands with utmost care and this happy gleam in his eyes like he had every intention of keeping them alive, I all but swooned.
The rest of the movie droned on, but I couldn’t focus on it. The invisible patterns Hunter drew on my hand with his thumb fully snagged my attention.
By the time the movie finished and the class discussion wrapped up, I felt like a live-crackling wire, everything beneath my skin sizzling from his mere touch.
When Dr. Richmond finished explaining the take-home assignment and told us to send him an introductory email with our paired teammate and student IDs, I shot out of my seat, jostling Hunter and dropping his hand.
I packed my belongings and swung my purse into the crook of my elbow, then lined behind the row of students trying to exit the auditorium.
Flustered, I couldn’t get out of here—or catch my breath—fast enough.
If Hunter sensed the shift in my mood, he didn’t say. Instead, he stood behind me as we descended the stairs, solid like a rock and emanating his usual warmth.
“Is now a good time to ask if you’d like to be paired with me?” he whispered into my ear with a playful edge.
It was a no-brainer that we’d work together. We only knew each other in this class.
“Of course.” I pasted a fake smile on my face, trying to mask the constant badump, badump, badump in my chest. Far from composed, I felt unravelled in a way I’d never had before. “I’ll email the prof. Just text me your student ID, okay?”
“Okay, but—”
“My next class is in ten minutes. I’ll see you around.” I kept smiling as I sauntered forward in a dismissive manner. “I appreciate the ride this morning, Hunter.”
A crestfallen expression fell over him and I felt horrible for cutting our interaction so short, but I couldn’t stay here any longer. He nodded and returned blankly, “Right. Have a good day, Gabby.”
Oh, this hurt. I swallowed. “You too.”
On my way out of the auditorium, I collided with the back of a guy who was also exiting. An oomph noise escaped me as I recoiled back a step.
Dressed in a black T-shirt, white ball cap, and simple blue jeans, he peered over his shoulder, his mouth parted like he was about to say something rude.
But he froze the second he saw me.
I paused too, the colour leaching from my face.
It was like looking into a broken mirror, the jagged lines showcasing different moments in our relationship—the good and the bad—scattered across a timeline of three years, when we belonged to each other before inevitably leading to the one that caused the damaging crack in the first place.
My next lungful of air was painful and caused my eyes and throat to burn with anger.
He was a ghost of my past.
He should have stayed there, never to return.
For he knew my wrath—and my papà’s—wasn’t one he wanted to court.
“Hey,” he said nonchalantly, like we were acquaintances and this was just another silly little day where we crossed paths. “It’s good to see you, Gabby.”
Then Franco Moretti, my ex-boyfriend who shattered my heart many moons ago, continued walking ahead like he didn’t turn my entire day to shit.