Chapter 8 Rhiannon
RHIANNON
He grins back at me. “Sooo, food will be here in twenty minutes. In the meantime”—he pats the space next to him on the bed, then seems to think better of it—“actually, you take the comfortable chair. I’ve already claimed the bed.”
As I take the chair, he continues, “So, confession time. I need to know something important.”
“O-kaay?”
“Are you one of those people who’s going to judge me for putting ketchup on my fries and my burger? Because I need to know now if this partnership is going to work.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “That’s your important question?”
“It’s very important! Food compatibility is crucial for successful fieldwork. Last thing we need is condiment-based conflict.” He’s grinning at me. “Come on, give it to me straight. Are you a ketchup purist?”
“I... I’ve never thought about it.”
“Well, you should. It’s very telling.” He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying himself. “Okay, rapid-fire. Pineapple on pizza—yes or no?”
“I don’t—”
“No time for contemplation. Gut instinct only.”
“Fine! yes. Pineapple on pizza is good.”
His eyes widen in what I can only describe as delighted horror. “Oh no. Oh, Rhi. We need to have a serious conversation about your life choices.”
“You asked!”
“I asked because I needed to know the depths of your depravity.” But he’s laughing, and god, his laugh is unfairly good.
All genuine and surprised, like he didn’t expect to be having this much fun.
“Okay, okay. I can work with this. We’ll get through it together.
Maybe some therapy. Possibly an intervention. ”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m CONCERNED. For you. For your taste buds.” He leans forward, mock-serious. “Next question, and this is the big one—cereal milk. Drink it or leave it?”
“Is this a real question?”
“It’s the question, Rhi. This is how I know who you truly are as a person.”
I consider throwing a pillow at him. Instead, I play along. “I drink it.”
“THANK GOD.” He flops back on the bed dramatically. “Okay, you’re redeemed. The pineapple thing was concerning, but cereal milk drinking is a sign of good character.”
“I’m so glad I have your approval.”
“You should be. I have very high standards.” He rolls onto his side to look at me. “Alright, one more. This is the real test. Are you a folder or a scruncher?”
My face goes hot. “I am NOT answering that!”
“See, that’s a scrunch answer!” He points at me triumphantly. “Folders always answer immediately. They’re very confident about their choices. Scrunchers get defensive.”
“I’m not defensive! I just think it’s a weird question!”
“It’s a perfectly reasonable question about fundamental personality differences.” He’s trying so hard not to laugh. “I bet you fold, actually. You have very organized folder energy.”
“I don’t have folder energy!”
“You absolutely do. You probably have a specific folding technique. You’ve thought about optimal ply thickness. You have OPINIONS.”
I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. “Oh my god, stop.”
“I will not stop. This is important research.” He sits up, trying to look serious but completely failing. “For the record, I’m a scruncher. Just so you know. In case that affects your opinion of me.”
“It doesn’t affect my opinion of you at all.”
“Liar. You’re judging me right now.”
“I’m judging you for asking about toilet paper preferences in the first five hours of knowing someone!”
“Four hours,” he corrects. “And I’d argue this is exactly when you SHOULD ask. Get the hard questions out of the way early.”
He’s laughing now. “Ok, truth time. Are you secretly relieved Professor Bam bailed, or are you devastated you’re stuck with me instead?”
“I’m not stuck with you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I consider lying. Pretending everything is fine. But something about the low lighting and the fact that we’re both exhausted makes me reckless with honesty
“I was worried at first,” I admit. “We didn’t exactly have a great partnership freshman year.”
He blinks. Actually blinks slowly, like he’s trying to process this information. “We were partners freshman year?”
There it is.
The confirmation that he really doesn’t remember.
My heart does a little jump into my throat, and I have to swallow it back down before I can speak.
“Intro to Earth Sciences,” I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral. “Group project on plate tectonics. We had a whole three weeks to complete it.”
I watch his face as he tries to recall—the slight furrow between his eyebrows, the way his eyes unfocus as he searches his memory—and then I see the moment it clicks.
“Oh shit.” He sits up straighter. “Oh shit. You—you did all the work, didn’t you? I completely bailed on you.”
“You had a lot of frat stuff going on,” I say, because it’s easier than explaining how I stayed up finishing our project while he was having a great time.
“That’s not an excuse.” He runs a hand through his hair, and he looks genuinely distressed. “Rhi, I’m sorry. I was a terrible partner. I was— God, I was such an asshole freshman year.”
“You weren’t an asshole. You were just... busy.”
“I forgot our second meeting because I was at a frat brunch.” He says it like a confession. “A brunch. That’s not even a good excuse. That’s not even a real meal.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “It’s a real meal.”
“It’s a fake meal invented by people who want an excuse to drink before noon.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Is that why you looked so horrified when I showed up?”
My face heats. “I didn’t look horrified.”
And no. I was horrified because I have a crush on you, you stupid handsome man. Stop noticing my horrified-ness.
“You absolutely looked horrified. Your face did this thing”—he makes an expression that I’m sure is an exaggeration—“like you’d just been sentenced to a trip in academic hell.”
“I looked... concerned.”
“About?”
“The quality of the data collection,” I say primly.
He laughs, but it sounds rueful. “Ouch. Fair, but ouch.” He says. “For what it’s worth, I’m trying to be better. This semester has been... I’m trying to actually show up to things now. To be someone people can count on.”
The vulnerability in his voice catches me off guard.
I want to ask him more, but he changes the conversation quickly.
“Anyway, geology? Do you really want to spend your life studying rocks?”
I drag my thoughts together. “I like that it’s concrete. Measurable. You can see the evidence right there in the layers, in the mineral deposits. Earth doesn’t lie to you.”
“Unlike people?”
“Yeah. Unlike people.”
“That feels like there’s a story there.” He’s watching me carefully.
“Maybe.”
“You don’t have to tell me. But for what it’s worth”—he tilts his head—“I’m a pretty good listener. When I’m not being a complete disaster of a human being.”
I frown. “You’re not a disaster.”
“Rhi, it’s ok. I am.” He grins ruefully. “Anyway, I’m going to try to do better. Not relying entirely on my devastating good looks to get by.”
He says it so deadpan that I snort-laugh.
“There it is!” He points at me, delighted. “I’ve been trying to get a real laugh out of you all day. The snort makes it even better.”
“I don’t snort.”
“You absolutely just snorted. It was adorable. You can’t take it back now.”
My face is burning. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I prefer ‘charmingly ridiculous’.” He shifts on the bed, getting more comfortable.
“But seriously, I’m glad you gave me another shot.
I know I wasn’t great freshman year, but I’m really trying not to screw this up.
Both because I need the credit and because”—he meets my eyes—“because I’m actually enjoying working with you. ”
The sincerity in his voice catches me completely off-guard.
Before I can respond, there’s a knock at the door. “Room service!”
Carter springs up.
He tips the delivery person generously—I see him slip extra cash with a “keep the change, man”—and then we’re spreading food across the small table. We both start eating in silence. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.
“Okay, moment of truth.” He holds up an onion ring. “Ready? This is the best onion ring you’ll ever have or I’m a liar and a fraud.”
I take a bite. It’s... pretty good. Just a normal motel onion ring.
“Life-changing, right?” He’s watching my face with such hopeful enthusiasm that I can’t bring myself to disappoint him.
“It’s really good.”
“I know! I told you!” He steals a fry from my plate.
“Hey!”
“Shared room service rules. Everything on this table is shared.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“It was implied when you agreed to room service.” He pops the fry in his mouth, grinning. “Besides, I’m teaching you important life skills. How to share. How to live in the moment.”
“Who says I can’t live in the moment?”
He gives me a look.
“So maybe I’m a little cautious sometimes. I like following the rules.”
He’s teasing, but his eyes are warm. “So what’s your actual favorite part of Christmas?”
The question catches me off-guard with its gentleness.
“My mom,” I say slowly, “would wake up every Christmas morning singing. She had this crackly old radio she refused to replace, and she’d sing along to every song. Mariah Carey, Justin Beiber, all of it. Completely off-key.”
“That’s actually really sweet.”
“And she’d make these cupcakes—my mom is normally super strict about sugar and health food, everything organic and measured—but Christmas morning, she’d make red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting.
Just for me. She’d put a candle in it and we’d sing happy birthday Jesus and then I’d eat it for breakfast while we opened presents. ”
Carter’s smile has gone soft—like something in him is melting—and it does unfortunate things to my already compromised emotional state.
“That’s like, the most wholesome thing I’ve ever heard,” he says. “Your mom sounds great.”
“She was.” The past tense slips out before I can stop it. “I mean, she is. She’s still great. It’s just...”
“What changed?”
This is where I should deflect. Make a joke. Change the subject.
But I don’t.