Chapter 32
Cambridge, Massachusetts, three months later . . .
A chilly autumn breeze lifted my hair off my shoulders as I strolled toward Lowell House’s front entrance. I’d been in classes
and meetings all day, so it was a relief to be heading back to my dorm, even if I couldn’t relax yet. I’d just finished my
last class of the day—dating ancient and medieval art—which was held in the art museum’s study hall. The small digital device
I used to record lectures stopped working halfway through my class, and I was worried that I’d missed some of the discussion
around ceramics that would be on the midterm test.
“Paige!” a male voice called as I jogged up a couple steps.
I glanced behind me to see one of the other art history majors—Cal Hodgkins, a junior, one year ahead of me—waving to flag
me down. I paused at the top of the steps so he could catch up. “Hey, Cal. How was that architecture class?”
“Brutal,” he said, pausing at the bottom of the steps to adjust his backpack.
Dark-headed Cal was smart and good-looking, one of the friendlier juniors who often invited a few of us sophomores to parties around campus.
He was one of those generational legacy students whose father and grandfather had attended Harvard.
A good person to know, especially for those of us who could never get the hang of all the weird social traditions around campus.
He set a foot on the bottom step and looked up at me. “It’s Tuesday, in case you forgot.”
I stared at him, a little confused. “Tuesday . . .”
“Poemical night,” he said, giving me a big smile.
Right. Completely forgot. Harvard had twelve houses, and I’d been assigned to this one, Lowell House, along with four hundred
other students. Lowell had a lot going for it: some historic Russian bells, home to the longest running opera company in New
England, Thursday tea in the faculty deans’ residence, a Bacchanalia in the spring, and a big yule party in the winter.
It also hosted the Poemical Society. Every Tuesday night, the poet in residence gathered students to read and listen to poetry.
To be perfectly honest, the spoken word wasn’t my thing. Maybe that’s why I’d forgotten about being invited.
“Crap,” I told Cal. “Is that tonight? Is Mary still coming with us?”
“She bowed out. But you and I can grab something to eat beforehand, if you’re hungry,” he said. “You might even call it a
date . . .” He gave me a soft smile, both brows lifting hopefully.
I winced internally. “Oh, Cal. I’m sorry, I thought you knew. I have a boyfriend back home.”
“Of course you do,” he said, looking a little disappointed. “Really doesn’t surprise me. Back in Michigan, right?”
“Yep.” I nodded.
“Long way away. Doing the long-distance thing, huh?”
We were. I’d been back in Cambridge two months, and he’d visited twice. It was going to cost us an arm and leg to fly back
and forth every month.
“Is it serious, or . . . ?” he asked, crossing his fingers.
“Very serious,” I confirmed. “And sorry to keep disappointing, but I really need to study tonight, so I’m going to have to
bail. Maybe next time, though?”
He looked a little bummed. “Damn, all right. Well, perhaps you’ll consider going with me next Tuesday? Can’t blame a guy for
trying to get a pretty girl to love poetry.”
“You actually could blame a guy for trying,” a voice said behind me. “But I’m feeling generous today, so I’m going to let it slide, Robert Frost.”
I whipped around on the front steps to see Seb standing against a white column, arms crossed over his chest. I let out a little
cry of joy and threw my arms around him. “What are you doing here? Your flight’s not supposed to be here until Friday!”
“Surprise,” he said, dropping three quick kisses on my lips, cheek, and forehead. “Missed you like crazy.”
“Missed you more,” I whispered before I remembered Cal. “Oh, sorry.” Clearing my throat, I twisted around in Seb’s embrace
and gestured loosely. “Seb, this is Cal—we’re both Lowell House. Cal, this is my boyfriend, Seb.”
Cal held up both hands. “Sorry, bruh. I really wasn’t trying to overstep.”
“All good, bruh,” Seb imitated, cocking a brow. “Just don’t make her turn you down again, or we’re going to have a problem.”
Jesus. Before Cal could answer, I tugged on Seb’s shirtsleeve to get him to back down while I told Cal, “I’ll see you around campus.”
“Yeah, later,” he said glumly, jogging up the steps to pass by us.
I linked elbows with Seb. “You didn’t have to do that. He’s not competition.”
He tapped his temple with one finger. “Paige, up here, everyone is competition. But if you ever did decide to leave me, all I ask is that it’s for someone a little cooler than a smarmy poet laureate wannabe in a preppy shirt.”
“Deal,” I said, standing on tip toes to kiss him, feeling giddy to have him here a few days early. If he couldn’t fly out
here regularly, I didn’t know what I’d do. The cash we got for the gold bars had come in handy already, that’s for sure. Split
four ways, we each ended up with around three hundred thousand, give or take. A small fortune to us.
“Better leave the good stuff till we’re alone,” Seb said against my lips. “I’ve got a big surprise for you.”
“Oh yeah? How big?”
“Thirty-five feet.”
I choked out a laugh. “What now?”
“You’ll see. Can I assume you’re done for the day if you’re being invited to poetry slams? If so, I’d like to show you what
I’m talking about.”
“I’ve got to study later, just for a couple hours. But I’m all yours right now.”
He grinned. “Never get tired of you saying that. Come on, Professor Malone. Our chariot awaits.” He gestured toward the long
curb at the front of Lowell House, where I spotted the Speed Buggy parked in a no-parking zone.
I did a double take. “Wait, how . . . ? What’s the Bronco doing here? Didn’t you fly?”
Punkin’s ugly head poked out of the back window. She gave me a little bark as we approached, and I unlinked my arm from Seb’s
to scratch her head. “What in the world? Hey, girl! You drove all the way out here to see me? What a good dog!”
“Don’t let her fool you,” Seb said, taking my backpack away from me to toss it inside the Bronco next to Punkin. “She’s a terrible driver and nearly got us killed on the interstate.”
I gave her a good scratch, happy to see her wagging tail, then I got into the front of the Bronco with Seb. “This is nuts,”
I told him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were planning a major road trip? How long did it take you to get out here?”
“Two days,” Seb said. “Seven hours the first day, then we spent the night in Rochester. We got up early this morning and made
it here before noon.”
I squinted at him. “That was hours ago.”
“We’ve been busy,” he said, barely able to contain a smile that told me he was up to no good. “Now hold on while I input a
route into the GPS. Traffic on campus is a nightmare . . .”
He wouldn’t let me see where he was taking me, but it didn’t matter. I was just ecstatic to see him. His early arrival threw
my study schedule off a little, but that was fine. I’d been working ahead in my classes to ensure that we had the entire weekend
to ourselves, no distractions. The last time he visited, three weeks ago, we never left the hotel room.
We headed south, off campus, and took a road that hugged the Charles River, talking nonstop about every little thing . . .
His trip here. Punkin’s new flea medication. How Jazmine was adjusting to the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor and her
snagging a spot on the women’s water polo team. And, of course, the app Benny was building in his spare time between classes
back in Kalamazoo.
“I truly don’t understand why he thinks he’s going to make a killing from babysitting,” I said. “Babysitters aren’t raking
in big cash . . . are they? What kind of cut does he think he can take?”
“Let him have this,” Seb argued. “He deserves it after dealing with Lulu again last week.”
Benny got a long, handwritten letter from Lulu that she wrote from a women’s correctional facility near Kalamazoo, where she
was serving three months for shoplifting clothes when she first met Benny on campus, posing as a college student. I hadn’t
personally read Lulu’s letter from jail, but Seb had, and he reported that she’d used the word “sorry” eighteen times while
begging for his forgiveness. Benny hadn’t forgiven her, though, and I’m not sure Lulu’s attempt at a prison poem was going
to repair the damage she’d done.
“No word from Paul?” I asked as Punkin stuck her head over the front seat and panted in my face.
“Still awaiting trial. But I don’t think there’s a lawyer in the state who can get him off.”
Felony firearm offenses came with mandatory jail time in Michigan. Two years. His dad still had about six months left on his
own house arrest. We were all still waiting for the shoe to drop on that, but nothing had happened with Big Burg. He didn’t
send anyone after us, didn’t burn down anyone’s house. Maybe he was waiting for the outcome of Paul’s trial.
Or maybe he was waiting to find out what was going to happen with my father.
It took my father nearly two weeks to get bailed out after that horrible day I went to his house. When his new wife finally
came up with the bail money, the cops caught him trying to charter a plane to South America, so he earned himself the flight-risk
label. Now he was sitting in a cell, awaiting trial, which was due to start in November, around the time of my Thanksgiving
break.
I’d already notified my professors about taking time off to testify and had flight tickets booked to return for the trial.
Everyone had been kind about it. Ironically, because of all this mess, I had no problem convincing the financial aid office that my father was, indeed, not financially responsible for me: making the news for being kidnapped by the biggest commercial real estate agent in Grand Rapids really helped drive that point home.