Chapter 10
Lark
Harbor Westcott is bad for me.
My grades.
My schoolwork.
My attention.
“Ms. Summerlin.” My professor calls me out in front of everyone. “Why don’t you share with the class what you find so funny about the preservation of cadavers?”
I look up from my phone and the text from Harbor asking me out for Saturday night. “Um . . . there’s nothing funny about cadavers—”
“Correct!” Professor Brown says, pointing the marker in his hand at me and causing me to jump in my seat. “There is nothing funny about cadavers. The donors deserve respect for the sacrifice they’ve made to science.”
“My apologies,” I say about ready to kill Harbor for texting me in class. He’s bad for me. That’s all there is to it. Yet he’s so darn irresistible. My lips still tingle from kissing him.
Glancing back down at the screen again, I smile.
“Ms. Summerlin, bring me your phone. Apparently, it’s too much of a distraction today. I have you for ninety minutes, and your shenanigans have cost the class five of them. We won’t lose any more to your screen addiction.”
My hands begin to tremble. I’ve never been in trouble in my life.
“I think we should keep going with the lesson,” Harbor says from where he’s seated. I glance back along with the entire class.
The professor replies, “That’s what I want to hear, Mr. Westcott. Eager minds create great doctors, but thorough research should always be your guide.”
Harbor is gifted. Trying to save me just earned him brownie points with our hard-ass professor. Impressive.
Then Professor Brown says, “I’m going to give you two options, Ms. Summerlin. Bring me the phone or leave my class.”
I hoped this would go differently, but no luck.
Still debating if I should swing my backpack over my shoulder and leave in shame, I choose option one and start down the row toward the center aisle of the auditorium.
My throat is dry as I tell people to excuse me, not daring to glance back at where Harbor is sitting.
When I reach the front of the room, Professor Brown says, “Show me what you were looking at.”
Wait, what? Oh no. “I thought you were just going to confiscate it until the end of class?”
“No. I could use a good laugh, though.” I knew I should have chosen option two.
He’s waiting for me to show him the screen. I take a shaky and just do it to get it over with. His eyes roll across the screen and then looks up in the auditorium and finds where Harbor is sitting.
Slumped in his seat.
Cocky smirk on his lips.
Eyes glaring back at the professor.
Lowering his glasses, the professor says, “A lot more makes sense now.” Looking at me, he keeps his voice low. “Return to your seat, and like the cadavers, please give me the respect I’ve earned during our ninety minutes together.”
“Yes, sir.”
My body feels like fire as heated embarrassment consumes me whole.
I return to my seat, sinking into it while wishing it had a hole I could disappear into forever.
The girl beside me whispers, “Don’t worry about him.
He’ll forget all about it soon enough when someone else pisses him off.
Just lay low until then.” She leans back in her seat.
“I will.” Oh trust me, I will. “Thanks.”
Suddenly, she leans over again, and whispers, “And quite the coup scoring a date with a Westcott.” She wags her brow once. I’m about to ask her how she knew, but she points at my phone. “Couldn’t help but see the text.”
“Ah. Gotcha.” Note to self: everyone can see everything in this auditorium.
A text comes in . . . from Harbor again: You okay?
I debate if I should reply just in case I get caught again. The professor is caught up in writing a timeline across the whiteboard that I remember reading about online. So I text: Sorry, I can’t reply. I’ve died from a peculiar strain of mortificationitis.
He texts a reply: I know just the cure for that.
My fingers slide against the screen: Oh yeah?
The next text reads: It’s a cure-all. Trust me.
It is too.
The moment he kisses me after class, I forget all about what happened inside. With his lips pressed to mine, I realize that he may be bad for my school career, but he’s oh-so-good in every other way.
“Why are we driving so slow?” I ask Dane impatiently.
I’m anxious to get back to Beacon after our shift at the DeRoy’s anniversary party. A lot of the same faces were there that attended the last week’s party, including the Westcotts. Mrs. Westcott even came by the buffet specifically to say hello to me. She’s very sweet.
Still, there was no way I would dare mention my late-night date with Harbor to her.
For one, meeting at midnight makes me feel more like a booty call than a proper date.
And two, being nice to me as part of the catering crew is one thing.
Dating the part of the catering crew is quite another.
I’m not sure where she would stand on that part of the equation.
Dane’s been lost in his thoughts most of the way back, the truck absent of our usual small talk. “Dane?”
He glances away from the road like I woke him from a slumber. “Huh?”
“The speed limit is sixty. You’re going what, like forty-five tops?”
His eyes glance down at the dash, and then he says, “Oh.”
When he sits up to adjust in the seat, his knuckles whiten from his firm grip on the steering wheel as he gives the old truck some gas. The radio can only shed so much light in the cab, but there’s enough to see he’s tense. “Want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever is on your mind,” I reply, angling his direction. “Is it Mia?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “We’re good, better than it’s ever been.”
Mia may not be my favorite person, but that’s based on their past. If they’re good, better than ever, then I’ll support my friend. “That’s good to hear.”
I leave room between us for conversation, which he eventually fills. “Do you ever think about the class divide between Beacon and Beacon’s Pointe? There’s what? Ten, fifteen miles max dividing the two towns, but they’re worlds away in more ways than financially.”
“I’ve thought about it, but does it matter?”
“Of course, it matters.” He looks at me like I’m not speaking the same language. “We drive out there to serve them at their pool parties and children’s pony shows or whatever shit they decide to throw a random celebration for. That doesn’t ever get to you?”
Dane’s never been a friend who requires accolades, pats on the back, or anything more than knowing you’re loyal.
We’re alike that way. So his insistence that I understand or agree with him is not typical behavior.
“I don’t think I can give you an answer that will suffice.
” I hate arguments in the car, not that we’re arguing, but the growing intensity of the conversation is unsettling.
“It’s like they live on another planet. They have fancy-ass parties while we struggle to pay our bills.”
“I hear what you’re saying, and sure, I’ve wondered what it would be like to be rich, but it does us no good to wish for what they have, and we never will.”
“You might.” He grins, and though I never had a brother, Dane’s always tried to fill the role.
“Maybe.” I watch the road. “Hopefully.” I can’t shake the feeling that he’s acting strange. What rattled him? “We’ve worked many parties in The Pointe. What brought this on tonight?”
I’m answered with a shrug as he resettles with one hand on the steering wheel and the other tuning the music station. “I’m glad you’re getting out of this place.”
Life is usually less complicated on these drives, but not tonight for some reason. He’s never been high-strung, but he’ll defend himself or those he cares about without a second thought, which makes me think there’s more to this conversation. What is he protecting me from?
He turns into town and takes the first right, traveling slower like the speed limit requires and passing busy bars and restaurants on the way. Doesn’t matter that it’s almost midnight. This college town is bustling with people ready to blow off steam after a long week.
Traveling to the far end, past the entertainment district, the street we turn onto is quieter. The lights and sounds from town are just out of reach when he turns down my street.
Dane parks in front of the house. I don’t jump out since I’m kind of worried about him. “Working the late shift tonight?”
“I’ll be at the tattoo shop until two if you get bored and don’t want to go to bed.”
I still stay but open the door. Although I know he takes these after-hours shifts because he needs the money, I say, “Be careful. It’s still illegal to serve alcohol at a tattoo shop.”
“Getting paid under the table means twice the pay when not having to dole out for taxes.”
I nod in response, knowing he won’t give it up because of my warning. “I still don’t know how you manage the lack of sleep.”
“I sleep all day.”
“Good point. I have classes I can’t miss.” Hopping down onto the curb, I say, “I won’t be able to make it, but I’m sure Mia will be more than enough to handle tonight.”
He cracks a smile. “That’s what you never understood. You’re the only chick I know who I don’t have to handle. It’s just easy being friends with you.”
“Should I take offense to being called easy?” I grin, but he doesn’t. I snap my fingers. “Hey, that was supposed to be funny.”
“Sorry,” he says, forcing a smile. Leaning on the steering wheel, he looks ahead through the windshield, seemingly lost in thought again. When he turns back, he says, “Don’t settle for less than you deserve, Lark.”
This is unlike our typical conversations, so I can’t help but laugh awkwardly. “I’ll try not to.”
“No, I mean it. There are a lot of . . . There are a lot of shiny fucking objects that will draw your attention away and steal your heart. Underneath the gleam, they’re not like us.”
“Who’s they?” The words remind me of when Harbor asked the same question.
“You know who. The Pointe kids.”
An ache threatens my stomach as an image of Harbor fills my head. It’s as if Dane can read my mind. Am I that obvious?