Chapter 5
FIVE
I try not to think about Wes on Sunday or Monday, but it’s impossible when my Public Speaking assignment quite literally revolves around him. Transcribing his responses into an informative outline, I can’t help but replay my (over?)reaction to his question Saturday night a million times in my head.
I am dreading Tuesday.
But, like all things I’d rather avoid, Tuesday comes quicker than I’d like, and I start my morning out wrong with a text from my mom.
Mom: You’re coming home next weekend for your father’s birthday, right? He’s turning sixty. That’s a big deal, Ivy.
Still in bed, half-asleep, I blink at the message. Of course I’m coming home next weekend. When have I ever missed a birthday or a holiday or a mandatory family…anything? It’s one of the downsides of going to school in the same state as my hometown—I’m always expected to show up, and I always do.
I type out a response.
Me: Yes, I know. I’ll be there on Saturday.
Mom: Noah and Scott are coming Friday.
My jaw clenches. If she just asked me to come on Friday, I would, but every question has to be hidden deep behind a dark curtain of passive aggression.
Me: Ok, I’ll come Friday then.
Mom: Scott’s bringing Olive, so I’ll make up the basement.
I grind my teeth together. I can’t remember the last time I slept in my actual bedroom.
Me: That’s fine.
She doesn’t respond after that, but I’m not surprised. I set my phone aside, flick on my bedside lamp, and focus on getting dressed for my early class.
My heart’s in my throat on the trek to the Foundations building. I have no clue what to expect from Wes. An awkward hello. The cold shoulder. Maybe he’ll sit on the opposite side of the room today, which would be fine. He can do what he wants. It would be totally fine.
Sure, it would. Keep telling yourself that.
I slump in my seat as the minutes tick by, forcing myself not to glance at the door.
Before long, I hear the unexpected creak of Wes folding himself into the desk beside me, and he shoots me a, “Hey, Poison Ivy,” like everything’s fine.
Like I didn’t ditch him at midnight on frat row after he spent an hour of his time trying to help me find my roommate.
And then he does the absolute last thing I expect him to do.
He reaches over my desk and places a freaking muffin right in front of me.
“Do you like blueberry?” he asks. “My housemate made them.” Eyes wide, I stare at the pastry on my desk, deciding once and for all that I misread the situation that night.
I closed off, shut down, jumped to conclusions.
I thought he was trying to take advantage, but as much as it pains me to admit, I was wrong about him.
“He must put crack in them, or something, I swear. I’ve never had a muffin this exceptional, and I knew you needed to try one. ”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I can’t look at him yet, guilt eating away at me, and it’s seconds before my eyes drift up and over, landing directly on his. “Thank you,” I blurt.
Wes flashes me a grin, leaning back in his chair a bit. “You’re welcome.”
“I mean for helping me. On Saturday. And for the muffin, too, I guess.”
He nods again. “You’re doubly welcome.” He doesn’t appear at all upset by my behavior or my hasty escape. In fact, he actually seems…pleased. Pleased I brought it up? Pleased I apologized? Pleased I accepted his offering? I’m not sure.
When his gaze becomes too much, my eyes drop back down to the muffin, fixating on a blueberry until my vision becomes unfocused. “I-I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean—I’m sorry—”
“Ives,” he cuts in, and I look up again, straight into his eyes. Another nickname. My heart stumbles over a beat. “Don’t sweat it, okay?”
“Okay,” I breathe.
His grin stretches wider, but before he can say anything further, Markham clears his throat at the front of the room and begins his lecture.
Although my fingers fly across the keys, my focus is divided between the lecture and Wes.
I pick up on the scrawl of his pencil on the pages of his notebook.
I hear him swallow as he takes a sip from his giant silver thermos.
I catch him snicker when Markham cracks one of his lame, practiced jokes.
I notice the shift of his body as he tries to get more comfortable, even though the desks were designed for normal-sized people, and it’s most likely an impossible feat.
“How was it?” he whispers when there are ten minutes left in class and I’ve nibbled the last of the blueberry muffin. I stiffen, suddenly self-conscious that he’s been watching me eat this entire time.
Brushing my fingers on my jeans, I glance over at him. Well, at his shoes. It’s always easier for me to work my way up to the gorgeous face. Eventually I do, but I wilt under the weight of his attention, and the word gets stuck in my throat when I manage to speak. “G-good.”
I flinch and stare at my hands, but he doesn’t acknowledge the stutter.
“Just good?” he asks, and when I look up again, he’s giving me a knowing grin.
The corner of my mouth twitches up because that really was a damn good muffin. “Addictive. Crack-infused for sure.”
He looks amused by my description. “Told you. Any requests for next time?”
My smile falters. “Requests?”
“Ben takes requests. If you have a favorite pastry, I’ll ask him to make it. He’ll make anything. Scones, Danish, Cookies, Pop Tarts…”
I blink and then shake my head. I’m uncomfortable being put on the spot or asking a stranger to bake me things. “Oh, I don’t—”
“Just think about it,” he cuts in, reminding me of the way he told me to think about being his practice buddy for our speeches. I simply nod and face forward again, tuning back into the lecture. I know damn well I’ll never take him up on either.
“I want four potential topics for your informative speech by Thursday,” Markham’s saying, signaling the end of class.
“If you’re stumped, think about something you’re passionate about.
Hobbies. Skillsets. Fixations. But please, I beg of you, keep it within the realm of school appropriate.
I will not listen to another speech that waxes on about the benefits of pornography. ”
The class snickers at that, but my stomach’s in knots from a complete lack of topic ideas. Standing, I shrug on my coat and make for the door. I try not to react as Wes saunters up beside me, as usual toting nothing but his massive thermos and leather notebook, his pencil tucked behind his ear.
It’s strange, walking next to someone so larger than life. He draws the attention of everyone within a thirty-foot radius, and I’m hyper-conscious of all the eyes following us. For a moment, I debate slipping away from him, if only to go back to being invisible.
Wes has other ideas, apparently. “So, I’m on the edge of my seat here,” he says. “What happened Saturday night?”
I peek up at him, my brow knitting in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Did you get into your apartment?”
My face warms at the reminder of how I ran away from him like some kind of crazy person. “Oh. Yeah. I did.”
He smirks. “Why am I picturing you pulling some crazy ninja shit and shimmying through a window or something?”
That earns him a snort. “No, nothing like that. Ava got sick, and they went home early.” My nose wrinkles at the memory. “She was throwing up when I got back.”
“That nasty binge-drinking will get you every time, though I’m sure you know from experience. That and the drugs, of course.”
“Of course.”
His steps come to a halt a few paces from the exit, and I stop beside him. Confused, I look up at him only to find his mouth unusually tight, his eyes roaming over my face. “After you left, I was worried.”
I startle a little at his admission. If his eyes weren’t so sincere, I wouldn’t believe that someone like him was actually worried about someone like me, especially after the shit I pulled when he offered me a place to sleep. “Oh. I’m sorr—”
“DOC!” booms a voice from across the building. Our heads whip in the direction of the sound to see the very definition of college frat boy loping toward us. Well, loping toward Wes. I just happen to be here, recoiling in his abnormally large shadow. “Where the fuck have you been hiding, Tucker?”
“Hey, Rich,” Wes says, doing that ingrained handclap that most guys do to greet each other. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know. Shitty.” The guy jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “You wanna grab food real quick? It’s been fucking forever, man.”
Wes nods his head at me. “Sorry, can’t right now. We’re in the middle of something.”
My spine stiffens as Rich turns his gaze on me, noticing my presence for the first time.
He gives me a once-over, the kind that sounds the alarm bells in my head, and I have to fight the urge to take a step back.
“You’re not Dani,” is all he says, and I shoot Wes a quick, panicked look, unsure of how to respond.
Wes doesn’t notice, though. He’s too busy glaring at Rich, his shoulders surprisingly tense. “Seriously?”
Rich raises his hands in front of his chest. “Sorry, dude! Like I said, it’s been forever. Last I checked it was all about Dani.”
Who’s Dani? I want to ask, but I can’t find my words again.
Rich looks back at me, and those alarm bells turn deafening. “What’s your name, cutie? You a freshman? Must be. You’ve still got that deer in headlights look in your eyes.”
My blood rushes in my ears, and I know that if I open my mouth, nothing will come out. So, I nod, averting my gaze to the collar of his t-shirt.
Rich grins, looking back at Wes. “Cute. She’s shy.”
Shame courses through me at his analysis, and I will the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I can’t even look at Wes because this is why I avoid people and places and interactions. This is why I avoid everything that Wes is.
By some miracle, I open my mouth and manage a quiet, “I should go—”
“Me, too,” Wes cuts in, surprising me, and before I can process what’s happening, he’s steering me toward the door with a hovering hand at my back. “See you later, Rich!” he calls over his shoulder. “We’ll get food some time!”
And then we’re stepping outside, the brisk, winter wind slapping me in the face, a punishment I deserve for making a fool of myself. We walk for a while in silence until Wes exhales a frustrated sigh, coming to a halt and turning to face me.
“Sorry about that guy. He’s a dick, which is why I haven’t seen him this semester. Hell, longer. I have actively been avoiding Rich Simmons for a year now, and I’m better off for it, let me tell you.” When I don’t respond, he frowns, ducking his head to better see my face. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m fine. Just...”
“Embarrassed,” Wes finishes for me, once again reading me like a book. I’m surprised there’s no judgement or disgust in his tone. If anything, he’s sympathetic. “You have no reason to be. Trust me. If anyone’s embarrassed, it’s me. I don’t want you to think I’m friends with that asshole.”
My brows pull together in confusion. “Why would you care what I think?”
Now it’s his turn to be confused. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I?”
“I can think of a few reasons,” I mumble before I can stop myself, and Wes grins, like he realizes I didn’t mean to say that aloud.
“Doubt it. Give me one.”
I swallow. Shift on my feet. “Because. I don’t know. I am shy, like that guy said.”
“So, I should write you off because of that?” When I don’t respond, he shakes his head. “Ivy, that’s crap, and if you’re comparing yourself to someone like me, you shouldn’t. My big mouth gets me into trouble all the time.”
“It’s just…frustrating,” I admit, my vulnerability exposed. “And the reason I’m going to fail Public Speaking.”
“You’re not going to fail,” Wes assures.
I shake my head at his optimism. “How do you know?”
“Because. I won’t let you. And that, Poison Ivy, is a promise.”
His words are hasty. Careless. He doesn’t know the issues I’m facing, after all—the internal battle I’m fighting every minute of every hour not to have a freaking anxiety attack—and yet, I find them comforting.
I find him comforting, with those deep dimples and that contagious grin and the constant twinkle in his eye.
It’s more than his attractiveness, though. Now that I’ve silenced the alarms and listened to my gut, I can sense how genuine his intentions are. His big mouth might get him in trouble, but at least he lays it all out there. His honest, authentic self.
I don’t. I can’t. Not since—
Stop.
Still, I nod my head and let his positivity wash over me, hoping some of it might stick.
Please, let some of it stick.
We go our separate ways until Thursday, but despite his “promise,” Wes isn’t in class.
Once the lecture starts, I can’t stop myself from glancing at the door.
I keep waiting for him to push through and bound into the room the way he did the first day of the semester, but he never does.
The door remains shut, the seat beside me empty, and disappointment stews in my gut.
My mind wanders, wondering if he accidentally slept in, if he’s sick, if he ditched for some other reason.
I wish I had a way to ask him.
Two weeks ago, I would have been thrilled by his absence, but twenty minutes into class, I begin to panic.
I don’t think I realized how much of my time was spent focusing on the giant beside me, but he definitely distracted me from obsessing over the actual spoken assignments for this horrifying course.
With Wes missing, the full force of my anxiety hits me like a freight train, and it’s suddenly impossible to take a deep breath.
My chest locks up as my lungs constrict, and I suck air through my nose before holding my breath.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
My vision goes fuzzy around the edges.
Seven. Six. Five.
My heart pounds like a jackhammer.
Knee jiggling, fingers shaking, mind counting four, three, two, I do a crazy thing.
I wish Wes was here.
One.
I inhale, and my chest eases, air rushing to my lungs. My shoulders relax. My fingers stabilize. My relief is heady and metallic, though that could be from biting the inside of my cheek by accident.
“For next class,” Markham’s saying as I zone back in, “pick your topic, your purpose, and six potential points you could expand on. For the actual speech, you will only need three. Any questions, you know where to email me. And remember, R-O-P-D. Research. Organize. Practice. Deliver.”
Through my panic, Wes’s words reverberate through my head.
You’re not going to fail.
He doesn’t realize what he’s gotten himself into with that reckless, inane promise. He really doesn’t.