9. Anastasia
Anastasia
H aving to prepare a debate only two weeks into the semester should go down as a criminal offense in the society of lecturers.
As I pace in the cinema room I try to imagine it stretches back further, littered with classmates all watching me try to explain why I think Shakespeare’s writing is universal and timeless against someone else arguing it isn’t.
I try to memorize my responses to what they could put forth in their case, but I keep stumbling and become riddled with the anxiety they might catch me unaware and I’ll be standing there flustered and fumbling like a fool in front of everyone.
It’s ironic, really. I’ve watched my father excel at this, and even in just a few short weeks I’ll be flying to Cali with him for the big presidential debate.
Tunneling away as I recite my statements to myself, I’m not aware I have company until I catch glimpse of a ridiculously tall and broad figure leaning against the top entrance. My heart takes a moment to fall back to my chest after lunging up my throat.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Rhett says, not apologetic in the slightest as he fights the amusement edging his mouth.
“Do you need something?” I bite out. He deserves my snipe for the fright.
“I figured you might want at least one face to fill your imaginary audience.” He pushes off the wall, coming around the back double seats and sitting on the edge of one.
The sheets in my hands are already a crumpled mess, and his presence only rushes my nerves.
“I don’t,” I say, dismissing him.
“If you can’t say it to me, how are you going to focus in a full auditorium?”
“I don’t need the reminder I’m a flailing mess.”
“Not what I meant. Haven’t you done this before?”
“Yes. It doesn’t make it any easier.”
I chew at my thumb as I begin to pace again, reciting in my head instead of aloud and trying to block him out.
“What are you so afraid of?”
“I don’t know. Nothing really, I’ve just never been able to prevent the nerves.
” I laugh resentfully at myself. “Would you believe I actually enjoy this kind of thing? That I want to perform and be able to talk in front of people. I think I’m actually pretty good at it.
Yet I get so sick every time I try ... It’s infuriating.”
“Do you want to know what I believe?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“I believe that what we find most frightening are the things we desire the most. That life gives us nerves and fear as a challenge because nothing achieved easily will grant the same triumph as overcoming everything that tried to stop you.”
My arms drop in surprise at his words. They repeat in my mind and I absorb them as something ... comforting.
“Who knew bodyguards came with wisdom these days?” I muse.
“Your father paid for the latest model.”
I smile to myself, watching the ground and his presence became less intimidating. With a deep breath I march over to him, thrusting a sheet at him, which he hooks a brow at before taking it.
“You can be my debate partner instead of just sitting pretty.”
Rhett reclines back on the deep seat, hooking an arm behind himself as he reads over the lines. My cheeks flame, acknowledging the minute I spend checking him out while his body is stretched out, straining the fit of his black T-shirt, is a beat longer than appropriate.
“Shakespeare?” he quizzes as I make my way back down to the front.
“You can’t give me life advice and not know who Shakespeare is.”
“An ancient King of England, right?”
I snap him an incredulous look, but the bastard hides his deviant smile behind his paper.
He recites, “‘William Shakespeare’s work is exclusive and bigoted.’ I’m against his timelessness?”
“Yes. I’m arguing his work resonates in our present time and reflects our future.”
“You enjoy this kind of stuff?” he asks, genuinely curious.
I shrug. “I like his work, sure.”
“I mean in general, literature, what you study—do you enjoy it?”
No one has ever asked me that before. My parents ask if I’m doing well, what I plan to do next. I realize no one, not even myself, has ever questioned my enjoyment of what has been the driving aspect of my life for the past six years.
“I enjoy ... some of it?” Why do I find the question so strange? Nerve-wracking. As if it could expose a lie I don’t even know I’m harboring.
I shake my head to dispel the confusion and divert the topic.
“What do you do for fun, Agent?” I ask, folding my arms.
Rhett’s hand drops from holding up his paper. He sets it aside and pushes himself to sitting, staring off as if he’s thinking about it. “I’m pretty good with a gun,” he says.
“I should hope so. Can’t have you misfiring on the job.”
His mouth twitches with a smile, but it’s like it loses an internal fight to become whole every time.
“I used to enjoy sports,” he reflects. “Hiking, kayaking, anything with a ball on the ground or in my hands. My fiancée hated most of it, but it was amusing to make her trudge along.”
The melancholy that fills his irises as he stares at the wall pinches my chest. I don’t expect the honesty, the mention of his lost love.
“You don’t participate in those things anymore?” I ask carefully.
He takes a deep breath to swallow his pain. “I’ve become dedicated to my work over the past three years. There’s little time.”
I shouldn’t want to insist he make time. That I’ll go with him. The want to voice it pushes so strong, but it lodges in my throat as if that token of bonding would push us toward a line we can’t get close to. Certainly can’t cross.
“Want to hit the gym?” I ask suddenly. “It’s not those sports, but I could use the distraction from Shakespeare and the fact my debate partner is Adam Sullevan.”
Rhett’s eyebrows pull together with that. “What’s the deal with that guy?” He follows me out, leaving my papers behind.
“We had a fling last year. He was never my boyfriend, and I guess I was na?ve to think someone without a label might not fuck someone else. He’s the son of my father’s competitor. We never should have hooked up.”
“For what it’s worth, he’s a damned lucky bastard, but a fucking fool too if he had you and pulled that bullshit.”
I smile to myself, not quite believing that’s true, but I appreciate his attempt to lessen the blow of my ugly situation.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not wounded by it. Though it’s added this edge of a competition now, like we’ve become part of our fathers’ campaign as something personal.”
“He’s lashing out of nothing more than his own insecurity. It’s why he’ll take any moment to gain a reaction from you.”
“So you’re a people analyzer too?” I hook a brow at him.
He doesn’t deny it, and I wonder if that comes naturally in his line of work.
I should be uneasy at how observant he is, dissecting people like onions, layer by layer, and before they know it he’s seen their core.
I’m determined to keep my layers intact.
Add extra layers. Rhett Kaiser is not getting close to any kind of nakedness with me.
“Meet you down there in ten minutes?” he says as we reach our doors.
I only nod and my heart skips at his small smile before he disappears into his room.
In the gym, I’m sitting stretching when Rhett strolls in ten minutes later than he said we’d meet. Not that I’m counting. Okay, maybe I am. He’s wearing all black as usual, casual sweatpants and a T-shirt, and it’s incredible how he can make something so plain look so devastating.
“Do you think you could teach me to fight?” I blurt when he’s close enough. “You have that training from your work, right?”
Rhett assesses me, folding his powerful arms. “Why do you want to learn to fight?”
I’ve been debating the ask since I’ve never had the opportunity to learn so readily here without my parents finding out and wondering why.
“I just don’t want to be defenseless.”
With his silence he presses for my elaboration. Pushing myself up, I begin to stretch my arms and avoid his gaze.
“There’s really nothing more to it. Never mind. It doesn’t matter anyway now I’m constantly under surveillance.”
“I can teach you,” he agrees.
Not the easy acceptance I was expecting. While he doesn’t seem satisfied with my poor reasoning, he brushes it off, heading to the mats.
He says, “You seem to have a great form when you attack the punching bag. Is that all you’ve practiced with before?”
I nod, slipping off my shoes to join him.
“I punched someone for real once,” I admit, flushing before adding, “I broke my hand and had to tell my parents I stupidly fell.”
I think he’ll be amused. Mock me. In contrast, his eyes narrow a fraction and an unreadable emotion twitches his jaw.
“Show me,” he says, stepping closer.
“You want me to hit you?”
“Yes. With everything you have, exactly as you did it that time.”
Beginning to second-guess my want for this, I nervously adopt a braced stance to throw the punch. I’m putting a whole lot of faith in him knowing what he’s doing, as I’m sure to break bone again if he lets my fist strike the barely cushioned steel of any part of him.
Here goes nothing.
I swing and connect with his palm as he catches my fist effortlessly.
“You’re bending your wrist. Keep it straight,” he instructs, fixing my error.
Taking a deep breath, I try again. This time he steps around me like a graceful cat.
I expect some sort of impact from him as my balance wavers.
The opportunity is right there. Instead his hand presses to my abdomen in the same breath before I can stumble.
Rhett doesn’t linger, but his touch ignites my skin.
Maybe this isn’t a good idea , I think when my slutty side decides to taunt my body with a flush.
“Your stance is good, but it could be better,” he says, in a low tone that isn’t helping my situation . “May I?”