Chapter 6
SIX
It was the only class we had together, but even in this giant lecture hall it was still one class too many.
Drew was already seated on the far left side in the top row, so I grabbed a seat in the third row on the right side.
I climbed the stairs to my chosen seat, pointedly not looking in his direction even though I could feel his presence like a splinter under my skin.
This was our first class together since my roommates and I had pulled off the best revenge I’d ever thought of.
His silence was almost concerning because I had no doubt he was pissed and likely trying to plan a way to annihilate me, but I was on cloud nine after this weekend, and I refused to let him ruin it.
While I waited for our professor to start class, I pulled out my phone and looked at the website I’d set up. Traffic was already over six hundred unique visitors, and the comments were pure gold.
One of my fake reviews, “He talks a big game but finishes faster than a firework on the Fourth of July,” had eighty-seven upvotes. Another one I’d written that was a personal favorite was, “He kept calling me by the wrong name. Multiple times. Mid-thrust.”
Someone had replied, “Girl, was the wrong name ‘Jesus’? Because that’s the only acceptable excuse.”
I laughed out loud before quickly smothering it behind my hand.
A few glowing comments had shown up overnight that I promptly deleted because fuck Drew Dumontier and his supposedly “phenomenal” dick.
This wasn’t a site for praise. It was all about perception, and I wanted the perception to remain that Drew was a two-pump chump and couldn’t find a woman’s clit even if it were highlighted in neon and had a glowing “Start Here” sign above it.
“Good morning, class,” Professor Keene said, setting down her coffee and pulling up her presentation.
I set my phone down on the desk in front of me and focused on her.
“I hope everyone’s ready for some exciting news about your final project.
I know we’re not quite to midterms yet, but I want you all to get a head start on this. ”
I pulled out my notebook and tried to focus.
Psychology was one of my favorite classes—the intersection between human behavior and music therapy fascinated me.
It’s why I’d chosen this section, even after I showed up on the first day to find Drew also enrolled in this class.
I’d figured I could just ignore him for the semester.
It was a large enough section that there was a buffer of about eighty other students.
That plan had worked great so far.
“As you already know from the syllabus, your final project will count for fifty percent of your final grade,” Professor Keene continued. “What you don’t know is that this will be a partner project.”
A collective groan rose from the lecture hall and my stomach dropped. Partner projects were always a nightmare—someone inevitably did all the work while their partner coasted.
“Before you panic,” she said with a slight smile, “I’m going to be randomly assigning partners today, and then once everyone’s been paired up, I’ll hand out the project parameters and give you the rest of the class time to brainstorm project plans.”
Random assignment. That could either be good or disastrous.
“I’ll be using this random generator to select pairs,” she said, clicking to a new slide that showed a spinning wheel interface connected to her laptop. “Let’s start at the top of my roster.”
I half-listened as I grabbed my water bottle and took a drink while she began calling names, watching the wheel spin and land on various students.
My phone buzzed with a text, and I discreetly glanced at it.
Rachel
Coffee after class? Need to vent about my theory professor.
Me
Meet you at the Grindhouse.
“Drew Dumontier,” Professor Keene called.
My head snapped up involuntarily. Drew straightened in his seat, and I could see his shoulders tense slightly. He was probably hoping to get paired with someone who’d be impressed enough by his hockey star status to do all the work.
Professor Keene clicked the generator, and the wheel began to spin. Names flashed by in colorful segments—the names unreadable until it started to slow.
Sarah Kent…David Parker…Ryan Talbert…Delia Terrell…
No. No, no, no, no, no.
The wheel stopped, my heart right along with it.
“Harper Tinsley,” Professor Keene announced cheerfully.
The water bottle slipped from my shocked grip, spilling across the desk.
“Shit,” I whispered, watching water spread across my carefully organized notes as I fumbled in my bag for spare napkins to dry up the mess.
“Next pairing,” Professor Keene continued, completely oblivious to the fact that she’d just assigned me to academic hell.
I glanced behind me at where I knew Drew was sitting across the lecture hall.
Even from this distance, his expression was perfectly clear—the same “what the fuck” look I was probably wearing.
His eyes found mine across the lecture hall, and for a moment, we just stared at each other in mutual horror.
This could not be happening.
Professor Keene’s TA handed me a piece of paper with the project instructions printed on it.
Your project will involve selecting a behavioral pattern or psychological condition, researching current CBT approaches, and developing a treatment plan with evidence-based interventions. You’ll present your findings to the class during finals week.
Finals week. That was nine weeks away. Nine weeks of having to work with Drew Dumontier. Nine weeks of forced collaboration with the person who likely wanted to destroy me after the revenge stunt I’d just pulled on him.
I was going to be sick.
“I’ve posted the complete project guidelines and research requirements on the student portal so you can get started,” Professor Keene said after everyone had been paired up.
“Please coordinate with your partners to establish meeting times and your project focus. I suggest you exchange contact information today before class lets out.”
Contact information. I’d have to give Drew Dumontier my phone number. The thought made my skin crawl.
Drew was still looking at me, and now he had that infuriating half-smirk on his face. Like this was all some cosmic joke instead of a complete disaster.
I wanted to throw my water-soaked notebook at his stupid perfect face.
What fresh hell was this?
“Go ahead and chat with your partners. If you have any questions, I’ll be up here at my computer.”
Chat with your partners? Ugh, Drew was the last person I wanted to share air with, let alone talk to.
I took my time shoving my damp notebook into my bag, hoping Drew would just leave without trying to talk to me. Maybe we could handle all our project coordination through email. Very formal, very brief emails with absolutely no personal interaction required.
“Freckles.”
Damn it.
I looked up to find Drew standing at the end of my row, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets. His usual cocky smirk was firmly in place.
“Andy,” I said flatly.
He looked up at the ceiling like he was pulling on all his patience just to talk to me before he made eye contact again.
“Well, this should be interesting.” He was studying my face like he was trying to read my next move. “Guess we should probably figure out how to make this work without killing each other.”
There was a better chance of pigs flying.