Chapter 13 Chloe
chloe
I make sure to sit in the third row on the left side of the lecture hall.
Professors don’t want to talk with their chins tucked to their chests, looking down at the first two rows, and they’re not going to risk a crick by looking beyond the fourth.
The third row gives perfect eye contact, and they spend more time on the side closest to their desk.
Easy access to notes and coffee. So, here I am.
I’m probably not the only person who’s picked up on this, given that the seats on either side of me are empty.
My hand freezes halfway to my bag when Nathan enters from the far side of the room. His eyes scan the rows almost as if he’s looking for something, and when they find me, he smiles and heads straight toward me.
“Chloe,” he greets me, sitting down in the empty seat beside mine.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m taking this class.” He laughs like it’s obvious.
I look around the room which was overflowing with students sitting on the floor the first week, hoping others would drop out and they would be first in line on the waitlist. It was only last week when Professor Soto announced no one had dropped, and easily thirty students mass-exited with a groan.
“How did you get in?”
“Coach talked to my advisor.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, not bothering to look at me. “I just told him I needed to take this class, and he was able to pull some strings.”
I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve overlooked some of Nathan’s flaws over the past few years.
I believe that if you love someone, you love them flaws and all.
But one thing I’ve always noticed is his the world revolves around me attitude.
It’s always been something small that bugged me about him, and it wasn’t ever enough to put me off, but something about him working the system doesn’t sit right with me.
Everyone else played by the rules and still didn’t make the cut, yet he ends up here anyway.
But I also know he doesn’t actually need this class.
Which means the only other explanation would be he talked his way into the class for a reason.
And my chest expands at the idea of the reason being me.
As quickly as it comes, I shove down the spark on the match of hope that thought starts inside me, and remind myself that every time I think it’s going to be different, it never is.
“Are you still with Hall?”
I’m surprised by his question, and more so by the fact that he’s actually looking at me. Nathan is a serial avoider. He avoids anything too difficult or uncomfortable. Relationship talk falls into his too-uncomfortable column.
“It’s never going to work.”
My mouth parts, and I close it before opening it again. “You don’t know that,” I say, finally finding my voice.
He smirks with a careless shrug of his shoulder.“He’s a hotheaded whore, Chloe. He’s not the Prince Charming that you’ve drawn up in your head.”
I rear back, shocked by his words but not surprised. My relationship with Maverick might not be real, but I do feel oddly defensive over it. Or at the very least of how he’s talking about Maverick.
“You don’t know him.” I turn in my seat, facing forward, eyes focused on my laptop in front of me.
“I know you.”
Fuck you. I bite back my response. Not because I don’t think he deserves it, but because even though I wish with every fiber of my being that I could let him go, I’m still too afraid to completely burn that bridge.
The remaining hour, I keep my focus on Professor Soto, my eyes follow his every movement, and I think I do a fairly convincing job of paying attention.
However, for the first time in my academic career, everything that was said went in one ear and out the other.
I sat beside Nathan, seething over his comments, while also obsessing over whether he said the things he said because he’s been thinking about me.
That last part, I recognize as an old habit, so when the professor picks up his coffee and dismisses the class, I clutch my laptop to my chest, not bothering to put it in my bag, and take off down the stairs.
I’m the first person out the door. The chill of the morning air hits my exposed legs, sending goosebumps across my skin. We’re at that part of the year when it’s cold in the morning, but a desert oasis in the afternoon, and I refuse to be caught out in hot weather with my legs covered.
Now that I’ve put some space between Nathan and myself, I’m able to take a breath, calm down, and arrange my shit. I slide my laptop into my trusty purple Jansport.
“Nice bag.”
Slowly, I lift my head, finding Maverick only steps away, twisting to the side to show off his matching black backpack.
“She’s a ride or die, this bag,” I say.
“She suits you.”
There’s no sarcasm in his tone, no teasing. I zip the pocket, glancing up at him, and whether he meant it to or not, his comment lands.
Maverick clears what little space there was between us, and now my breathing has gone from a quiet rage to a simmering heat. His hand twitches, and for a minute I think he’s going to reach for me, but then his eyes travel past my shoulder and all the shine in his baby blues darken.
“Hall! What’s up?” Nathan extends his hand with a smile that appears genuine, but three years of paying attention to every single facial expression this man has ever made tells me there's a slight edge of uncertainty there. Maverick stares at Nathan’s outstretched hand for a beat too long, and for a moment, I think he’s going to leave him hanging before he eventually lifts a closed fist, bumps his waiting palm, and leaves it at that.
“Nathan.” He looks between the two of us, before sliding his glare back to the man beside me.
“On your way to practice?” Nathan wraps an arm around my shoulder, and I have a moment of internal panic. Would I have melted into this touch any other time? Abso-fucking-lutely. But standing across from the guy I’m supposed to be dating, makes the gesture feel cheap.
I step out of his hold and don't stop until I’m side by side with Maverick.
“Nope. Just came to pick my girl up.” He slides his hand into mine, and it should feel awkward, but it fits just right.
Whatever I felt when Nathan’s arm was around me, this is the opposite.
“We’re going to…” he trails off, lips pursed, eyes flickering over my face as if he can read the answer there.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“Pick up groceries for the bake sale at Creekside,” I supply, squeezing his hand.
“Yes.” Relief floods his face as he nods once, trying to play it cool.
I can’t stop the slow spread of my smile, and Maverick—never one to be off balance for too long—reaches one hand up to adjust the clasp on one of my necklaces. His fingers move easily and deliberately, and I feel them skim my collar bone through the fabric of my shirt. “The bake sale,” he repeats.
I inhale a slow breath, and for a full ten seconds, I forget Nathan is still standing there.
“Cool. Well, I do actually have practice, but Chloe, maybe now that we’re taking a class together again, we can plan a study date.”
I finally tear my gaze away from Maverick just in time to watch Nathan take a step back. But his focus is on Maverick when he adds, “Just like old times.” He blows me a kiss, before turning around and I blow out a breath.
“To the store?” There’s an edge to Maverick’s voice. Not anger or annoyance like I expect, but something more unsure.
I swallow, gripping the strap of my bag with one hand and quietly squeeze the hand he’s still holding with the other. “I actually have to get some stuff done first, so I was going to go to The Den.”
He nods once, and then takes a step, leading us to the coffee shop.
The sun finally breaks over the building to our right, warming my skin as we walk, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of Maverick’s hand still wrapped around mine, and my neck flushes at the realization.
It would be weird to pull back now with the coffee shop only two minutes down the path, but now that I’m aware of it, the fact that we’re still holding hands feels even more noticeable.
“So, you and Nathan?” He scratches the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes, and I stop so suddenly, I pull him back a step.
“Are you jealous?”
He scoffs. “The day I’m jealous of Nathan Quant will be the day I start believing in fortune cookies.”
My mouth falls open in shock but my laugh betrays me. “Who doesn’t believe in fortune cookies?”
“Realists.”
I shake my head, but my smile doesn’t fade. “Okay, so you don’t believe in anything, and you’re not jealous.”
“I’m not jealous. I was just curious.” There’s a slight twitch to his finger when he says it, and if I hadn’t been completely focused on where our hands touch, I would have missed it. “Have you been talking to him?”
“No,” I rush to say. “Today was the first time I’ve seen him since he found out we were dating.” I playfully bump my shoulder to his. “He somehow talked his way into this criminology class.”
“Is this something he does often?”
I shake my head. “We’ve only had one class together and it’s where I met him.
” At the time, those days felt so easy. We would flirt in class and I finally worked up the courage to ask him to study.
I knew the material like the back of my hand, but it felt like a safe excuse to hang out.
Only, now that I’m three years older, I see it for what it really was.
We would study…aka I would do most of his work, and then we would hook up.
At the end of the semester, when everything felt uncertain and I knew I might not see him twice a week anymore, I asked him if he wanted to be more.
I should have heard him the first time he said he wasn’t ready to date. More than that, I should have listened. Maybe then, I wouldn’t be in the position of analyzing every word, or reading into every move he’s made since. Maybe then, I wouldn’t be in the position I’m in now.
“Is criminology your major?”
“No.” I laugh but it comes out more of a scoff.
“No, I actually hate this class. Savannah is the true crime girl in our relationship.” I shiver at the thought of the snippets of the podcasts I’ve heard her listening to before.
“I’m just taking the course because I’m a suck up, and I’m trying to get a leg up on the competition. ”
“Competition?”
We reach the doors but we don’t go inside.
Maverick leans against the waist-high stone wall, keeping a foot of space between us, but never letting go of my hand.
His thumb brushes over mine once. He watches me, patiently waiting for me to respond, like we’re not moving forward because he’s not done hearing what I have to say.
“Umm, yeah,” I stutter, trying to focus on what I was saying. “This professor is finally getting a new TA next year, and everyone who’s been a TA for him in the past has gotten a letter of recommendation from him for grad school, followed by an acceptance letter.”
“Damn. Grad school?” He seems shocked, but impressed. Like he didn’t automatically assume I had to go to grad school, but admires that I could.
I take a step back, dropping his hand, and looking toward the coffee shop. “Anyway, Thanks for keeping me company. I should”—I point a thumb over my shoulder—“get my stuff done, so I can get to the store.”
“I’ll see you later.”
I bite my bottom lip, giving a quick nod, and turn to head inside.