Hate To Be The One (Shafer U #3)

Chapter 1 Jade

ONE

jade

“Jade,” my academic adviser greets me warily as I approach the blue vinyl chair across from his desk. “I’m surprised to see you so early in the semester. I hope you remember our rule about giving our classes a few weeks before we decide whether we like a professor or not.”

As I sit down, my knee knocks the faux-wood desk, and Mark’s collection of vintage action figures clatters like dominoes to the surface.

“Whoops. When are you going to learn to put those away before our meetings?” I hastily stand them up, knowing Mark will rearrange them in whatever order he finds suitable—and he does, adjusting them until they’re lined up perfectly in the shaft of morning sunlight that cuts through the windows.

“Anyway, it’s not my professors this time.

” I smile. “Now, let me preface this by saying I’ve thought about this a lot—since June, at least—and I’ve done my research. ”

His lips pinch together. “This being what, exactly?”

“Picture it: beautiful, sunny Spain. Beautiful, ancient artwork. And Jade Kelly in the middle of it all.”

Mark’s face takes on a look of tired despair. “Please explain, Jade.”

“I want to study art history in Spain after graduation.” I give him a reassuring, no-need-to-panic nod.

“Art history,” he repeats. “I’m not understanding. Where’s this coming from?”

How cute that he expects a simple answer. “I want to get out of here for a while. Learn something new before I decide where I want to settle long term.”

Mark casts a tired look at the white wall next to the desk, where Shafer University’s Red Phantom logo is painted, its Latin motto stenciled underneath.

In all my time as a Shafer student, I’ve never bothered to learn the translation, but if I had to guess, it probably centers around hard work, community, and of course, football—the core values of any proper Midwestern university.

“Jade, it’s three years now that we’ve been meeting, and you’ve been focused on psychology since the first. No doubts, no complaints.

Now, I know senior year is scary as you start thinking about jobs and grad school, but that’s normal.

It’s not a sign you should throw away the three years you’ve invested in your education, move overseas, and study art. ”

“I wouldn’t be throwing anything away. I’m going to work as hard this year as I have for the last three, I’ll earn my degree, and then I’ll try something different. Grad school will still be here when I come back.”

“I don’t understand. Are you talking about earning a bachelor’s in art history? From a Spanish university?” He looks like his eyes are about to bug out of his head.

“No, more like an exploration. Taking classes, even if they’re noncredit, to see if they spark anything inside me. I want a taste of something else before I commit myself to a lifetime in the psychology field.”

“And this exploration has to take place in Spain.”

“Preferably.”

He sighs. “Okay, what do your folks have to say about this?”

“They want to know what on earth my academic adviser has been doing when he was supposed to be guiding me toward a graduate program. I told them you play a lot of Frisbee golf.”

Mark takes off his glasses and presses his fingertips against his closed eyelids.

“Kidding,” I tell him. “Don’t worry, they’re just as annoyed with me as you are.”

Mark doesn’t deny it. After three years, we have a certain level of comfort going on here.

“By the way, you’re wrong,” I tell him. “I came in here complaining about my program all the time.”

“Sure, you complained about your professors not taking you seriously because of your neon hair or about the lack of interesting electives for underclassmen, but that wasn’t about the field of study. You loved psychology.”

“I know, but what if that path we’ve always talked about isn’t for me? I want to be sure.”

“Well, you’ve committed yourself to at least one more school year of that path, and I expect you not to take a single step off it.

I’m serious, Jade. I know by now that anyone who takes the role of adviser to you seriously is kidding themselves, but this degree is your insurance policy. You won’t regret it.”

“I won’t disappoint you.”

“So is there a specific program you have in mind or . . . ?”

“I’ve found a few, but I’m hoping you can help me research. What I want is . . . hard to find.”

“I’m shocked to hear that. Spanish art history programs open to Americans with”—his brows quirk—“no art history background and limited Spanish-language abilities.”

While Mark gives me a blank look, I study the fine lines around his brown eyes and the touch of gray at his temples. He was probably pretty cute in his glory days. “What did you study in college?”

“Early childhood education.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “I’ve always wanted to work with kids.”

“And you do.”

“Uh-huh. Big, overgrown kids who think they’re adults.”

“Ever wish you’d taken a different path?”

“Thinking about the hours I’m about to spend researching Spanish art history courses for one of my top psychology advisees? Yes, I do.”

I smile. “So you’ll help me?”

“It is my job, after all.” He peels a neon-yellow sticky note from a pad on his desk and scribbles something down. “Are your parents paying for this?”

“Not a dime. But when I graduate, I inherit a little chunk of money from my grandparents meant to get me on my feet. Between that and saving from my jobs since freshman year, it might be enough.”

He gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m not saying there won’t be affordable options, but there won’t be many.

Not for an American. So let me research before you get your hopes up.

The financial aspect is yet another factor you need to seriously consider before you make a decision.

You’ve got a lot of thinking to do, Jade. ”

Mark looks beaten down enough by my visit, so I don’t tell him the truth: There’s nothing to think about. I made my decision, and that’s that.

“Hey, girl,” I say to Lenni when I walk into the apartment we share, and one whiff of the air tells me she’s making her chicken-and-rice soup for dinner. Neither of us is big on cooking, but Lenni loves to bust out the fall recipes the second we enter September.

“Hey,” she greets me. She’s at the kitchen counter with her laptop open, tidy stacks of paper lined up next to her.

I kick off my boots and toss them into the pile of shoes by the door. They land a few inches short, rattling our rickety wooden plant stand, and I cringe at the sight of our little houseplant collection looking sad and wilted in their too-small pots. “Have you watered? Our babies look terrible.”

“Just did. They’ll perk up soon.”

Poor Lenni got the raw end of the deal in our roommate arrangement, but I try to make up for it in the best-friend arrangement. “Got you something.” I drop a small grocery bag on one of her paper stacks.

She digs into the bag. “Tampons?”

“Keep digging.”

Lenni smiles as she pulls out her prize of plastic-wrapped chocolate cupcakes, her favorite stress-eating snack. “What would I do without you?”

“Eat healthy?”

Lenni tears open the cupcakes. “You seem happy for a Monday afternoon.”

“Well, I broke the news to Mark and he didn’t have a nervous breakdown, so that’s a win.”

“What did he think of it?”

“Clearly not much, but he’s going to help me research programs.” I smile at Lenni’s carefully composed expression. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“You wanted him to shoot it down, didn’t you?”

She makes a noncommittal noise. “I want you to be happy.”

I reach over her shoulder to grab a handful of pretzels from the open bag in front of her. “I’d still do it even if he fought me on it, you know.”

“I know, and I still think it’s a little nuts. But I respect what you’re after.”

“Next year when Cam is using dollar bills as toilet paper, you can get him to send you on a nice extended vacation to Spain.”

“Too bad dollar bills can’t buy time.” She shoots a grim look at her laptop.

“Grad school not sounding as exciting as it used to?”

Lenni is the most career-driven person I’ve ever known and has big plans for journalism grad school next year.

She could probably get in anywhere she wants, but not stressing has never been in her playbook.

And with her boyfriend, Cam, probably headed to the NFL next year, the prospect of them ending up on opposite sides of the country seems to have chiseled a permanent worry line into her forehead.

“The classes sound cool. It’s the fact that I’ll barely have time to brush my teeth, let alone visit you or Cam or my mom. Especially if I end up in the eleven-month intensive program.”

“Which you’ll get into if you apply. I’m just not sure why you’d want that.”

Lenni levels me with a look; we’ve been over this a hundred times. “Because I need to make money.”

“Cam will probably make more money as a rookie than you’ll make in your lifetime, honey. Which is sickening, but at least you reap the benefits of our culture’s backward obsession with jocks.”

She gathers her dark, frizzy curls into a haphazard bun at the back of her neck and secures it with a claw clip. “I’m not taking a man’s money until I’m married to him, which certainly won’t be next year, so the sooner I graduate, the sooner I have a salary and can help out my mom.”

“Can you maybe not mention that next time my parents are here? They don’t need yet another reason to find my plans disappointing.”

“I thought you enjoyed disappointing them.”

“I’m neutral.” I rummage through a cabinet to find a jar of peanut butter to dip my pretzels into. “So did you go to the outreach event today?”

“Yep.”

“Did you see Sam?” I hate myself a little for asking.

“Yeah.”

“He was with Frenchy, right?”

Lenni nods. I can’t help making a face. It’s a reflex at this point.

Sam and I were together for over a year before he completely blindsided me by ending things last fall.

We gave it another shot during second semester, but it didn’t last. He went back to the girl he’d dated during our off phase—a French major whose name I can’t be bothered to remember—while I’ve spent the last few months reassessing the mechanics of our relationship and trying to figure out how I got it all so wrong.

“So what’s new with him?” Despite everything that’s happened, Lenni and Sam have maintained a moderate amount of friendliness. She knows I’m okay with this. Sam was pretty much a fixture in both of our lives for the year-plus we were together.

“Not much. He was excited because he got all his grad school applications in.”

“Already? Overachiever. Where’d he end up applying?”

“I don’t know. Georgia Tech, I think? And MIT?”

A brief wave of nostalgia washes over me. “MIT? That was his dream school. He’ll get in for sure.”

“Eh. Who cares?” She waves off MIT as insignificant, which makes me love her a little more because we both know it’s anything but.

But since the breakup, she refuses to tolerate more than an occasional mild compliment about Sam.

“Hey, who was that guy I saw you at the coffee truck with this morning?”

I try to think who she’s referring to but come up short. There are no guys in my life right now.

“The one with the hand tattoos?”

“Oh. AJ. Just a kid from my neuroscience class.”

“Is there something there?”

I cap the peanut butter jar. “Um, no.”

“He’s cute.”

“The boarding school kid with the hand tattoos? Couldn’t be less interested—in him or any man, by the way. You just want me to be tied down so I won’t jet off to Europe.”

“True. And because you know what they say about the best way to get over a man . . .”

“Been there, done that. Besides, I’m over Sam.” I hoist myself onto the counter and sit back against the cabinet, already worn out by the conversation. “I’m just not over how wrong I was about me and him.”

She looks me squarely in the eye. “No one saw it coming, Jade. I don’t even think Sam knew he was going to end it until the words were halfway out of his mouth.”

She’s said this before during one of our many in-depth analyses of the breakup. And the thought is comforting, but it only adds to the sense of uncertainty I’ve felt ever since Sam told me we needed time apart.

“You know what he said to me the last time we talked about it? That he’s not sure he was ever in love with me.” The memory still carries a sting, but it’s a dull one.

Lenni’s jaw drops.

“Yeah. He said he was just enamored with me.” Against my will, my heart clenches inside my chest.

“You didn’t tell me that. What an asshole!”

“Not really. He didn’t say it to be a jerk; he was just being Sam, you know? Socially awkward, overly analytical about any sort of anomaly in his own thinking.”

She gives me a doubtful look. “He’s the top student in an aerospace engineering program and headed for a PhD at MIT. I don’t care how socially awkward he is; he’s smart enough to know that would hurt you.”

“I can’t totally blame him.” I look down at my boots and focus on rubbing a smudge off the white leather. “I was pretty selfish.”

Lenni shakes her head. “Sam is the only man on earth you make excuses for.”

“Not true.”

“You think Santa Claus is a bum!” She chucks a pretzel at me, grinning.

I bat it away, the heaviness lifting as quickly as it came. “He is. Mrs. Claus and the elves and the reindeer are the brains and brawn of the operation. That useless zilch takes a leisurely sleigh ride once a year and somehow gets all the glory.”

Lenni laughs. “Mr. and Mrs. Claus are one of the all-time-great couples.”

“See, that’s how you know Santa isn’t real. No love can last that long.”