1 #2
“My parents feel the class will add beautifully to my résumé after graduation. The problem is that I don’t understand interpretation the way everyone else seems to,” I admit.
“I can read the material. I know what happened, who said what, and how the writing is structured, but when someone asks what it means beyond the obvious, every answer I have feels wrong.”
“Then maybe everyone else is pretending.”
“They aren’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they speak.”
Bliss’s expression softens. “You speak too.”
“Only after I’ve figured out the correct answer.”
“There might not be one.”
“That is a terrible academic system.”
“It sounds like your problem isn’t literature. It sounds like you hate that an opinion can’t be perfected.”
I take another drink because arguing with her would require pretending she missed the point.
Aura returns with an empty tray and a darker expression. Easton has acquired another blonde. He lifts his beer toward her from across the room, wearing the lazy smile of a man deliberately leaning on a bruise.
Aura looks away before the gesture finishes. Bliss sees it too but waits until Aura reaches us before speaking.
“You’re allowed to poison one drink. Choose wisely.”
“I don’t care what he does.”
“Your eye twitched,” I say.
“It’s dry.”
“The other one isn’t.”
Aura gives me a look. “You came here upset. Focus on your own emotional disaster.”
“It’s an elective,” Bliss tells her. “She doesn’t need it, but Crystal and Lance think it will add beautifully to her résumé.”
Aura rolls her eyes and makes a gagging motion. “Who cares what adds beautifully to a résumé when you’re getting a degree in fashion, for fuck’s sake?”
“She’s terrified Klein will personally revoke her diploma if she doesn’t graduate with a four-point-oh.”
Aura sets the tray against the bar. “You already have enough credits to graduate without an elective summer course.”
“I need an upper-level elective.”
“You have other options.”
“This one matters.”
“To whom?” Aura asks.
“To me.”
She watches me long enough to make the answer feel thinner. My fingers find the delicate gold chain at my throat, and I slide the pendant back and forth before forcing my hand down.
“My father knows my cumulative GPA,” I say.
Bliss’s face tightens. “Your father knows the blood types of our future children.”
“That isn’t true.”
“He definitely takes an interest,” Aura says.
“He conducts surveillance,” Bliss corrects.
“He’s proud of me.”
Aura leans one hip against the service station.
“Nobody said he isn’t. Your parents love you, Charm.
We know they do. They’ve always loved us too, and your mom once sent my father a PTSD specialist’s number before he even knew he needed one after my senior video launch.
Loving you doesn’t make every expectation they put on you healthy. ”
“My mother thinks I should enjoy my final year.”
“Crystal loosening the pearl buttons. Impressive for a woman who thinks a cardigan is casual rebellion,” Bliss says.
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t try.”
“I know she tries.” Bliss reaches across the bar and takes my hand. “We aren’t asking you to hate them. We’re asking you to stop measuring whether you deserve happiness by how impressed they are.”
“I don’t do that.”
Aura’s gaze drops to our joined hands. “You haven’t eaten a fry since Bliss stopped watching.”
I pull my hand away to select another one. “I’m eating now.”
“That isn’t what I meant. You’re smart enough, thin enough, pretty enough, and polished enough.”
The front door opens again, releasing a burst of laughter and humid evening air into the bar. I look over before I can stop myself.
Ryan walks in wearing a black T-shirt, faded jeans, and a backward Flint Frost hat.
The shirt fits across his shoulders in a way that makes every reasonable thought I’ve had tonight lose structural integrity.
Tattoos run from his neck beneath his sleeves and down to his wrists.
His gaze moves across the room once, taking in the crowd, the bar, and the Fury table before settling on us.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and I look down at my wine.
Bliss makes a sound beneath her breath.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a noise.”
“It was affectionate.”
“It was predatory,” Aura says.
Ryan reaches the table and greets the men with a round of shoulder grips and insults I can’t hear over the music. Briggs shifts to make room. Rider says something that earns him Ryan’s middle finger. Cade gestures toward the bar, and Ryan turns in our direction again.
Every girl at KFU had a crush on him when he played here. I was no exception. At eighteen, I could barely speak when he looked directly at me. I once dropped an entire stack of pencils because he asked whether I wanted the seat beside him.
Four years later, he’s one of my closest male friends. That should’ve removed the problem. Instead, it gave the problem better access to me.
Ryan reaches the bar as Bliss sets an empty pitcher beneath the beer tap. He steps into the narrow space beside my stool and bumps his shoulder lightly against mine.
“Why you so pissed, amiga?”
His voice carries the rough edge that always feels more intimate than it should. I look up and find his dark eyes already moving over my face.
“I’m not pissed.”
“You’re sitting in a bar organizing condiments.”
Bliss points at me. “I told her.”
Ryan glances at the bottles lined by height. “That’s bad.”
“It’s tidy.”
“It’s a cry for help.”
Aura reaches for clean glasses. “She’s having an academic breakdown.”
I pin her with my stare. “I’m seeking advice.”
“You rejected the advice,” Bliss says.
“Then you’re having a breakdown with witnesses,” Ryan decides.
He leans one forearm against the bar beside me, close enough that the warmth of him presses against my bare shoulder. I shift on the stool, hoping the movement looks casual rather than like my body has become painfully aware of his.
Ryan watches me adjust, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“What class?” he asks.
“Literature.”
“Specific.”
“It’s a summer elective in literary interpretation and philosophy. I’m taking it to prepare for Professor Klein’s Victorian Literature class.”
Ryan’s expression changes with immediate recognition. “Klein?”
“You know her?”
“I took one of her classes.”
That catches my attention. “You did?”
He lifts one shoulder as though there’s nothing unusual about the answer. “A long time ago.”
“And you liked her?”
“I loved Klein.”
Aura’s head lifts from the glasses she’s stacking. Bliss stops the beer tap before the pitcher is full, letting foam creep toward the rim while she looks at him.
“You loved Professor Klein?” Bliss asks.
Ryan glances between them. “Why are you acting like I said I attended astronaut school?”
“Because Collin Grant cried in the student union after she questioned his argument about Jane Austen,” Bliss says.
“She didn’t make him cry,” I say. “She asked him to explain why his analysis required Austen to have written a completely different book.”
Ryan looks at me. “Exactly.”
I stare at him. “How do you know about that?”
“Everyone knew about that.”
Aura points a glass toward him. “You’re defending her.”
“She’s one of the best professors KFU has.”
“Nobody says that,” Aura tells him.
“That’s because most students spend the semester trying to beat her instead of listening to her.”
There’s no hesitation in the answer and none of the vague confidence people use when they know just enough about a subject to sound convincing. Ryan speaks as though he understands exactly what Klein expects and why everyone else fails to give it to her.
I turn farther toward him. “What did you take with her?”
His eyes settle on mine, but his expression gives nothing away. “A class that required a lot of reading and even more arguing.”
“That describes almost everything she teaches.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to live with the mystery.”
Bliss slides the pitcher beneath the tap again. “That was suspiciously evasive.”
“I answered the question.”
“You answered around it,” I say.
Ryan’s mouth curves. “Look at you interpreting language already.”
I fight a smile and lose. “You’re irritating.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Means you’re arguing instead of waiting for someone to tell you what to think.”
“I always argue.”
“No.” His amusement softens as he studies me. “You usually apologize first.”
The accuracy of it leaves me without an immediate answer.
Bliss reaches for another row of clean glasses. “She struggles with abstract arguments.”
“You mean she struggles with having an opinion nobody approved first,” Aura adds.
I glare at her.
Ryan’s eyes remain on mine. “That sounds closer.”
“It’s a difficult course.”
“What are you reading?”
“The introductory module uses excerpts from Plato, Aristotle, Locke, and Nietzsche before moving into literary frameworks.”
“Fuck Locke.”
I blink. “That is your professional analysis?”
“He wrote pages to explain things people could understand in two paragraphs.”
“Maybe he enjoyed nuance.”
“Maybe he needed an editor.”
Bliss looks delighted. “I’ve never cared about philosophers before, but I’m willing to pick sides.”
“Take Plato,” Ryan tells her. “He was dramatic and committed to the bit.”
Aura loads another tray. “Which philosopher would Easton be?”
Ryan glances toward the back table, where Easton has a woman whispering into his ear while he continues watching Aura.
“Machiavelli.”
“That feels insulting,” Bliss says.
“It is.”
“What about Cade?”
“Aristotle. Obsessed with systems, structure, and telling everyone the correct way to behave.”
Cade lifts his middle finger from across the room as though he heard him.
Bliss beams. “That’s my man.”
“Briggs?” I ask.
“Diogenes.”
I laugh. “Why?”
“He lived without shame, insulted powerful men, and behaved like a stray dog in public.”
Briggs throws a napkin dispenser toward the bar. It lands several feet short and nearly hits a passing server.
Ryan nods toward him. “Exhibit A.”
“Rider?” Aura asks.
Ryan looks toward Rider, who sits quietly beside Cade with his beer between both hands. “Marcus Aurelius.”