Chapter 11 #2
Every answer is calm, clipped, and irritating.
I look at her profile.
The glasses should make her less attractive than she was Friday night.
They don’t.
Now that I know what they hide, they make me want to take them off and see the rest.
She turns.
“What?”
“You looked different at the bar.”
“So did you. Less soup.”
My mouth threatens to smile.
I stop it.
“You knew who I was.”
“Everyone knows who you are. You mention it often enough.”
“You let me flirt with you.”
“You flirted. I observed.”
“You flirted back.”
“I conducted field research.”
“What did you learn?”
Her gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
“There wasn’t much data.”
The insult hits. So does the look.
Heat moves through me.
She turns toward the professor before I answer.
Aldridge writes a question across the board.
WHEN DOES INFLUENCE BECOME COERCION?
He surveys the room.
“Ms. Goodwin?”
Hannah straightens.
“Influence becomes coercion when the person holding power treats access as something everyone else owes them.”
Her eyes slide toward me.
A few students notice.
Aldridge follows her gaze.
“Mr. Haverhill?”
I lean back.
“It can also become manipulation when someone withholds information to control another person’s decisions.”
Hannah’s lips press together.
Professor Aldridge looks between us.
“Excellent. Since the two of you have arrived prepared to argue, you’ll lead next week’s discussion.”
Hannah’s head snaps toward him.
“Together?”
“Opposing positions.”
Aldridge returns to his notes.
I look at her.
She looks at me.
The room disappears around the edges.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me, Footnote.”
Her eyes narrow behind the glasses.
“Looks like your losing streak continues.”
I smile.
This time, I let her see it.
She lied to me.
Dodged me.
Read my game better than people paid to study it.
Now she’s sitting close enough for her knee to touch mine, and Professor Aldridge just gave me a reason she can’t run.
* * *
Hannah emails me twelve pages of notes at two fourteen in the morning.
No greeting. No explanation. Just a document titled:
ALDRIDGE JOINT OUTLINE—GOODWIN SECTIONS
I open it before morning lift.
Her research is strong. Her argument is aggressive. She has highlighted three places where she thinks my position collapses and filled the margins with comments that read like insults dressed for academia.
Unsupported assumption.
Circular logic.
This sentence uses twenty-eight words to say nothing.
At the bottom of the email, she adds:
Insert your sections and return by Thursday. That should eliminate the need to meet.
I read the last sentence twice, find her number in the seminar contact list, and text her.
Me: We need to meet in person.
The typing bubble appears, vanishes, then returns.
Hannah: How did you get my number?
Me: I have connections.
Hannah: That sounds like something a criminal says before the police search his basement.
Me: Library. Tomorrow. Seven.
Hannah: I’d rather fail.
Me: You’re too competitive to mean that.
Three dots pulse across the screen.
Hannah: I’m capable of accepting a lower grade to preserve my peace.
Me: No, you aren’t.
Hannah: You don’t know me.
Me: I know you corrected my citations before finishing your own argument.
No response.
Me: I also know you checked the grading rubric four times during class.
Hannah: You were watching me?
Me: You sit beside me.
Hannah: Against my will.
Me: Seven.
Hannah: Two hours. Not a minute longer.
I smile at the screen.
Me: See you there, Endnote.
Hannah: Lose my number.
Me: After the presentation.
She sends a middle-finger emoji.
Close enough to confirmation.
* * *
The next evening, Hannah arrives at the library carrying enough supplies to survive a natural disaster.
Laptop.
Three books.
A black notebook packed with color-coded tabs.
Backup charger.
Four sharpened pencils.
Then she places a family-sized bag of Twizzlers beside her computer.
I look at the candy.
Then at her.
“Planning to feed the humanities department?”
She unwinds a scarf from her neck and drapes it over the empty chair. “They’re mine.”
“That’s a family pack.”
“I’m a family of one.”
Rain darkens the shoulders of her oversized green coat. Her tortoiseshell glasses have fogged from the walk, and damp strands of hair cling to her cheeks beneath a high bun.
She removes the frames and wipes them on the hem of her sweater.
For a second, the woman from the parking lot appears.
Dark lashes. Stormy gray eyes. Glossed mouth.
Then the glasses go back on and Footnote returns.
She catches me staring.
“What?”
“You look different without those.”
“They help me see.”
“Contacts manage that without making you look like someone’s disapproving aunt.”
She sits across from me and tears open the Twizzlers with her teeth. “I have severe astigmatism. Glasses are better for my vision.”
“You know those are mostly corn syrup and red dye.” I tell her, not knowing anything about astigmatism.
She pulls one free. “Everyone has vices, Haverhill.”
“Some people drink.”
“Expensive, impairs judgment, and makes men sniff women in parking lots.”
I narrow my eyes.
She bites off the end, pleased with herself.
“Some people gamble.”
“Statistically unwise.”
“Casual sex?”
Her chewing slows.
“Seems to have worked out beautifully for you and the sprinter.”
That lands harder than it should.
“You’ve been keeping tabs?”
“Your fight happened beside our car.”
“You could’ve walked away.”
“You were blocking the exit.”
She opens her laptop.
I reach across the table and steal a Twizzler.
Her hand closes around my wrist before I can pull back.
“Put it down.”
I glance at her fingers wrapped around me. Short nails. No polish. Graphite smudged along the side of her middle finger.
Her pulse beats beneath her thumb.
“You brought fifty.”
“Forty-eight.”
“You counted?”
“I know what belongs to me.”
Something shifts between us.
She holds my wrist, waiting for me to surrender the candy.
I don’t.
“Planning to keep your hand on me all night, Bookworm?”
Her eyes narrow.
She releases me as if the contact burned.
I bring the Twizzler to my mouth and bite off the end.
“You’re insufferable.”
I chew slowly. “Not bad.”
“They were better before you touched them.”
I reach for another.
She slaps my hand before I make it to the bag.
The sound cracks through the reading room.
Three students look over.
Hannah freezes.
I smile.
She lowers her voice. “Try that again and I’ll stab you with a pencil.”
I inspect the supplies lined beside her laptop. “You brought plastic ones.”
“I’ll adapt.”
I keep the stolen Twizzler beside my computer.
“Shared resources.”
“Theft isn’t resource sharing.”
“Partner.”
“Temporary academic burden.”
“Bookworm.”
“Man whore.”
I open the document.
“Your thesis is too broad.”
Her eyes sharpen. “You’ve been here thirty seconds.”
“I read it last night.”
“All twelve pages?”
“Twice.”
That silences her for nearly three seconds.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“You claim concentrated influence inevitably becomes coercive.”
“Because it does.”
“That’s an opinion, not a conclusion.”
“I cited twenty-seven sources.”
“You cited twenty-seven people who agree with you.”
“Should I cite people who are wrong?”
“You should acknowledge that power can create access without stripping away choice.”
“Access always comes with conditions.”
“So does every decision.”
“That doesn’t make the conditions ethical.”
“It makes your absolute claim weak.”
She stares at my screen, then pulls the laptop toward her and deletes two lines.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
“You could admit I’m right first.”
“I could also light myself on fire.”
“You’d lose participation points.”
Her mouth twitches.
For the next hour, we work.
Actually work.
Hannah cuts half my introduction because she says I’m performing intelligence instead of making a point. I remove three of her case studies because she likes details enough to bury her argument beneath them.
She challenges each change until I justify it.
Then she listens.
Most people agree with me too quickly or push back because they want the thrill of challenging Kane Haverhill. Hannah only cares whether the point holds.
She catches a flaw in my rebuttal.
I find one in her conclusion.
By the time we finish the outline, our separate arguments fit together as if they were designed that way.
Hannah leans back and surveys the screen.
“This is annoyingly good.”
“I accept your apology.”
“I didn’t offer one.”
“You’re welcome.”
She twists a Twizzler around one finger while reading the final paragraph. Then she lifts it to her mouth and bites.
My attention follows the movement.
Her lips close around the candy. She pulls it free, still frowning at a citation.
Heat rolls low through my stomach.
This is absurd.
Krista has wrapped those long runner’s legs around me. Stella used to fall asleep with her head on my shoulder. Women who understand the power of a look have practiced on me for years.
Hannah is eating candy and correcting punctuation.
My body reacts like she climbed across the table.
I shift in my chair.
She glances up. “What?”
“Your citation format is inconsistent.”
“It is not.”
“Page seven.”
She searches, finds the mistake, and scowls.
I hide my smile.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
“You need better hobbies.”
“I play basketball.”
“That explains the limited range.”
There’s my opening.
I close the outline and pull my tablet from my bag.
“Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“What’s happening with my game.”
“We came here for Aldridge’s assignment.”
“We finished.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You said my shooting is covering bad decisions.”
“It is.”
“You said defenses will build their March strategy around my left-side reads.”
“They will.”
“Show me.”
She begins gathering her pencils.
“No.”
“Scared you were guessing?”
Her hands stop.
I found the button.
Hannah looks at me over her glasses.
“You think I guessed?”
“I think you watched two games and repeated something an announcer said.”
“Announcers rarely identify anything until the replay explains it for them.”
“Prove it.”
“Why should I help you?”
“Because you can’t stand watching someone do something wrong.”
“That isn’t true.”