Chapter Nine — Tessa
Chapter Nine
Tessa
I returned Rhett’s jacket the next morning.
That was the plan.
The actual result was that I wore it to class.
Not intentionally.
I woke late.
Paige had used all the hot water.
My father had sent three messages before seven thirty.
And Rhett’s jacket was hanging over the back of my desk chair looking warm, convenient, and entirely too much like a decision.
So I put it on.
Temporarily.
For practical reasons.
Then I walked across campus wearing CALLAHAN across my back.
Which was not practical at all.
By the time I reached the economics building, two people had smiled at me.
One girl whispered to her friend.
A guy from my statistics class lifted both eyebrows and said, “Bold.”
I kept walking.
The jacket was comfortable.
That was the problem.
It smelled faintly like detergent, cold air, and something clean I had begun associating with Rhett.
That was also the problem.
The largest problem was the comment I had left beneath the university photo.
He caught me.
At eleven forty-seven the previous night, it had seemed clever.
Ambiguous.
Controlled.
By seven thirty this morning, it had more than six hundred likes and twenty-nine replies.
Most were variations of:
WE KNOW.
I should have deleted it.
Instead, I had read every response.
Twice.
Possibly three times.
I entered the lecture hall and took my usual seat in the third row.
Professor Wynn was arranging papers at the podium.
He glanced up.
His gaze moved to the jacket.
Then back to my face.
“Ms. Monroe.”
“Professor.”
He smiled.
Not kindly.
Knowingly.
That was worse.
“I hear Family Weekend was successful.”
“It was.”
“And the charity skate.”
“Also successful.”
“I saw the university post.”
“Of course you did.”
He looked amused.
“Mr. Callahan has shown an unexpected interest in economics lately.”
I set my notebook on the desk.
“He is not interested in economics.”
“He asked me whether reputational damage could be quantified.”
I went still.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
That sounded like Rhett.
Not the question itself.
The reason behind it.
Professor Wynn adjusted his glasses.
“I told him most things could be quantified if one was willing to make enough assumptions.”
“What did he say?”
“That assumptions were the problem.”
My chest tightened.
Professor Wynn looked at the jacket again.
Then said, “Interesting student.”
“That is one word.”
“He has a better mind than he advertises.”
I knew that.
I did not like how quickly the answer came.
Professor Wynn turned toward the board.
Students continued filing into the room.
I opened my notebook.
The first page contained no notes.
Only a line I had written sometime after midnight.
What if he isn’t pretending?
I tore the page out.
Folded it twice.
Then shoved it into the bottom of my bag.
That solved nothing.
But it looked decisive.
The seat beside me scraped back.
I glanced over.
Rhett sat down.
For one full second, I forgot how breathing worked.
He was not enrolled in this class.
I knew because I had attended every lecture since August and would have noticed six-foot-two inches of unnecessary confidence taking up the next seat.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Learning.”
“You don’t take this class.”
“I’m auditing.”
“You cannot audit one lecture because you feel like it.”
He leaned closer.
“Professor Wynn said I could sit in.”
I looked toward the podium.
Professor Wynn avoided my eyes with suspicious dedication.
“You planned this.”
“I asked a question.”
“You asked about reputational damage.”
“That was academic.”
“That was about me.”
His expression changed.
Softer.
“Yes.”
The honesty disarmed me more efficiently than flirting ever had.
I looked down at my notebook.
“You could have texted.”
“I did.”
I checked my phone.
Three unread messages.
Rhett: Morning.
Rhett: Important question.
Rhett: Do economists believe stolen jackets create binding agreements?
I locked the screen.
“You call that important?”
“You’re wearing it.”
“I was late.”
“Of course.”
“And cold.”
“Also predictable.”
I turned toward him.
He was smiling.
Not triumphantly.
Warmly.
Like seeing me in his jacket had made his morning better.
I hated how much I liked that.
“You’re distracting me,” I said.
“Class hasn’t started.”
“You arrived.”
“That sounds personal.”
“It is.”
The room quieted as Professor Wynn stepped forward.
Rhett opened a notebook.
A real one.
With a pen.
I stared.
“What?”
“You brought supplies.”
“I’m capable of preparation.”
“You put foil in a toaster.”
“That event will not define my academic career.”
Professor Wynn began the lecture.
For the first ten minutes, Rhett stayed quiet.
Shockingly quiet.
He took notes.
Not many.
But actual notes.
Then Professor Wynn wrote:
INCENTIVES CHANGE BEHAVIOR
across the board.
Rhett leaned toward me.
“So what’s your incentive?”
I kept my eyes forward.
“For what?”
“Wearing my jacket.”
“Warmth.”
“Only warmth?”
“Yes.”
“Devastating.”
I tapped my pen against the page.
“Why are you here?”
“I told you.”
“You never do things for one reason.”
He stopped writing.
The silence beside me changed.
I had learned to recognize that.
The moment before he decided whether to joke.
This time, he did not.
“I wanted to see you.”
My pen stopped.
The lecture continued.
Something about marginal utility.
Nothing about what to do when a man said exactly the thing you were afraid he meant.
I looked at him.
His eyes held mine.
No smile.
No escape route.
“You saw me yesterday,” I whispered.
“I know.”
That made it worse.
I turned back toward the board.
My pulse had become unreasonable.
Rhett returned to his notebook.
Neither of us spoke again for several minutes.
Then he slid the notebook toward me.
At the bottom of the page, beneath several badly abbreviated economic terms, he had written:
Is this the part where you tell me I’m disrupting market stability?
I stared at the line.
Then wrote beneath it:
You are not important enough to affect the market.
He read it.
His mouth twitched.
Then he added:
Yet you’re wearing my brand.
I looked down at the jacket.
Then at him.
He was trying not to smile.
I wrote:
Temporary licensing agreement.
His reply came immediately.
Renewable?
I should have ignored it.
Instead, I wrote:
Under review.
He looked at me.
The smile won.
Professor Wynn stopped talking.
The lecture hall went quiet.
“Mr. Callahan.”
Rhett looked up.
“Yes, Professor?”
“Since you have joined us voluntarily, perhaps you would like to explain opportunity cost.”
A few students laughed.
Rhett sat back.
“Sure.”
I waited for disaster.
He glanced at the board.
Then said, “It’s what you give up by choosing one thing over another.”
Professor Wynn nodded.
“Example?”
Rhett looked at me.
My stomach dropped.
He looked back at Professor Wynn.
“If someone chooses the safe option because it has less risk, the opportunity cost might be the thing they actually wanted.”
The room stayed quiet.
Professor Wynn studied him.
Then nodded slowly.
“Correct.”
Rhett looked down at his notebook.
I forgot about the lecture.
Forgot about the jacket.
Forgot about the people around us.
Because that answer had not been about economics.
Not really.
And I did not know whether it had been about him.
Or me.
Or both.
After class, students crowded the aisles.
I packed my bag too quickly.
Rhett stood beside me.
“You’re running.”
“I have another class.”
“In forty minutes.”
“How do you know my schedule?”
“Paige.”
I stopped.
“She has become a security concern.”
“She likes me.”
“She likes entertainment.”
“Same result.”
I pulled the jacket tighter around myself.
His gaze dropped to the movement.
Then lifted.
“Keep it.”
“No.”
“You look good in it.”
“That is not a reason.”
“It is to me.”
I stepped into the hallway.
He followed.
Students passed us in both directions.
A few looked.
I was getting used to that.
I hated that too.
“You cannot attend my classes because you wanted to see me,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because that is…”
I stopped.
He waited.
Too patiently.
“That is what?”
“Too much.”
His expression changed.
Not hurt.
Careful.
“Too much for one lecture?”
“Too much for something that is supposed to be temporary.”
There it was.
The word.
Temporary.
It landed between us with more force than expected.
Rhett shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Right.”
The easy smile returned.
I regretted the sentence immediately.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was true in the exact way I did not want it to be.
“One event,” I said.
“Two now.”
“That is not the point.”
“What is?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing useful appeared.
He looked down the hallway.
Then back at me.
“Your father called again?”
The change in subject was deliberate.
A retreat.
I let him have it.
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“For me to come home Saturday.”
“You going?”
“I said I would.”
His jaw shifted.
“Because you want to?”
“Because he asked.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“It is the answer.”
“No. It’s the pattern.”
I folded my arms.
“You do not get to diagnose me because you attended one economics lecture.”
“I diagnosed you before class.”
“You are infuriating.”
“I’ve been told.”
“He wants to discuss internships.”
“What kind?”
“Law firms.”
“And you want?”
I looked away.
People moved around us.
Doors opened.
Phones rang.
Campus carried on like this was not the most dangerous conversation I had had all week.
“I don’t know.”
Rhett’s voice softened.
“You do.”
The certainty irritated me.
Mostly because I suspected he was right.
“I have options.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Not everyone can choose based on feelings.”
“Why do you keep saying that like feelings are irresponsible?”
“Because they are unreliable.”
His eyes held mine.
“So is pretending you don’t have them.”
That one struck too cleanly.
I tightened my grip on my bag.
“Are we still talking about internships?”
“No.”
My pulse stumbled.