by Jenna Scott
Taking a deep breath, I grab Emmett’s hand tightly and strain my ears.
“Luke McGovern,” Professor Laurens says. “Congrats.”
A few students offer light applause, and my pulse doubles. Let it be me.
“And…Camilla Hanson,” he concludes. “Great application essay, by the way.”
I must be in shock, because the next thing I know, Emmett is helping me out of my chair and handing me my backpack. “I’ll wait for you outside,” he says, gently pointing me in the direction of Professor Laurens.
Numbly I walk down the steps of the amphitheater, casually stealing a glance at the other new TA standing next to the professor. Luke McGovern. He’s got a bookish, Clark Kent-type air about him. Dark hair with a few curls in it, rectangular tortoiseshell glasses framing bright hazel eyes, and he’s basically built like a basketball player. I can’t help noticing how tall and lean he is as I walk up to him.
I’ll allow myself this thought: he is undeniably hot. And he looks nothing at all like Hunter, which is nice. Luke isn’t brimming over with cocky confidence; his gaze doesn’t pin me to the spot. It’s surprisingly refreshing.
“You both had very impressive resumes,” Professor Laurens says. “I’d be thrilled if I could have you two helping me out this semester.”
We both officially accept and give him our thanks, and I notice Luke is blushing a little like I am. We go over basic TA duties, and make plans to meet up later today to iron out the fine details.
Luke and I end up leaving the class together, and as we walk out, he turns to me and says, “So, I have to ask…what’s your favorite book?”
We’re both TAs to a literature professor, so it makes sense he’d ask. “Just one?”
“Yep. And it has to be a standalone. Series don’t count.”
“Crud. I guess Sadie, then,” I say, after thinking about it for five seconds.
A frown mars Luke’s forehead. “I’m not familiar with that one.”
“It’s pretty recent, a YA by Courtney Summers. The perfect thriller, really, with writing that could cut you. There are these interstitials in podcast format which adds sort of an ongoing underlying commentary about murder podcasts about girls who have disappeared, which I know is pretty meta but it gives you a lot to think about…” I trail off, not sure if I’ve just veered far off into nerd-alert territory.
Luke just grins and nods. “Sounds cool. I’ll have to check it out.”
“What’s your favorite book?”
“Catcher in the Rye,” he says, acting like he’s admitting something embarrassing. “I know it probably seems cliché, especially for an English major, but I feel like the text is still relevant to this day, and more than that—it’s the kind of fiction that just feels so true when you read it. It…resonates. You know what I mean?”
“Mmm.”
I nod, but this here is the moment when my passing interest in Luke dies. There’s nothing wrong with the classics, of course, but even Hunter thinks Holden Caulfield is a little shit, and that’s saying something.
IMO, any girl should run from a guy whose favorite book is Catcher in the Rye. Especially when they say it’s because the novel feels so true. Clearly you’d have to relate heavily to a character who I’ve only ever viewed as a self-absorbed, entitled rich kid. One who’s sarcastic, whiny, and frankly just as “phony” as he accuses all the other characters of being.
My opinions on the book are harsh, I know, which is exactly why I keep them to myself, so as not to offend my new co-TA.
Luke clearly doesn’t pick up on my lack of genuine enthusiasm.
“Salinger, I swear. He wrote the best YA novel of all time, and he did it over sixty years ago. Look at publishing now, cranking out crap like Twilight and—”
“Hey, don’t knock Stephenie Meyer! Those books had a major cultural impact, brought millions of dollars back into the publishing industry, and helped re-launch an entire genre. Which Harry Potter did first, obviously, but still. Vive la révolution.”
“That’s fair,” Luke says, laughing now as he holds open the door for me. “I take it back. Books like Twilight mean there’ll always be hungry readers looking for more and more books to read, which means publishing won’t die.”
“Precisely,” I say, stepping out of the English building and into the sunshine.
“Milla!” Emmett’s waving me over, so I’m saved from continuing this conversation with Luke and letting out an accidental lecture on him needing to read more contemporary stuff.
“Nice meeting you,” I tell Luke. “See you soon.”
“Same. I look forward to working with you, Camilla.” Luke extends a hand for me to shake, which I do. His fingers dwarf mine, and although they’re warm, there’s no tiny flutter in my chest, no flush in my cheeks.
It’s a little disappointing, because all I can think about is how hot and bothered I’d get just being in the same room as Hunter. Even before we were dating, he had that power over me. And actually being with him…his touch was electric.
Now I’m afraid I’ll never feel those things with anyone else.
Chapter Seven
Camilla
After I turn away from Luke, I head toward Emmett, who’s sitting on a bench. He looks up from his phone and grins as I approach.
“Thanks for waiting,” I say.
“Of course—and hey, you’re looking a bit more alive.” He puts his phone in his pocket and stands to give me a hug. “Congratulations, Miss TA.”
“Thank you.” I beam at him and shake my head. “I still can’t believe it. I’m so excited.”
“I bet you are. What does Laurens want you to do, anyway?”
As we head across campus toward our next class, a weekly American History seminar, I fill him in on the details.
“The usual stuff. Assist during office hours, help him prep for his classes, grade papers and tests, that sort of thing.”
He nods. “What about the other TA? Is he cool?”
“Luke? Yeah, he’s okay.” I grimace. “I have little hope for him, though. His favorite book is Catcher.”
“Oh no,” Emmett says with mock horror as we take the long way around the quad to avoid the commotion of chanting students from GAIA (the Green Alliance for Innovative Action—basically Stanford’s environmental club) who are protesting the use of plastics in the school’s dining facilities. “Isabel’s worried about you, by the way. She told me to keep an eye out for you. Not that I don’t do that already.”
I don’t need to ask why, and give him a shrug. “This campus is giant, and the odds of running into one specific person out of seventeen thousand enrolled students are minimal. It’s not like I can’t avoid his gravitational pull or something.”
“True,” Emmett says. “He’s not the frigging sun.”
We make it to the history building, find our lecture hall, and grab desks toward the back. Most of my undergrad-level required classes are huge seminars with anywhere from fifty to eighty students enrolled, so I don’t force myself to sit in the front row or rub elbows with the professor unless it’s a class I’m super passionate about. I’m happy to blend in.
Our professor walks in and I flip to a fresh sheet of loose-leaf in my binder, write the date on the top of the page, and prepare to take notes. As much as I appreciate the instructor’s genuine enthusiasm, her voice is just a tad monotonous, which means it’s hard for me to follow along if I don’t write everything down as she talks.
We’re getting a general introduction on the various native tribes along the East Coast and I’m scribbling furiously, Mohawk, Seneca, Oneida, Onondaga, and Cayuga, when the noise of the door creaking open halts the lecture mid-sentence.
The hairs at the nape of my neck prickle.
“Welcome,” Professor Harmon says to the interloper. “Just take any open seat.”
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the unsettled feeling as Harmon starts up with the lecture again.
Then I hear the latecomer sh
uffling down the row right behind us, plopping noisily into a seat and shuffling around in a backpack. So rude. How hard is it to be quiet, especially after you’ve disrupted the class? I glance back to shoot whoever it is an annoyed glare, but my jaw drops instead.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
He’s wearing a polo with the collar popped, hair sexy-messy, blue eyes on the teacher but not exactly focused, the sharp line of his jaw and full lower lip giving me a hungry, hollow ache in the pit of my stomach—if anyone could doubt that Hunter is the hottest piece of ass to ever walk the Earth, seeing him up close would turn them into a believer. And all of that is sitting right behind me and Emmett.
His cologne invades my nose, and my heart starts beating like a jackhammer.
“You need something?” Hunter asks casually, not making eye contact.
“No.” That fucker. “Why are you in this class?” I hiss.
“You don’t have a monopoly on the undergrad history requirement,” he answers, his tone as aloof as ever. “We all have to take one.”
“But you hate American History,” I whisper. Back when I made him study for finals our last semester at Oak Academy, he complained about US History the most. Every five minutes, he’d bury his head in his hands and moan about how boring it was.
He shrugs. “It grew on me. Plus, this class is only once a week, so…”
“There are plenty of other seminars like that.”
“And yet, we all chose this one,” he replies, gesturing to several other people who’ve since arrived. “It’s what’s called a coincidence, Camilla. Look it up.”
It could be, yes—except I don’t believe him. Especially since he missed the first class last week. He must have transferred into this section when he figured out I was in it. But how did he find out? Did he sweet talk some assistant in the history department, or has he just been popping in and out of freshman history classes trying to find me?
“Sit somewhere else next week,” I tell him.
I turn back around, fuming as I try to catch up with where we are in the lecture.
Hunter leans forward a bit, making his chair creak. “Can I copy your notes?”
Copy my—is he for real? That doesn’t even deserve an answer, so I just roll my eyes and ignore him. That’s when I notice Emmett writing are you okay on the edge of his notebook.
I’m fine, I write back, sighing.
Emmett frowns. Clearly he knows I’m lying, and he turns in his seat to look at Hunter. “If you’re that desperate, Beck, you can borrow my notes.”
“Ortega. You’re here too. Another coincidence,” Hunter says, voice completely flat as he shoots me a look. “And thanks, but no. I’ve seen your handwriting, and doctor’s scrawl would be a compliment.”
Shit, that is true, and I’m glad I’m facing forward so Hunter can’t see the smile playing at my lips. Emmett has atrocious handwriting, especially when he’s rushing to get things down. He defends it as the defining mark of all geniuses, but Isabel and I still give him shit for it.
The fact that Hunter got me to smile is just enough to piss me off all over again, and I squeeze my pen with a death grip as I continue jotting down everything Professor Harmon says. My desperate attempt to stay focused on the class and not on the charming asshole sitting behind me.
I feel a light touch on my shoulder, the warmth of breath brushing my left cheek, and I stiffen, not wanting to give Hunter the satisfaction of seeing me react to him.
The last thing I need is him knowing that underneath my frozen exterior, I’m a helpless puddle. My face is heating, my heart racing. Damn you, Hunter.
“What?” I grind out.
“About those notes…” he starts to whisper, that low, husky voice of his vibrating in my ear. He must be messing with me. It’s as if he’s not happy with ruining senior year of high school for me, he had to come here and keep on wrecking my life.
I shrug him off without looking at him. “It’s a no. Stop asking.”
How can he sit here trying to act like nothing happened between us? And how can I possibly move on with him hovering over me like a dark cloud?
Even though I’m writing down everything Professor Harmon is saying, I’m not really absorbing any of it. All I can think about is how Hunter came all the way to Stanford just to fuck with me, and how sick I felt when I saw him at the frat party with that girl in his lap.
He wants to play dirty? Great. So can I.
“I’m really looking forward to being a TA,” I whisper to Emmett. “That guy Luke who Laurens chose is like, super hot.”
Emmett glances over and lifts a brow as if to say Really? We’re doing this?
I raise my own brow right back at him, code for Yes, we are. “We talked about our favorite books before I met up with you. It was nice. He’s pretty brilliant.”
Behind us, there’s a scoff from Hunter.
Hah. Success!
A smirk pulls up the corner of my lips. This is petty, immature, and low, and I shouldn’t be enjoying it so much. But I am.
Hunter has to realize that his plan to mess with me has zero chance of working—that he’s just wasting his time. Maybe this ruse will convince him that I’m ready to move on, and he can go fuck off to the darkest corners of this campus.
“Sounds like you’re interested,” Emmett says. What a team player.
He knows I’m actually not, unless Luke suddenly changes his tune about Catcher. But obviously Hunter doesn’t need to know about that.
“I don’t know,” I say casually. “I might be. We’d definitely have a lot to talk about. Maybe more than talk…”
I sneak a look at Hunter. He’s leaned back in his chair, not looking at us, but from the way he’s scowling at the wall, it’s clear that he is listening.
“You are a huge bookworm,” Emmett agrees.
“Luke’s also really buff,” I exaggerate with a swoony sigh. “I bet he works out.”
Emmett snorts. “Do you need a tissue?”
“For what?” I blink innocently at him.
“To wipe off that drool.”
My hand goes out to lightly slap him on the arm. “I’m not drooling.”
“Some water, then?” he offers. “To help with the thirst.”
At that, I reach out to his notebook and draw a smiley face with the tongue out in the margins. Behind me, the heat of Hunter’s scowl burns the back of my neck, and I can’t help but feel a bit victorious through the rest of the class.
Emmett starts packing up the second the lecture ends. “I gotta run to make my shift,” he explains, and gives his head a slight tilt back. “Will you be okay?”
I nod. I’m heading down the crowded hallway minutes later when I smell Hunter’s familiar cologne again. He leans down to whisper in my ear, and my mind goes blank while my body does a full shiver.
“Luke sounds gay,” he whispers.
“What’s that got to do with you?” I glare at him as we spill out into the quad.
“You’re wasting your time on him, that’s all.”
“Like you care about my wasted time. Or me, for that matter.”
Instead of responding, he just stares at me with that inscrutable look. “Whatever, Camilla. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He stalks off, and even though my eyes want to follow him, I force myself to do an about-face and head to the dining hall for lunch. But as I poke at my veggie burger and fries, the anger keeps building inside of me. Anger toward Hunter for being here, and toward myself for still giving a shit.
And for wishing, deep down, in the most secret part of myself, that he actually still cared.
Chapter Eight
Camilla
My mood doesn’t improve as the hours pass, and it doesn’t help that I keep looking around to see if Hunter pops up in any of my other classes to give me another unpleasant surprise. To add insult to injury, Harmon’s study groups for American History got sent out, and when I opened the e-mail, Hunter
’s name was there. Not only does he have to ruin my class, he’s also in my study group.
When I get back to Roble Hall after my last class, steam is practically spewing out of my ears, and I’m sure I could spit fire if I tried. Olivia, who’s sprawled on the common room sofa with her iPad, looks up at me.
“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you raging this hard. Is it the ex again?”
Am I that obvious? “He’s taking one of my classes. And he purposely sat right behind me and tried to distract me for the entire lecture.”
Olivia’s expression flattens, and she sits up straight. “Jesus.”
“I know.” I drop my bag on the floor and collapse onto the other end of the sofa. “This sucks.”
She sets her iPad on the table and smiles. “Sounds to me like you should take your anger out on…Campus Arcade Night. Maybe it’ll get your mind off that a-hole.”
“If we’re talking video games and Skee-Ball, I’m dubious. I’d probably just end up breaking stuff if I play anything in this state,” I say.
“But you’ll be great at the shoot-‘em-ups,” Olivia points out. “Plus, you need to recover from your heinous encounter, and the best way to do that is to let it go and enjoy yourself. Come on, Milla. Let’s have some fun tonight.”
I could stay here and seethe, but she’s right. Video games aren’t exactly my thing, but at this point, I’m desperate enough to try anything. Not to mention that it’s impossible I’ll run into Hunter. Arcade Night is way too nerdy an event for him—hell, it’s too nerdy an event for me.
We grab a quick dinner at the little café near our dorm. As we walk to the Computer Science building, Olivia asks me to text Emmett and see if he’ll be there.
Hells yeah, he responds. Didn’t know you were that into video games, tbh.
Meh. I’m not. I need to blow off some steam, and it’ll be a Hunter-free zone.
I see a text bubble pop up with ellipses, and then it goes away. I wonder what Emmett’s struggling to type back. Finally, I get his reply.
