“The library?” Yeah right. I glance over my shoulder and freeze. Then I burst out laughing. “What are you wearing?”
He holds his arms out to display the sweater vest over his white T-shirt then slides his hand through his freshly cut hair. “You like it? I figure if I’m going to change, I may as well go balls-out and change everything.”
“Might want to change the way you say balls-out. It doesn’t really go with the look.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Do you remember?”
“No.” He was in the Commons with a hangover and I told him where Tandy stashed the aspirin for when us girls had cramps. But I can’t let him know I remember that. He might misinterpret it.
“You were—”
I groan.
“Okay, I remember. What about it?”
“Do you remember throwing the bottle of aspirin at me and telling me to pick my pansy-ass up off the floor and go breathe my beer-breath in my own room?”
A yawn creeps up my throat and I force it away—Derek’s the last one I want knowing I was up all night figuring out what to do about Torrin. “Was I that charming?”
A group of students meander by, balancing Styrofoam containers of beans, rice, and whatever other Mexican entree Loyola concocted tonight. Derek shuffles his feet.
“You’re real,” he says quietly. “You tell it like it is, and I like that.”
“Listen, Derek. I told you. I was only nice to you because I was using you. Don’t make it more than it was.” I point to his ridiculous outfit. “And you don’t need to change the way you look for me. It’s not going to make me suddenly start feeling something for you. I’m not really attracted to the golfing-type anyway.”
“I’m not doing this for you, Quinn. I’m doing it for me.” Then he steps forward and pulls me into a tight hug and holds it for a minute too long. And just as I’m about to squirm out of his hold and tell him to fuck off for the final time he puts his lips to my ear and whispers, “I just wanted to say thanks for making me realize what an ass I’ve been.”
I pull back and look at him. He grins, and for the first time I think maybe Derek can learn not to be the person he doesn’t want to be. Like Dad. “Yeah, whatever. You’re welcome.”
Derek and I split up. I weave through the scattered tables in the dining hall and hear the voice on TV before I see him. What the hell is Torrin doing on the news? Nonchalantly, so as not to draw attention to myself, I rush over to the corner of the room, stand beneath the TV, and listen.
“The Montgomery’s were not in this alone.” John Kingsley looks just like he sounds. Dark suit, the expensive-looking kind with a lavender-colored tie; thick, sandy-brown hair short and sticking up a little in the middle. Both he and Torrin stand half-hidden behind a podium, the harbor bustling with boats in the background. “My son and I are embarrassed and ashamed to admit we’ve let William Montgomery and his family take responsibility for what was rightly ours too.”
My heartbeat thrums in my ears, loud as a motorboat.
Mr. Burk sits at the table beside me, a sandwich dangling in front of his mouth and his attention on the TV.
“What are they doing?” I ask.
Burk clears his throat. “The Kingsleys called a conference. Said they had an important announcement about the Pacific Rim deal.” The reel at the bottom of the screen rolls across: Breaking News. John and Torrin Kingsley speak out. William Montgomery not responsible for breaking education code at Pacific Rim University.
Torrin steps in front of the microphone. He looks right into the camera. Right at me. I shiver.
“Last fall when Mr. Montgomery approached me about rowing for Pacific Rim, he did not propose a sham. A full scholarship, free room and board were the extent of the offer. But I saw how badly he wanted me to come to California, how desperate he was to turn around the athletic department at his school.” Torrin’s hands clasp together. He looks down at them, inhales a breath. I want to reach through the TV screen, put my hand on his cheek, make that troubled look disappear.
God, what is wrong with me?
“I’m ashamed to say,” Torrin continues. “I agreed to come to Pacific Rim only under the condition that time spent with the team would count toward the completion of my degree.” His stare burns into me. “Yes, Mr. Montgomery agreed, hesitantly, but I came up with the idea. I was the one who was deceiving and dishonest.” Torrin steals a glance at John who then dips his chin as if in approval. With the two of them standing there in front of the harbor, it’s apparent what Dad said was true: He agreed because that’s the type of kid he is. Torrin’s relationship with his dad may be patchy or potholed, but they’re family, and family sticks beside each other, even when one chooses to stand in front of a camera and take responsibility for something he didn’t want to do in the first place.
“William Montgomery had only the school’s best interest in mind,” Torrin says. “My father and I are suggesting he be reinstated as dean of Pacific Rim University where he can continue to build the school’s reputation in the positive way he has for the last decade. I am also requesting all credits I’ve earned in the last three quarters, including those of classes I have honorably taken, be removed from my record. If necessary, I will also forfeit my position as captain of the rowing team and accept any other punishment administration sees fit.”
Suddenly, I feel sick. I have to stop him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“I can’t believe you.” I stand behind Torrin and say. His arms, outstretched along the top of the bench, flinch with my words.
The press conference is over. It took over an hour to catch the bus down to the harbor and, now, everything is cleaned up, looking like normal. I couldn’t stop him from lying to the entire city.
“Never said you have to,” he replies, staring out at the bay before him. The edge in his voice hurts. This isn’t how I want things between us. I round the bench and sit beside him. He stiffens.
“Zoe was mentally sick,” I say in a voice so soft and frail I hardly recognize it. “That’s why she killed herself. Not because of her boyfriend.”
He nods, but keeps focus to the water. “I’m sorry.”
“Did you know? That she was bipolar?” My hands start to fidget and this pressure starts to build in my chest. I steal a breath. “Like from our dads?”
“He told me this morning.”
I nod, nod, nod, willing myself not to scream at him. I should stop nodding, but I can’t, even when he looks at me funny. “I should be mad you didn’t call to tell me.”
“Would you have answered?”
I deserve that. One point for him.
My head stops bobbing and I turn to him.
“I know what you told the news isn’t the truth. My dad told me the whole story—you agreed just to please your family. You didn’t want to cheat the system.”
He shrugs, no expression on his face. “It doesn’t matter if I wanted to or not. I did what I did.”
From my pocket, my phone starts to ring. I ignore it and ask, “What’s going to happen with school? Are you in more trouble?”
“Still suspended from the team till the end of the year. Then, I don’t know, I’m thinking about going back to Brown—finish my last two years there.”
Rhode Island. That’s so far away.
I reach under my shirt and pull out his grandfather’s necklace. It’s halfway off when he lays his hand on mine.
“Keep it.”
“I jerked you around, Torrin. I don’t deserve this.”
He looks at me. I look at him. This is the part where he’s supposed to tell me yes I screwed with him, but he forgives me and I do deserve it—I deserve the world, but he doesn’t so I take that as my cue to leave, tell him “bye,” and head back to the bus station.
“Hey, Quinn?” I turn. He’s standing beside the bench, the hint of an uneven grin lifting the corner of his mouth. “Do you have your phone?”
I almost smile.
“I’m not
going to take a picture of your head.”
His lips twitch. “Maybe you should check your messages.”
“Maybe.”
At the bus station, I pull out my phone. I have one message from Mom. I press play.
“Sweetie, call me as soon as you get this. I have some news I think will make you very happy.”
“Just tell her now,” Dad says in the background.
“Well, I wanted to hear her reaction, but fine,” she says to him. I roll my eyes and lean against the back of the bench. “Dad’s been talking to John Kingsley all morning. I don’t know if you saw the news, but he—”
“She doesn’t care about that,” Dad interrupts. “Tell her the good part.”
“Would you just let me talk?”
Dad chuckles.
“Anyway, Dad has decided to take on a teaching position at Pacific Rim, and the Kingsleys have agreed to loan us the money for your tuition for the rest of the year until we get back on our feet. I already contacted Admissions to let them know. Maybe they called you?”
My parents took a loan from the Kingsleys? For me?
Mom starts to say “bye” and I hang up the phone. I should be happy—staying at Loyola is what I’ve been working this last month to do—but my chest still feels like it’s under the weight of a yacht.
I can breathe. And, suddenly, I don’t want to.
Tears sting my eyes. The bus blurrily rounds the corner. Torrin doesn’t want me around anymore—why deal with the drama when he can be rowing for his favorite school? The bus’s low rumble draws near, and I stand.
I don’t want to leave, but I have no reason to stay.
The tires groan to a stop and the doors yawn open. From behind the wheel, the driver looks at me. Expectant. I take a hesitant step. Then another. And just as I’m reaching for the handle to pull myself up into the bus, my phone chirrups with a text. Probably Mom again. I glance to the screen and the name Torrin catches my eye.
Tequila shots on the lifeguard tower?
Inside I smile. Body shots never sounded so enticing.
“Getting on?” the driver spouts, his fingers on the door lever.
The phone burns in my hand. “No,” I say. “I, uh…something just came up.” I whirl around, fully prepared to run my ass as fast as I can back to the harbor, but stop short at the sight of Torrin standing in the middle of the pathway. Only a few feet away.
Hands set casually in his pockets.
Eyes glinting with the light of the sun.
“You should join the track team,” he says, pinching his lips against a smile. “My guess is you’d be pretty good at it.”
My eyes get the urge to scowl, but I fight it. “Chasing after guys…that one of their training techniques?”
His smile spreads. “I meant how fast you took off from me.”
I didn’t run, but I know what he means—I left him sitting on the bench. I shrug. “Easy to do when you’re not wanted around.”
Behind me, the bus drives off. And then there is silence.
“You’re wanted,” he says after a moment, closing the space between us. His face grows serious, arms tensing against his sides. “I just didn’t know if I was.”
I hurt him. Made him feel worse than he already did. And still he came for me.
Standing on my tiptoes, I take his face into my hands. “Torrin,” I say, and my voice falters. I don’t know how to explain the way he makes me feel alive. More than alive…like I’m flying. I lick my lips, and try again. “I…”
Love him. Love him. Love him.
He leans in, eyes on mine. Waiting.
I tip my forehead to his and whisper, “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
Crinkles fan out from his eyes. “A little birdy once told me that you don’t need saving.” He takes my waist in his hands, pulls me to him, and his touch is just enough to force the words out of my mouth.
“You’re wanted, Torrin. I want you. And I know I’ve been a jerk, and I’m sort of a lot of work—”
His eyebrow shoots up. I ignore it and keep going.
“—and I honestly can’t guarantee that I won’t have any more freak-outs because this is new and strange, but amazing at the same time. My heart hurts when I think about not being around you and I’m pretty sure that means I love you.”
I let out a breath, and then his lips crash into mine. Warm. Full of life and feeling and…this love thing may not be so hard after all.
Brooklyn Skye
Visit me at my website: http://brooklynskye.wordpress.com
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Acknowledgements
Writing a story is tough, the journey to publication even more so and I wouldn’t have been able to do it without these people:
My editor: Taryn Albright.
My early readers: Meagan Rivers, Trisha Leaver, Bethany Lopez, Azia Archer, and Dawn Norman.
Family and friends who wouldn’t stand for me giving up (Especially my parents and sister, Lisa).
Reading and writing communities where I feel most at home.
My husband, Ryan, for putting up with the insanity, also known as my life. *wink*
And you, the reader. Thank you.
Thanks dpgroup forum.
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