One Hot Fall Term (Yardley College Chronicles Book1)

by Sharon Page

  Chapter Six

  “Say the word,” Jonathon says, after I’ve told him everything about my presentation and the meeting with my prof afterward. “I can have his career destroyed in days.”

  I don’t know what to do. Cry? Laugh? Say yes? Laughing wins. “No, I don’t want that. I want to win fair and square. On my own merits. I want to make Anton Brut eat his words.”

  From across the table, his gaze holds mine. “A warning. Guys like that do not eat their words. The only message they understand is when you grind them into the ground.”

  He says it coldly, but I can feel the restrained anger inside him.

  We’re sitting in an Irish pub that is on Westingham’s main street. There’s a huge bar of dark, polished wood with a gleaming brass rail and panels of stained glass. Scarves from British football teams hang on the walls, and a set of bagpipes is mounted above a huge stone fireplace. In the middle of the afternoon, it’s almost empty. Jonathon and I share a booth. Sunlight spills in on us, making dust motes sparkle. We have coffees in front of us. Since I’m half groggy from lack of sleep and half-wired on panic and hurt, I need something to keep me from collapsing.

  I’ve barely emailed or spoken to Ryan since I started to cram on this project. Since mid-September, I’ve been so busy I’ve been only sleeping four hours a night and I forget to eat. I’d love to be able to be with Ryan. Wrap my arms around him and hold him tight. Use sex and loving to forget all this pain.

  But I can’t do that with Ryan so far away.

  I just want to be able to talk to him. For a day. An hour. Even just a minute.

  Jonathon’s been really good to me. He’s made me feel so much better about the disaster of today. He’s made me laugh. He’s made me believe one screwed-up presentation is not the end of my life.

  He told me about a prof at Yardley who singled him out because of his wealth and tried to take him down a few notches. What Jonathon describes sounds like abusive behavior on the part of the professor, but Jonathon doesn’t seem to care. He aced the course, then switched his major.

  I can’t understand why he’s being so nice, why he spends so much time with me, why he lets me talk and rant to him. He knows it’s not going to lead to sex, because of Ryan.

  But we’ve gotten together for coffee a few times a week—when I can spare some time from work—and he just listens to me.

  Ryan hasn’t texted or called me much either. He’s just as busy as me. I worry about how he’s handling all the studying, but he keeps telling me everything is fine. His roommate, Philip, is helping and tutoring him, he says. In returns, he trains with Philip and is pushing his roomie to meet the physical tests.

  The waitress comes to our table.

  “More coffee, Mia?” Jonathon asks.

  I have a weird buzzy feeling in my head. I’m starting to get juiced on caffeine, but am still exhausted. “Yeah,” I say. “That would be great.”

  I draw out my phone. Should I tell Ryan about today? Probably not. He has enough worries.

  Looking at my phone reminds me about the weird emails. I decide to tackle it bluntly. I wait while the waitress sets down more coffee, then ask him, “Did you send me a couple of pictures of Lara and I?”

  He looks surprised. It has to be genuine.

  I tell him about the photos. The email addy has been different for each one. The first was YCStudent1002. The second came from YCStudent2002. Uber generic, which makes it disturbing.

  Jonathon’s green eyes narrow. “What kind of pictures?”

  That I didn’t fully explain to him. “Nothing racy,” I say quickly. “Nothing of us naked, or topless, or anything. I’ve received four. One of Lara and I talking at your party, and one when she and I were walking to the res commons for dinner. One when I was leaving the School of Architecture building in the middle of the day to meet you for coffee. And one in the morning, when I was leaving the dorm. Since you know both of us, I thought you might have taken our pictures.”

  My reasoning sounds lame. What I’ve described sounds creepy and strange. And I realize that it sounds like I’m accusing Jonathon of being a stalker.

  His hand is tight around his coffee mug. “No, I didn’t.” Then, “If you get anymore, tell me about them. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. You look stressed about this,” I point out. His reaction is making me stressed. “Do you know something about this?”

  “No, I don’t know anything about it. If someone is sending you pictures anonymously, I don’t like it.”

  I feel bad. Jonathon has been a good friend. Looking at him, at the steely, determined look on his face, I suddenly get it. “You don’t have to protect me, you know. Oh—are you protecting Lara?”

  He jerks his head a bit, looking surprised. “Both of you. If someone’s stalking you, I want to know about it. I can have it taken care of.”

  “What are you—the mob?”

  He grins. “Something better. Son of the CEO of Amalgamated Potter Industries.”

  “I should get back to class.”

  “Mia, you’re taking the afternoon off. With me.” He waves his hand. As if summoned by his magic, the waitress darts over. He asks her for menus. “Have you eaten anything today?” he asks me.

  “No,” I admit. With two coffees on top of my empty, upset stomach, I feel sick.

  “My treat,” Jonathon says.

  I scan down the menu, ordering French onion soup, a side Caesar, and butter chicken. Jonathon’s lips twitch in a smile. “I have eclectic tastes,” I say, a bit defensively.

  “That’s what makes you unique and fascinating.” He orders a sirloin burger.

  This is incredibly decadent—cutting class to sit in this quaint Irish style pub. But there’s a tug deep in my heart. Decadence is something I want to be doing with Ryan.

  ***

  That night, I text Ryan from my dorm room. Lara’s out. One of the fraternity’s is throwing a party in their frat house. She invited me, but I have way too much work to do. Lara has been invited to a lot of parties, but she hasn’t found a new boyfriend yet.

  I stay away from the party to work, but I can’t settle down and do it. Deep inside, I keep thinking, What’s the point. I’m going to screw up anyway.

  Then I think of Jonathon, promising to defend me. It makes me realize I have to fight.

  How are things? I text to Ryan. Had a crappy presentation today. They keep questioning why I think I should be here.

  He texts back: You belong there. You’re smart and talented. I think I did the wrong thing when I came here.

  Oh no, I didn’t mean to make him start doubting. I hurriedly send a text telling him not to think that way. He’s smart, tough, noble, strong.

  He responds: Dad went on a bender. I got a call from the cops. His friend Jimmy bailed him out. I need to be looking after him.

  Jimmy owns the country bar where Ryan gets free drinks. My heart thunders. No. Your father is an adult. He makes his own choices. You are not his keeper. The best thing you can do for him is to make a future for you.

  You’re very smart, Mia.

  I wish I was. I write: I miss you. Every time I take a shower…I wish you were here. I really want to take a shower with you.

  He writes: God, I miss you so much it hurts.

  I’m awfully tempted to send him a naughty picture. A snapshot of my bare breasts, for example. But I hesitate. Not that I don’t trust Ryan, but I know almost nothing about his roommate, Philip. What if he saw it and sent it around? What if Ryan’s dad uses his phone some time? What if I accidentally send it to the wrong person?

  Okay, no nudity. I squint—damn, my eyes are tired—and I think.

  Do you remember the night on the dock? I type.

  I won’t ever forget it, he answers.

  I need to think of something hot to send to him. I can think of something hot—a dozen sexual fantasies are slamming into me all at once. I just feel really awkward typing them into my phone.

  I loved sucking your cock, I
write. I go flaming red—I can see my blush in Lara’s mirror. Oh God, what if Philip’s in the room with him and is reading over his shoulder? Gah.

  Mia, I’m gonna go crazy if you do this.

  Okay, I didn’t expect that. I thought Ryan would like it. But I guess it will make him frustrated too. But he can just jerk off, like I can play with myself—

  Ryan sends another text. GTG. Philip’s back and he’s working to get me through calculus. Going to be impossible to study. Can’t concentrate now. Aching for you.

  ***

  By mid-October, I’m exhausted. I’ve stayed up until 3:00 a.m. most nights. Not to party, but to write my report for my History of Western Architecture course and work on the drawings. I’m doing a study of the Parthenon.

  I had to scramble money together to buy more drawing equipment. There’s a store in the main School of Architecture building, and I had barely enough money to buy ink pens, markers, high quality pencils and good sketching paper. I didn’t want to ask my stepfather for more. Some of the students have drafting and drawing programs on their Apple computers. I don’t have anything like that on my ancient laptop.

  I have to work by hand or try to find time in the computer lab. I’ve discovered the best time to use it is at six in the morning. Everyone works late, no one comes in early. I just push a sleeping student out of the way and get to work.

  On top of this I have a major project due for my first year Architectural Studio program, along with a minor project, and one for Structures in Architecture, a course given by an older prof who actually uses a pocket protector. Mid-terms are coming up in all my non-architecture courses.

  I’ve discovered some of profs in other departments resent the architecture students since we tend to cut their classes to do our studio work. They feel we don’t take them seriously. They are out to prove they are just as important, which means they don’t care if their test is the day after—or before—our major projects are due.

  I’ve spent far more time than I expected having coffee—or lunch—with Jonathon, especially after I told him about my potential stalker. Jonathon wants to meet several times a week and we just talk. He is surprisingly attentive. I expected he would be the kind of guy for whom everything is all about him. But over these weeks, I’ve found myself expressing my deepest fears to him…well, the school-related ones.

  My biggest fear is the shops.

  Students in the Architecture program are expected to use the wood-working shop and the metal shop to build their models.

  I took programs in middle school that involved tools and machinery. I loved the scroll saw and the sander—tools that didn’t intimidate. But I’ve never touched a table saw in my life, and on my first day in the wood shop, the shop technician explained every possible accident that could be had with a table saw. Including the story about a student who lost his thumb the very first time he used the saw.

  So I am officially freaked out by the shop. Handling tools was never my thing, and I know that one moment of inattention, one mistake, and I could lose a finger to the table saw or the band saw or the radial arm saw.

  I redid the project for Anton Brut. I created a new, more complex form. I did a computer presentation, though I didn’t make a computer model. Instead I produced a model where I showed the form using slices. It was constructed from strips of white cardboard and hot glue. I got a C minus, but it’s a pass.

  My physics midterm is on a Friday afternoon. After I write it, I stumble to Beans to meet Jonathon. I’m literally swaying on my feet as I walk in and when I slump into the chair, I lay my head on the table. My eyes shut by themselves. God, I’m tired. So tired I want to burst into tears. I think I did okay on the physics test, except I couldn’t even remember my name just before I walked into the classroom. Once I started writing it, knowledge seemed to flow to me, but maybe my sense of accomplishment is just delirium.

  Jonathon sets a white mug that smells like chocolate in front of me. I lift my head.

  “I’m failing. Failing at everything. I thought I could be an A student. I used to be an A student. If I’m not one, doesn’t that mean I don’t belong here? Oh God, I think they’re right. I can’t do this—”

  “Stop, Mia,” Jonathon says. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Being honest?”

  “No. You’re hitting yourself with words before anyone else can do it to you. You’re thinking that if you pound yourself with the worst of them, it will insulate you from the shock if someone else says them to you.”

  I stare at his green eyes, his chiseled jaw, his gorgeous mouth, filtering in what he just said. I think I get what he means.

  “You do belong,” he says.

  But I can’t let go of negativity so easily. “Come on,” I say angrily, “I’ve got no style, no talent, no eye for design. I wear jeans and t-shirts, my hair is one color and I don’t want to pierce anything. To succeed, do I try to be something I’m not? Or do I work hard, and hope to God that the person I am is going to be good enough to get through?”

  Before he can say anything, I sweep on. “I’m not good enough. I got a C minus on my first minor project. I haven’t had a C minus since ninth grade, when my past was at its most screwed up.”

  At that I stop talking. My chest heaves up and down. That C minus back in ninth grade was a wakeup call. I didn’t want to flunk. The C minus showed me how quickly I could downward spiral. I know it doesn’t sound that bad. But I was afraid that if I let my life come apart, I’d never put it back together.

  So I buried the stuff that was eating away at my soul, and I fought my way through school. I need to do that now.

  But back then, even though I was emotionally effed up, I knew I had brains. Now, I don’t think my brains are wired the way they need to be for me to get through the architecture program.

  Jonathon puts his hand close to mine but he doesn’t touch me. “You need a break. You need to be part of a world that makes you feel confident.”

  “I don’t think anywhere can do that right now.”

  “I believe there is a place that can.” His voice is soft, sexy, coaxing.

  “Okay,” I say. I need to forget about school for a while.

  “Mia, let me give you both.”

  And that explains how I end in Jonathon’s convertible, being whisked to his BDSM club near the college.

  ***

  My hair dances around my face, tossed by the wind. While driving, Jonathon flicks worried glances at me. “Don’t believe those words. Don’t say them to yourself,” he says. “Believe in your abilities and talents. You are beautiful and smart, Mia.”

  I’m almost melting against the soft leather of the passenger on seat—it feels good to have him say that I’m worthy, I’m worthwhile. But I’m also tired and beaten down. “You are right. I like to say them to myself before someone else does. I’ve always done that. I’ve always liked to hurt myself.”

  There’s something about Jonathon that makes me want to be honest.

  Jonathon has green eyes. Not just any green, but eyes that vividly change color. Sometimes they are blue-green. In places where the light is golden, they become emerald. Under fluorescents—and universities are filled with stark fluorescent light—they can be as light as grapes. Now they are dark and mysterious. He looks at me briefly then puts his attention back on the road.

  He doesn’t respond. I worry—did I go too far and say too much? I’m in love with Ryan, but I really rely on my friendship with Jonathon. I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want him to abandon me because he realizes I am screwed up inside.

  Jonathon turns into a parking lot. Several cars are there. He puts the car in park. “Let me try something,” he says. Then he grips my wrists lightly, pins my hands at my sides, and looks deeply at me. My breasts rise and fall as I suck in fast breaths. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I want you to trust me.”

  “Okay.” But can I? Why does he have my hands pinned? This c
lose to him, I notice Jonathon smells delicious. Different than Ryan, who also smells like heaven—who smells like country and meadows and male. Jonathon smells like uptown bars, art galleries, and leather.

  Suddenly Jonathon throws all my mean words about myself back at me.

  He just repeats everything I said about myself, but his voice is cold and cruel.

  I flinch as the words hit me. God, they really do sound bad. They hurt. I’ve been whipping myself with words like that for years. What’s wrong with me?

  Deep inside, that had to have hurt me. For years, I’ve been hurting myself.

  And I was wrong. I thought hearing someone else say those words would make them sound more real. I thought that would make me believe them. Jonathon was right—my doubts have been for self-defence. But hearing him say those mean things doesn’t make them sound right or true. It makes me angry.

  “None of that is true,” I say, because suddenly I want to defend myself and the words explode out of me. “They have no idea what I have survived, what I’ve done, how good I am. They have no idea how hard I fought to get here. Who says they are the only ones who can dictate style and good design? I am good enough. And I know it.”

  Hearing those putdowns doesn’t make me want to give up. It makes me determined to prove myself.

  “I am talented. I had a damned good portfolio. I’m working hard. I can damn well be creative.” I’m spitting out the words.

  Jonathon grins and he releases my hands. “Then believe in yourself. You are special, Mia. You deserve the best.” He moves closer to me, his mouth an inch from mine.

  My eyes focus on his mouth. He possesses fuller, plumper lips than Ryan. Ryan has a man’s mouth. This mouth belongs on a boyish model, the kind of sexy young males who pout in designer suits and skin-tight briefs.