London Prep: Book Two

by Dodd, Jillian

  “Those are some deep thoughts for a Tuesday morning,” he replies, his eyes glued on me.

  I half-wonder if he’s going to give me a mocking grin, but he keeps his mouth closed.

  I roll my eyes at him. “Whatever.”

  “So, what about life and love?” he asks.

  I sit up, already feeling pulled out of my dazed state. “I don’t know. I was just thinking, I guess.”

  I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to talk to Noah about this stuff. I can’t exactly say, I’m in this mood because I’m sitting here, thinking about how hot it was, flirting with your best friend. And how he made me blush in the hallway because he told me that I had him hot and bothered—well, at least my lips did.

  He seemed to like the lipstick color you’d picked out for me too …

  Yeah, I’m thinking that’s a hard no.

  “Must have been good thoughts.” Noah sits up straighter and puts both of his muscular forearms onto the table. Then, he fidgets with his folder.

  “They were,” I agree.

  Because thinking about Harry makes me feel happy and cared for.

  And I’m not sure if Noah makes me feel that way.

  I glance over at him, taking in his thick hair and white shirt. I know he cares about me. And I know that we’re friends.

  I’m just not sure Noah cares about me in the same way that Harry does.

  Sometimes, I think Noah might, surprisingly, be the boy who cares more about the chase.

  The boy who likes the drama and lustfulness of always wanting someone.

  His words come back to my mind.

  He said I should have known.

  I should have been able to feel his want for me.

  And that he was going to give in to me.

  All of his words—his bold statements—have been about want and lust and giving in and falling.

  None of our conversations or those little moments have been about happiness and joy.

  Yeah, maybe there have been a few times when I thought we shared something special. Like how he hugged me for doing a good job on my homework and how he tickled me when we were all having fun at Harry’s house. How he held my hand the night Harry slept over. And how I woke up on his shoulder Saturday night.

  But it feels like it’s never been about us.

  Even just today, in Statistics, he asked if me imagining him naked made me nervous.

  Naked!

  Of course it would. But he already knew the answer.

  Sometimes, I feel like Noah only asks me questions he thinks he knows the answers to.

  Or maybe he just enjoys asking me questions that he knows will make me uncomfortable.

  Harry never does that. He asks me questions to try to get to know me. Noah seems to think he already has me figured out.

  With Harry, we talk and flirt. We have fun banter, feel passion, and then we kiss. Our actions are a result of our words.

  With Noah, it seems the opposite. His actions are based on his emotions. Sometimes, even his perceptions. Noah is all about feeling. And everyone who knows him would say that Noah feels everything intensely.

  The problem is, those feelings always seem to be in flux. Always changing.

  He’s never consistent.

  I care about Noah, and even though I don’t want to admit it, I have felt things for him. But it doesn’t change anything.

  Harry likes me in a simple and truthful way.

  Noah doesn’t even like me half the time.

  And that inconsistency isn’t romantic.

  “You never told me what you did your project on,” I say, needing to be out of my head.

  Noah turns toward me, swiveling on his stool. “What do you mean?” he asks, acting like my question has somehow perplexed him.

  “What emotion did you choose?” I ask more simply.

  Noah nods, pushing his shoulders back. “Confusion.”

  “Confusion?” Because confusion? “What does that even mean?”

  “It means, I did my project on the emotion of confusion,” he repeats.

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “Not really because I did my project on confusion,” he says, a smile forming on his lips and his brown eyes twinkling. “Get it? I can’t explain because it’s on confusion.”

  “You made a joke,” I say pointedly, thinking about his words.

  “Well, I was trying to,” he replies lightheartedly, shaking his head.

  “It was a terrible joke,” I breathe out, but a grin forms on my face. Because it was funny.

  “Come on. You have to give me a little credit for trying.”

  “Not when your joke is terrible,” I say with a laugh.

  Noah’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “I’m hurt by that.” He’s wearing a silly grin, and he brings his hand to his chest, pretending to be appalled.

  “Stop.” I chuckle, giving him a little push.

  Noah lets out a deep laugh, his chest vibrating.

  His laugh always catches my attention, and it reminds me of the day I met him. It was one of the first things to surprise me about Noah because of how deep it was.

  It echoes within my chest, making me ache to laugh with him.

  “You know, I forgot to tell you something the other day,” I tell him.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Thank you. You were upstairs or somewhere when I had breakfast Sunday morning. You told your mom about the bananas and almond butter.”

  “Mum told you about that, huh?” he asks, pinching his lips together.

  “No, of course not,” I tease. “A little fairy whispered to me that you actually did something nice.”

  Noah shakes his head. “Fucking fairies. Can never keep their mouths shut.”

  Noah says the statement seriously, and I can’t help but laugh at his joke this time.

  “It was thoughtful. And I’ll leave it at that.”

  We both turn to the front of the room when Mrs. Jones sits down at her desk and shuffles through a stack of papers before announcing, “Right, please come turn in your projects.”

  I take my project out of my folder, glancing down at it before getting up.

  “Want me to turn yours in?” I ask Noah.

  “No, I’ve got them this time,” he says, standing up and grabbing mine out of my hand.

  When he sits back down, I can’t help but think of how secretive he’s been about his project.

  “Why are you being so weird?” I ask.

  “I’m not.” He shrugs, avoiding my eyes.

  I stare at him, not letting that be his final answer.

  “I was trying to be nice,” he says the words defensively, shaking his head.

  And I want to believe him.

  I really do.

  But something about it feels off.

  Bold and wild.

  Lunch

  When Noah and I get to lunch, we make our way over to our usual table. I scan across the room, hoping to find Mohammad or Harry.

  I don’t spot either of them, but unfortunately, someone else catches my eye.

  Someone who I’m supposed to apologize to.

  Sophia.

  I glance over at Noah, who is opening up his lunch bag. I can’t really imagine them together. But I do remember the jealousy I felt when they were seated next to one another yesterday.

  “What?” Noah asks, his gaze on me as he takes a bite of his sandwich.

  I watch his jaw loosen and tighten as he chews.

  I nod my head in Sophia’s direction.

  “Ah,” he says knowingly, raising his eyebrows at me.

  “Yeah,” I huff. “I guess I should go over there and apologize.”

  The idea makes my stomach twist with discomfort.

  I pout to myself, knowing that the feeling in my stomach isn’t going to go away unless I make things right with her.

  Not really because I care what she thinks, but because I care what Helen and Noah think.

  And deep, deep down
, I know what they think is right.

  “Right now?” Noah asks, taking another bite.

  I get my own sandwich out, running my fingers across the edge of the bread.

  I want to bring it up to my lips, but I can’t.

  And honestly, it’s a little annoying, watching Noah eat so carelessly.

  Because my stomach aches at the idea of apologizing to her.

  “When else am I supposed to do it?” I ask, frustrated. “It’s not like we have class together. And I think texting her to meet up after school would be insanely awkward.” My eyes flare at the thought.

  “It definitely would be,” Noah agrees. “All right then, have fun.”

  I narrow my eyes in at him, wanting to throw his sandwich onto the ground and step on it.

  “Thanks for the moral support,” I mutter, getting up from the bench.

  I push my shoulders back, holding my chin high. Well, not too high. High enough to seem sure of myself, but not high enough to seem like a total snob.

  Just the right amount of tilt, I think.

  “How do I look?” I ask, nervously smoothing my skirt down.

  “Good,” he responds, like he isn’t sure what else to say.

  “Noah, I’m serious. I’m nervous, all right? Just help me out.”

  His face softens, and he sets down his sandwich. “Just relax. Tell her you were sorry about being short with her yesterday.”

  “That’s all I have to do,” I say, trying to convince myself.

  “That’s all you have to do,” Noah repeats.

  I nod my head wanting to reassure myself as I start walking toward her.

  She’s sitting near the end of a half-filled table, but she isn’t really talking to anyone. Every once in a while, she lifts her face up from her tray, listening, but never joining in on the conversation.

  My chest is pounding, and when I finally get to her table, I sit down across from her.

  “Hey.” I smile, pushing out a breath. I’m hoping that if she senses my discomfort, maybe it will make things less strained.

  “Hey,” she responds, looking at me with almost shock.

  It’s probably because I have no reason to be sitting across from her, and I really don’t want to be.

  But I do my best to keep the smile on my face.

  “Do you have a sec?” I ask, glancing over at the others at the table.

  I’m trying to figure out if she’s just sitting by them or if she’s actually with them and in the middle of a conversation.

  “Yeah,” she replies.

  Her hair is parted in the center, and she’s looking at me, confused.

  Instead of beating around the bush, I decide to just get straight to the point. “I wanted to apologize about yesterday. I was in a pretty bad mood after school, and, well, I think I took it out on you.”

  “I’ll say,” she says under her breath.

  “Excuse me?” I feel my mouth fall a little at her response, and I instantly close it.

  “Why don’t you just cut to it? You were being territorial.”

  “And you weren’t?” I say back.

  The table has gone quiet, and I can feel everyone’s eyes on us.

  “Helen asked me to come over,” she says more loudly this time. “Told me that you needed a friend.”

  Oh, so that’s how this is going to go.

  I want to tell her to fuck off, but I figure that would probably do the opposite of smoothing things over.

  “Look, I understand,” I say, hoping that if I agree with her, this conversation can be over. “Which is why I’m over here, apologizing.”

  “Well, I don’t accept your apology,” she replies.

  Is she serious?

  “And may I ask why not?” I say through clenched teeth, trying not to lose my shit.

  She dramatically looks to the sky as if she’s thinking. “Hmm. Maybe because I don’t want to.”

  Because I don’t want to?

  “Okay,” I say, forcing myself to smile at her.

  “Okay?” she sasses back.

  “Okay then, don’t accept it. I was nice and offered an apology, which is the most I can do”—I stand up—“so I think I’m done here.”

  “Just because you live with the Williams doesn’t mean you’re closer to them than I am,” she says, getting up from the table with me.

  “I understand that. But I came over here to tell you that I was being a bitch yesterday and am sorry about it.”

  She crosses her arms, her lips pulling into a straight line. I can tell she’s considering what I said and the fact that I haven’t backed down. Or maybe she just wants to make me work for it.

  She tilts her head a bit, really looking me over. “All right then,” she finally says. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Really?” I’m surprised by her sudden change of attitude.

  “Yeah.” She nods.

  “All right then. Well, see you around.”

  The words feel awkward, coming out of my mouth, and Sophia doesn’t say anything else.

  I decide I can probably turn away from her now, so I walk back to the lunch table. I feel eyes on my back the whole way, and it’s hard not to imagine what people are saying.

  I blink a few times, trying to make sense of our conversation. She’s probably the most direct person I’ve ever met—besides myself.

  And that made it the weirdest but most efficient conversation I had ever had.

  Mohammad is now sitting next to Noah, and they both watch me approach our table. Harry is seated across from them, his back to me.

  Mohammad looks like he can’t wait for the juicy details to come, but Noah seems concerned.

  Harry must notice because he turns around and winks at me. Then, he gets up and pulls me into a hug.

  I can’t help but grin. “Hi,” I say, easily distracted by his arms around me.

  Harry grins back at me as we sit back down. Noah slides my lunch across the table toward me, glancing between Harry and me.

  “So, tell us what happened,” Mohammad says eagerly.

  “Nothing really. We’re all good.” I glance between him and Noah.

  “Were you not good before?” Harry asks, which reminds me that he doesn’t even know that Sophia came over after school yesterday. Or what happened.

  “Mum invited Sophia over yesterday after school,” Noah explains.

  “And?” Harry asks.

  “And they didn’t exactly get along,” Noah replies.

  Harry turns toward me again, seemingly expecting an explanation.

  “Helen introduced us, hoping we might be fast friends. But we didn’t hit it off.”

  “Huh.” Harry nods, taking in the information.

  “So, I wanted to talk to her today to make sure we were good.”

  “That’s my girl,” Harry says with a grin, throwing his arm around my shoulders.

  Mohammad glances between Harry and me, and I realize that I never talked to Harry in the hallway about Mohammad like I had wanted to. Even though he looked better after we talked in class, he’s looking uncomfortable now.

  “Mohammad was telling me a story in Latin about one time when you guys were at your country house for Christmas,” I tell Harry. “He said that you pelted one of the guests with a snowball.”

  Noah’s face brightens.

  Mohammad smiles at me. But he still looks a little down.

  Harry’s practically glowing.

  His blue eyes light up, and he looks over at Mohammad. “I thought Mum was going to throw us all to the wolves that night.”

  “She was pretty upset,” Noah agrees.

  “We always found our way into trouble.” Mohammad laughs, his eyes on Harry.

  “We always did,” Harry says. “You more than most though. Do you remember that year that you snogged—fuck, what was her name?”

  “Cadi.” Mohammad grins, his eyes sparkling.

  “Right. Her family lived in Wales,” Harry explains to me.

  “
That’s right; they were the potato farmers,” Noah cuts in.

  “Yeah, her family owned land. Lots of it. Her dad did a business deal with my dad to export their potatoes, well, practically everywhere. Anyway, Dad ended up inviting their whole family to our house for the week to celebrate.”

  “So, your family owns a shipping company?” I ask, realizing I never actually knew what Harry’s parents did.

  He nods. “Exporting.”

  “That was the best week,” Mohammad says.

  “So, what happened?” I ask, wanting to know more of the story.

  “I think we were around ten, and this beautiful girl showed up. I was in heaven,” Mohammad replies.

  “Beautiful?” I ask, raising my eyebrows at him.

  “She was cute,” Noah confirms.

  “She was my first kiss,” Mohammad admits.

  “Aw,” I say. “How did it happen?”

  “Well, I thought I was in love.”

  “It was romantic then?” I interrupt.

  “It was, in a word, bold. After all, love makes you bold,” Mohammad goes on.

  “It was hilarious.” Harry laughs, his nose scrunching up.

  “I thought about telling her I loved her. But I could never figure out how to do it. So, I ended up deciding, instead of telling her, I had to profess it to her.”

  “Aw, with a kiss?”

  “Not just any kiss. I had tried so many times to walk her under the mistletoe, but I could never end up getting her there or for her to notice when we were,” Mohammad says, shaking his head. “So, finally, I just took it down, walked up to her, held it over her head, and kissed her.”

  “Told you our boy has moves. From day one.” Harry grins at Mohammad.

  Mohammad smiles back, his pearly whites coming out. He tries to shrug off the compliment, but I can tell he’s eating it up.

  “What happened after that?” I ask.

  “She cried. And then ran away from me.”

  “Oh, Mohammad,” I sympathize.

  “Turns out, she liked Noah, and our entire romance was in my head. I was devastated.”

  “Come on,” Noah interjects, rolling his eyes. “She didn’t like me.”

  “She did,” Harry says, agreeing with Mohammad.

  “Whatever.” Noah takes a bite of his sandwich.

  “That’s women for you,” Harry says. “One second, you think you’re in love. You go in for the big kiss, the big gesture, and then, boom”—Harry’s hands rise up in front of him, showing the boom for effect—“you’re shot down.”