When I reached the top of the steps bringing me into Vic’s quad, I spotted Dean Grant rushing through Victoria’s Gatehouse, returning from what must have been an extended lunch break. Then, two paces behind him, Daniel emerged from under the archway. I’d just congratulated myself for going a full forty-five minutes without thinking of him, and there he was, rubbing salt in my wounded grade point average.
Their expressions were stormy—mirror images of anger. I wondered if Dean Grant and his son ever got along. Daniel turned and caught sight of me coming up the pathway, and although it didn’t seem possible, his expression visibly darkened. He shook his head with what seemed like disgust before lightly jogging to catch up with his dad.
What the hell? Bipolar much?
I wished my arrival in the quad hadn’t coincided with Daniel’s. His pissy expression had ruined my memories of dimpled smiles and sparkling eyes. I stomped the rest of the way to my French class where I sulked through my lecture, making tons of notes I knew would make no sense when I tried to read them over later.
I was still fuming at three o’clock when I returned to residence, hoping like hell I’d find the apartment empty so I could mope in peace. No such luck. I was greeted by a blaring television and found Matt flaked out on the couch in sweats and a T-shirt, drinking a beer. Four empty bottles were lined up on the coffee table, and an almost empty bag of Doritos spilled out a few stray chips on the sofa cushion beside him. He glanced up as I walked in.
“Hey,” he said, the very picture of world-weariness.
I kicked off my shoes, turned the volume of the TV down a little, and plopped on the couch beside him, collecting a few Dorito crumbs in my hand and dumping them on the coffee table.
“I see you’ve moved on to stage two of the program we unattached folk like to call Being Single Sucks Ass.”
He offered me a wry smile. I took that as an encouraging sign.
“It’s the stage where you say, ‘Screw the snotty Kleenex,’ and skip your afternoon classes to watch Maury Povich while swilling beer and working on your Dorito mustache.” I laughed and leaned over to wipe the tiny orange smudges off his upper lip with my thumb.
He grabbed my hand in mid-air.
“I don’t think you want to do that, Aub.” His words were slurred, and his voice was thick.
My smile froze. “Jesus, Matt, it’s three in the afternoon! How drunk are you?” I asked, gently prying his fingers from my wrist.
“Enough to think I’m ready for stage three,” he said, a dark undertone in his voice.
“And what might that be?”
“The stage where you see if your gorgeous, green-eyed roommate wants to try again. To see if there’s any chance—”
I saw no other option than to interrupt him before he said too much.
“Okay, cowboy, you’ve had one too many wobbly pops. You’re not thinking straight.” I stood up to put some distance between us and continued to make light of the situation, even though the expression on his face suggested he wasn’t joking in the slightest.
“Have you consumed every beer on the premises, or might I actually be able to join you?” I called out as I made my way to the kitchen.
“There’s plenty left. Be my guest.”
I grabbed one of the dozen and a half or so bottles remaining in the fridge and noticed two additional empty bottles on the counter. Talk about drinking with intent.
“Wowza,” I said, heading back to the couch. “Beer at three in the afternoon. It’s like being in first year all over again.”
“Drink up,” he encouraged. “You’ve got a lot of catching up to do to get to stage three.”
I tilted my head to the side and frowned. “Matt,” I said, trying my best to tell him I didn’t want to go down this road again.
“I know,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes with his fisted hands. “I’m sorry. Bear with me, okay? I’m a friggin’ train wreck here.”
Oh, I know how you feel, I wanted to say, but I held my tongue. The sting of my unrequited schoolgirl crush on Daniel wasn’t remotely comparable to Matt’s pain. So I sat with him, being his friend, drinking way too much beer and eating hideous junk food, all the while hoping he’d wake up in the morning with a rousing case of stage four—hung over as hell and swearing to never drink again but realizing there must be other fish in the proverbial sea.
Chapter 6
Spurned
Fair sir, you spet on me Wednesday last;
you spurn’d me such a day…
(The Merchant Of Venice, Act I, Scene 3)
WHEN MY ALARM SCREECHED at seven o’clock the next morning, I strongly considered taking a sledgehammer to it. But that would have required effort, and I could hardly lift my head off the pillow as it was. What had possessed me to stay up until two in the morning drinking beer, eating crap, and watching Quentin Tarantino movies?
It hurt to move, but there was no getting around it. I had to be at work by eight thirty. I groaned and dragged myself out of bed, throwing on a pair of flannel PJ bottoms. Water. I needed water and I needed it now.
Stumbling out to the kitchen, I found Matt already up and sitting at the table with his head resting on his arms, three empty water bottles in front of him. By the time we’d finally decided to turn in the night before, he’d engaged in an eleven-hour beer-drinking marathon. He was virtually paralyzed by the time I helped him into bed and propped him on his side with pillows so he wouldn’t roll over onto his back. No wonder he was dehydrated.
I felt a nagging unease in my stomach, thinking about what he’d said the day before. Were things going to be weird between us? What if agreeing to go to Canoe with him on Valentine’s Day had sent him mixed signals?
But that’s ridiculous. We’ve gone out alone together many times over the years. Why should things be different now?
“Dude, what are you doing up?” I croaked. I grabbed a bottle of water and took a long drink. He grunted and sat up, chugging back water like he’d been in the desert for a week.
“I had to get up. My brain was screaming for Advil,” he groaned. “And I have the worst case of the zacklies.”
“What the hell are the zacklies?”
“You know, when your mouth tastes zackly like your ass.”
“Ew, that’s disgusting!” I laughed, then grabbed my temples as pain seared through my brain. “Oh, no. No laughing. Not good. Not good at all.” I downed the rest of my water and tossed the empty bottle into the recycling box. “I’m grabbing a shower. Hey, have you seen Jo?” I asked over my shoulder.
“Nah, she stayed at Stephen’s again,” he said, slumping forward onto his forearms with a moan.
I frowned as I made my way down the hall. Joanna and Stephen were spending a ton of time together, mostly at his off-campus apartment in the Annex. If her parents knew the residence room they were spending thousands of dollars on actually functioned as a walk-in closet and occasional study space, they’d be pissed. It wasn’t easy for me watching money being wasted while I was working so hard to put myself through school and racking up a healthy student debt in the process, but as my parents were so fond of reminding me, once I’d earned my degree, I’d have no one but myself to thank for it.
Unfortunately, I also had myself to thank for the crazy-ass headache beating in my temples. I washed down two Tylenol with a handful of tap water and then took a gloriously long, hot shower.
Afterward, I stood in front of my closet, contemplating my wardrobe as I planned out my day. I’d been rushed on Monday, running home to change before class. It would make more sense to wear something appropriate for work but not too over the top for class so I could skip the trip home in between. I opted for dressy black jeans and a snug chenille sweater—a perfect compromise.
When I emerged from my room, Matt was leaning against the kitchen counter, eating plain toast. I grabbed some snacks and an extra bottle of water for good measure.
“Sorry about yesterday,” he said. “I was out of line.”
“Chill, Mat
t, it’s not a big deal. I’m irresistible. It’s a cross I have to bear.” I smirked, purposely downplaying his concern. I pulled on my coat, remembering to grab mittens and a hat for later. After heaving my backpack onto my shoulder, I leaned around the corner to peer back into the kitchen, shaking my fist at him. “Do it again, though, and I’ll punch you in the junk.”
He smiled and shook his head. Thank goodness. We were cool.
“And get your ass to class today!” I yelled, pulling the door closed behind me.
My morning at work went by quickly. Dean Grant remained locked in his office, emerging only once to refill his coffee cup, while I dealt with a steady stream of walk-ins and caught up on unanswered emails. My stomach started to churn as I watched the hands of the clock creeping toward eleven thirty.
On Monday I’d been excited at the prospect of starting a new course, and this time yesterday I’d been eagerly anticipating seeing Daniel again, but after the dirty look he’d tossed my way the day before, I now felt ambivalent. Not that it mattered. Since there was no point pursuing him, it was best to get a grip and accept the reality of the situation.
Before knocking on Dean Grant’s door to tell him I was leaving for the day, I took a moment to pat myself on the back for finally thinking rationally.
My trip to class was much calmer without the frantic detour home after work to change. I even had time to swing by the Hart House coffee shop to grab a cup to go. I arrived in the classroom to find Julie sitting in a spot on the opposite side of the room, two rows back, directly across from the desk where Daniel would presumably sit again. I slid between the rows of desks to claim the seat beside her.
“Hey, girlfriend, how’s tricks?” Julie asked, helping me pull my coat off my arm and sliding it over the back of my chair for me as I juggled my coffee cup.
“Oh, I’ve had better days. Went on a bit of a bender last night,” I admitted.
“On a Tuesday night? I love you, Aubrey.”
“Not my usual Tuesday night ritual, believe me. Matt and his girlfriend broke up on Sunday night. He was drowning his sorrows and using me as a life raft. By midnight I think we both could have used some CPR.”
“Oh, poor Matt. Is he still a hunk of burning love? Maybe I can help him forget his sorrows,” she suggested, a wicked gleam in her eye.
“Yep, still as hunky as ever, but a self-professed train wreck at the moment. I wouldn’t go near him with a ten-foot pole if I were you, Jul.”
She laughed and then bobbed her head toward the door. Professor Brown and his trusty protégé, Mr. Grumpy, were walking in together.
“He looks like he stopped at the Salvation Army on the way here to pick up that outfit,” Julie whispered, gawking at Daniel. “I’d still bang him in a heartbeat, though,” she added dreamily.
It was true. Daniel seemed to be getting more unkempt with each passing day. His hair was actually a little greasy now, and I tried to convince myself that his lapses in hygiene made him completely repulsive, but Julie was right. His scruffiness wasn’t a turnoff; in fact, I had a strange urge to take him home and give him a very hands-on sponge bath. Why was it that as soon as he was standing before me, any rational thought went straight out the window? Damn him!
He sat at the table and took out a notepad and pen while Professor Brown assumed his position behind the podium. I avoided making eye contact with Daniel, still reeling from the death stare he’d shot at me the day before. It turned out my efforts were completely unnecessary. He spent the whole time gazing blankly at the notepad in front of him. I couldn’t believe this was the same person I’d laughed and joked with the day before. Maybe he did have bipolar disorder!
I focused on Professor Brown, and as he was winding down his lecture, he turned to Daniel, asking him if he was ready to introduce the upcoming assignment. Daniel stood stiffly, and he and Professor Brown switched places. I shifted in my seat, stifling a yawn. How I was going to make it through my evening lecture was a mystery.
Daniel cleared his throat. “Well, as Professor Brown suggested on Monday, there’s a reason we’ve started our course reading with Hamlet.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a theater playbill, holding it up for the class to see. “Next week there’s a three-night run of a performance of Hamlet at the Hart House Theatre, and one of your first term assignments will be a comparative analysis of the text and this live performance of the play. It will be worth five percent of your term mark and my first assessment of your work.”
He paused to take a breath, and before he could proceed, people started whispering and several hands shot up around the room.
“I’ll take questions once I’ve explained how this is all going to work. If I don’t address your concerns, you can ask at the end, okay?” he said. “So, the play runs Wednesday through Friday nights…”
Again the restless muttering kicked in. What the hell, people? Let him finish.
“What if you can’t make to any of those performances?” a guy called out from the back.
“If you’d let me continue,” Daniel said, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Professor Brown looked highly entertained. Julie arched her eyebrow, her mouth twisting in amusement.
“So, as I was saying,” Daniel resumed, “the play runs from Wednesday to Friday, and although it’s short notice, see what you can manage to arrange. However, if none of the three dates is an option, there is a performance of Much Ado About Nothing scheduled for later in the semester, and you can wait until then to do this assignment. You’ll have advance notice for those dates. That’s the alternative if next week doesn’t work.”
His explanation seemed to appease the grumblers.
“I have a block of tickets booked for each night, but I’ve been asked to confirm numbers with the box office and release the seats we won’t need. Please check your schedules and let me know what your intentions are by Friday’s lecture. Fair enough?” he asked, his eyebrows raised expectantly. “I’ll stick around for a few minutes in case anyone has any further questions, but I’ll be meeting with today’s seminar group shortly, so I can’t stay long.”
He turned to Professor Brown to give him back the floor. Again, the lack of oxygen in my brain forced a huge yawn from me. I couldn’t stifle this one. Beside me, Julie snickered.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is an excellent opportunity Daniel has arranged for you,” Professor Brown said. “I trust you’ll do what you can to adjust your schedules accordingly. Have a good day.”
He nodded his head conclusively, and people began packing up their bags. Julie turned to me with a bemused expression.
“Well, that was interesting,” she said.
“Yeah, no kidding.”
Behind us, a group of people griped about the timing of the performances. Above the garbled complaints, Cara Switzer’s voice rang out shrilly.
“As if you’re gonna go see a play for class on a Thursday. I mean, it’s totally pub night all over campus. And there’s that huge party at the Kappa house on Friday, right? This is so not working for me. How about you, Lindsay?”
“Totally. Not gonna happen,” her idiotic sidekick agreed, examining her manicured fingernails.
Julie and I simultaneously rolled our eyes. “Do you want to try to go to the show together?” she asked.
“Sure. We’ll have to go Friday, though. I have class Wednesday night, then there’s the show at the Revival on Thursday, right?”
“Friday would work for me,” she said. Then she leaned forward to whisper, “And a certain frat party is conveniently scheduled at the same time.”
“Good point.”
“Okay, it’s a date.” Julie pulled on her coat. “I guess we’re supposed to wait to tell him on Friday.” She nodded her head in Daniel’s direction.
“I guess so,” I said, shrugging on my own jacket. We moved toward the door, but before we could escape into the hall, Daniel called after us.
“Miss Price? Could I have a moment?” I glanced at him and then back at Julie wit
h a sigh.
“I’ll see you on Friday,” she said, her eyes glinting mischievously as she moved through the door and started to pull it closed behind her.
“Leave the door, please,” Daniel asked.
Julie obliged and disappeared down the hall. Daniel rubbed his temple and then brushed his hair back off his forehead, a wasted effort as it simply flopped back down. His hair needed a trim as well as a good wash. How was I supposed to properly admire his eyes when his hair was always in the way?
“I have a small request,” he said.
“Fire away.” I crossed my arms, waiting for him to continue. Would he smile beatifically or shoot daggers at me through his eyeballs? The suspense was killing me.
“I’ve given some thought to what you told me yesterday, about how you work for my father. You two have a close relationship?” he asked.
“I think highly of your father. He’s a wonderful man.”
“Well, I think it’s probably in your best interest if you didn’t tell him you’re in this class,” he said.
“That’s a strange request.”
“Not really,” he said, resting his hands on his hips. “My having taken on this position as TA is stressing him out. He’s inordinately concerned about how things are going. Maybe he thinks if I do badly it’ll reflect on him or something. He takes a lot of pride in his reputation on campus. If you tell him you’re in this class, you’ll become his one-stop shop for information. He’ll be quizzing you daily. He’ll put you in an uncomfortable position, I can almost guarantee it.”
“So you’re trying to protect me from being pestered by your father—from becoming ‘his informant?’”
“I suppose you could put it that way,” he admitted. “I also don’t want to open a can of worms. If my father discovers we’re acquainted, he might discuss things with me that would breed familiarity between you and me, or share information about your performance at work, whether good or bad. I’d like to avoid anything that could undermine my objectivity.” He looked down at the floor for a moment before bringing his eyes back up to search mine. “Can you do that for me?”
The Weight of Words (The WORDS Series) Page 4
