by Carina Adams
I smiled. The man was such an odd character. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine, yet he didn’t seem to realize how attractive he was. A strong jawline and defined chin with a constant five o’clock shadow made his square face almost seem brutish. Yet his narrow, evenly spaced eyes always held a twinkle that couldn’t be hidden. Thick dark eyebrows curved just so and hooded his eyes, which drew attention to his sharp, straight nose. Features that should have diminished his looks made him more appealing.
That was only his face. The rest of him, from a wide neck to broad shoulders that apparently looked amazing in whatever he wore, to a trim waist and long, long legs, it seemed like he’d been chiseled out of rock by the gods, meant as an apology to us mere mortals for almost every other man alive. Reid was more than attractive and fit, he was, for lack of a better word, beautiful.
He oozed charisma from his pores. His kind of swagger was distracting. I could lose an entire afternoon staring at him and never tire. I’d never admit it to anyone; not only because an Adonis like him was out of my league, but also because just admitting it to myself made me cringe. I sounded like a DEFCON one stalker.
I wasn’t sure what I’d stumbled upon between him and Roman, but the tension in the office had been palpable. I’d wanted to do whatever I could to distract the two of them, to keep them from arguing. It reminded me of the times my mom and whatever boyfriend she’d had at the time would fight and I’d grab Hunter and hide before it got worse. God knew it almost always got worse.
I inhaled slowly to pull in positive thoughts and energy. My mom was gone. Thinking about it now wouldn’t help anything. Then I puffed out my cheeks and pushed the negative memories from my mind.
I made a mental note to call my little brother after class. I missed the punk and hadn’t checked in with him in a few days. He would be getting my letter soon, and with it, the money I’d sent.
My phone beeped to let me know I’d received a new text message. I glanced at it quickly
Fashion Barbie: HURRY!
It had only been ten minutes and I was almost at the parking lot outside the lecture halls. I hit her name on my phone screen. She answered on the first ring.
“I’m right around the corner,” I explained.
“Holy shit, Cady!” She huffed, completely out of breath.
I gripped the phone harder as my stomach bottomed out. “What’s wrong?”
“I wasn’t that late,” Olivia rambled on. “I mean, class hasn’t even started yet!”
“Livie?” I turned into the parking lot and searched for an empty space as I tried to make sense of my friend’s ramble.
“The entire hall is full.”
I slammed on my breaks, not caring that I blocked both lanes, as I processed her words. “What?” It couldn’t be full. There was no way that many people had signed up for the stupid class. An agitated beep from the car behind me made me shake my head and start driving again, crawling around the lot. “Did you double check the number outside? You’re probably in the wrong room.” I offered softly, hoping my tone didn’t come across as condescending. It wasn’t like Livie hadn’t made a mistake like that before. She got even more anxious than I did.
She sighed. “That’s what I thought, too. So, I double checked. Then I looked at the schedule. It’s the right room. The professor isn’t here yet, but unless they moved us, it’s here. There aren’t any seats together. Not even up front. How do I save you a spot when they’re not together?”
“It’s okay,” I soothed, knowing she was on the verge of tears. “Don’t worry about me. You find one and I’ll be there as soon as I can. Hopefully it won’t be one of the classes where we’re stuck in the same seats all semester. We’ll just get there early on Friday.”
“Okay,” Livie sighed sadly. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” I assured her. “I’m on my way. Be there in five.”
I found an empty space at the back of the lot, almost as far away from the hall as one could get. I yanked my messenger bag from the back, locked my door, and started to run. By the time I stood outside my class, my hair was a jumbled mess and I was covered in a layer of sweat.
I caught Livie’s eye almost as soon as I stepped through the door and waved. She was four rows back, in the middle of a table, surrounded by people completely ignoring her. I took a few steps in her direction, but after a quick scan of her area, I discovered there wasn’t a single open spot in her row or section. I sighed, turned around, and grabbed the first empty chair I found. If either of the women next to me were saving the seat, neither uttered a word.
I fanned my shirt away from my body and pulled out my notebook and pen before. The professor was at the front of the room staring at his own pile of notes. At least I’d made it before he started introductions.
A paper cup appeared right next to my books as a delicious smelling floated from the lid.
“Oh, thank God,” I sighed as I smiled up at Livie. “You are amazing. What would I do without you?”
The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, but in an un-Olivia like way, she turned and sprinted back up the stairs without uttering a word. If I hadn’t been staring at the spot where she’d stood a moment before, confused by her sudden departure, I would have missed the sneer the girl in front of me sent in Liv’s direction. My faced scrunched in confusion, sure I’d misread the situation. Until another girl turned slightly—her expression also filled with disgust—and lifted her hands into the air and flapped her fingers, as if shooing Livie away.
I didn’t understand. Everyone loved Liv. She was sweet and kind to everyone she met. She didn’t even kill spiders and insisted on moving them into their natural habitat.
Trying to keep the scowl from my face, I watched as the two exchanged a whisper, then turned, eyebrows raised, to the seat next to mine. My gaze followed theirs. The woman there sat completely still, back straight, body rigid, filled with tension as her hands gripped the edge of the table. Stress rolled off her in waves.
I didn’t recognize her. UCM wasn’t as big as some universities around the country, but it was the second largest college in Maine. With almost ten-thousand undergrads cramming themselves onto the campus, it wasn’t a surprise I didn’t know a tenth of the student body. However, this stranger knew either Livie and she was extremely uncomfortable.
As I looked at the women around me, I realized I’d managed to plop myself down in the middle of sorority row. Okay, maybe they all didn’t know each other, and there was a slight possibility some weren’t in the secret sisterhood. Yet, every table in front of me, and at least three behind, were filled with women in designer labels and perfectly coiffed hair.
Normally I didn’t care what I wore to class. It wasn’t high school, and no one made fun of you if you looked like you were on a two-week bender or hadn’t combed your hair in a month. Yet, sitting there, in the midst of the fashion frenzy, I felt incredibly uncomfortable in my workout leggings and oversized tee. I tried to pull myself in tighter, not wanting them to think I was taking up their precious space and hoped I didn’t reek of body odor.
I’d spent my morning working out, while they looked like they’d sat around drinking mimosas and gossiping in the commons. I doubted any of them had to work up a sweat every day just so they could fit into their size twos. There was no doubt they buttoned their pants without lying down.
I cringed as I realized where my thoughts had taken me. I was such an asshole. I said I hated stereotypes, yet all I seemed to do lately was shift people into neat little boxes and expect them to act a certain way.
Thankfully the professor cleared his throat and saved me from self-ridicule.
“Welcome to Business Presentations,” he told us, entirely too jolly. “I’m Maximillian Plourde. You are stuck with me for the next fifteen weeks. For those of you who haven’t been lucky enough to be in one of my classes yet, there are a few things to remember. I’m not your dad, so don’t try to bullshit your way out of your
assignments. And I’m not my dad, so don’t even attempt the Mr. Plourde suck-up crap. We’re all adults. Call me Max.” He smiled, thoroughly enjoying himself as his eyes drifted over the packed room. “Unfortunately, introductions will take more time than we have.”
My heart leapt in joy and my shoulders sagged with a touch of relief. I hated the moment where we went around the room and said our name, major, and for the really sadistic teachers, our favorite hobby or a secret about ourselves. A quick movement next to me caught my eye, and for a fleeting second I wished we had been forced to introduce ourselves simply so I could find out my neighbor’s name.
“However,” the way he dragged out the word made my hopes plummet and worry pool in my belly. “Effective communication skills are imperative in the business world. Your ability to not only create, but also effortlessly deliver, a presentation could make or break your career. The two go hand in hand, especially in this class. And, just like in the real world, you can’t always do that alone.”
I adjusted in my chair. I didn’t know what path he was taking us down, but I was nervous.
“Over the next four months, you will learn strategies to overcome oral presentation anxiety. You will work with a team to research, develop, and deliver various presentations. Each team will cultivate an appreciation for professional personal appearance, voice quality, and body language.”
Dread settled deep in my gut when Max grinned.
“Let’s not waste time on class introductions. Let’s find your team.”
Students started talking, no doubt scurrying to find a team. I glanced up at Livie over my shoulder and met her relieved smile. At least we’d have each other.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Max called over the noise. “Next year, as you’re taking over corporate America, you’re not going to have your friends to lean on. So,” he moved to the furthest end of the room, “this is what we’re going to do.”
I waited with bated breath as he scanned the class and preformed mental calculations. I looked with him. The room was divided into three sections, the right, the middle, and the left. Each section had six rows, each row had six chairs. If no one dropped out, that was a hundred and eight students. If he separated us by row, which I really hoped he didn’t, that would be eighteen teams.
He pointed at the person in the aisle seat of the front row in the first section. “One.” He moved to the right. “Two.” He slid again. “Three.” He continued until he reached six. Then he moved to the middle section and started counting at one again. Finally, he reached my section and counted for the last time. He moved back to the center of the room and faced us.
“If you are a one, turn toward the number two next to you. If you are a three, look at your four. Five, smile at your six. That is your partner for the rest of the semester.”
I groaned silently.
Max wasn’t done though. “Sometimes, you’ll need a bigger group.” He moved back to the other side of the room. “Staying in the same row you are in,” he instructed us, “Gather your things and move to the appropriate table. Ones and twos will be in this section. Threes and fours in the middle. And fives and sixes, you’re over there.”
There was a big shuffle as almost everyone picked up their stuff and moved, including me.
“These will be your seats for the semester,” Max yelled over the racket. “I don’t care where you sit in your correct section as long as you are next to your partner.”
I followed the nameless woman next to me as we moved over two sections and settled in the middle of the row. She was still tense, clearly uncomfortable, and hadn’t met my eyes or returned my smile. The semester was going to be a blast.
Max waited for us to quiet down and get situated before he spoke again. “Look around you. Your ability to pass this class and your grade will depend on the five people around you. Make no mistake, this course is intense. There is a lot of work. You will need them as much as they need you. Take the rest of the period and introduce yourself to your partner and then your team. I’ll be making my way around to record who is in each one.”
I took a deep breath and skimmed the other students at my table. I knew a few by sight, simply because I’d had classes with them a time or two, however no one in my group seemed to be great friends. I wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse. I turned back toward my partner and pasted a smile I hoped appeared pleasant onto my lips. “Hi,” I offered weakly.
Her smile was forced and tight. “Hi.”
“I’m not sure what to say,” I admitted. “I hate doing this. It feels like we’re speed dating.”
One thick and precisely shaped mocha eyebrow rose.
“Not that I’ve ever been to a speed dating session,” I rambled on. “Just what I’ve seen in the movies.”
Her other brow mirrored the first. Awesome. I hesitated and hoped she’d speak up, maybe introduce herself.
She inspected me. I took the opportunity to do the same.
Her skin held a slight tint, almost as if she’d spent summer vacation on a tropical island, being kissed by the sun, without of the hint of burn the rest of us seemed to carry. I was close enough to see the odd color of her eyes, an unusual combination of grey, blue, and green with a small tinge of yellow around the pupil. Her dark, full, shiny hair reminded me of freshly brewed coffee and I fleetingly wondered if it came from a box or if she’d been blessed with such a rich color.
Her face was perfectly symmetrical, with features I imagined every man looked for. Big almond-shaped eyes that seemed shrewd, yet kind. An adorable slightly upturned nose that complimented her high cheekbones perfectly. Full lips that were just the right amount of plump and seemed to have a natural pout.
Beauty might be in the eye of the beholder, but there was not a single person on earth who would argue that this being wasn’t exquisite. If it was natural and not created by a high priced surgeon, she’d struck gold in the genetics department. If any part of it had been purchased, I didn’t blame her. If I’d had the money, I’d have spent every cent to look like her.
She was stunning.
Uncomfortable, I needed to break the silence. I smiled again. “Looks like we’re going to be spending a ton of time together. I’m Cady.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Even her voice was amazing. Soothing, like honey. There was no malice in her tone, or agitation present on her face. “I’m Brooke.”
Fourteen
Roman
I was seven when my mother pulled me aside one afternoon and explained that if I wanted to continue to play baseball in the spring and summer, and work on my skills with a private coach during the off season, I also needed to choose what she dubbed as a ‘creative activity’. Wanting me to be well-rounded and have an appreciation for the arts as well as sports, she insisted that I had to pick between piano lessons, dance class, or an afterschool art program. Sitting still for hours seemed entirely too boring, so movement won by default.
When she’d given me the option, it had been presented as something that would help improve my ballgame. She’d smiled and pointed out that some of the best football players of all time had taken ballet. I had dreams of going pro one day and would have done anything to make that dream a reality.
I’m sure she’d pictured me dressed up in a little tux—competing in Latin Ballroom, Swing, or maybe even with taps on my toes as I expended much of my extra energy with a catchy rhythm. The snooty little prince for her to brag about at my grandparent’s social functions.
Like the stubborn and determined little punk I’d been, I’d picked Hip Hop. Not because I loved rap or was obsessed with MTV—because I didn’t and I wasn’t. No, I chose it for three reasons. One, it seemed like the easiest style to learn, and I figured I could just show up and move without giving it any time outside of the studio. Two, it was the option my mother would be most disappointed in and I hoped it’d make her change her mind. And three, because the MacGregor had suggested it.
I walked into the studio on the first day, co
nfident and cocky, even for a first grader. By the third eight-count, I knew I’d been wrong about my first reason. Hip Hop wasn’t easy. I’d looked around at the other kids, amazed they could both follow the directions that were hurled toward us and complete each step after seeing it just once. I couldn’t move the way they did. I didn’t seamlessly transition from one position to the next. No, my arms jerked in wide abrupt movements. When I’d walked to the car at the end of class, dejected by how poorly I’d done, every part of my body hurt.
The competitor in me refused to let something like dance best me. I’d gone back, determined to master the moves. I’d started practicing in my room, at the bus stop, and in the dugout. My confidence grew with my skill, and before I knew it, baseball had taken a back seat, and dance had taken over my life.
There’s an odd stigma that surrounds men in the dance world. I’d learned early on, from both my Little League teammates and my cousins, that many thought dance classes were something only girls participated in. If you were a boy who liked to dance, you were either a loser or a faggot – their words, not mine. I knew they were wrong, and I’d given too many black eyes over the years defending not just me, but my dance friends. When I was a teenager, I let them think what they wanted and ignored the cruel things they said.
My friends made fun of me, uncomfortable that I enjoyed dance, yet I had the last laugh. Women, as I discovered in high school, loved it. Dancers are not only physically fit, they’re flexible as hell, have high endurance, and can offer a fantasy most other men can’t. Knowing I was really good at what I did, and girls flocked to my high school competitions to see me, made me more than a little conceited.
I couldn’t remember the exact moment I knew I wanted to dance for the rest of my life, that I wanted to find a career in the field so I never had to stop, but once I hit my junior year, it was my only goal. My parents tried to talk me out of it, attempting to warn me about the lack of jobs, the brutal behavior of sexism in the industry, and the challenges I’d face. It wasn’t that I refused to listen to them, because I understood their concerns. I simply didn’t care. I knew I would be happy with whatever I was doing as long as I could dance every day.
