by Faye, Amy
Craig Weston was a terrible student of history, and only an alright student of mathematics, but he was an excellent student of football.
There was no world in which he didn't do his homework before showing up on day one.
But therein lay the problem. He'd done his homework, and now that it was time for him to do it again… it just gave him time to think. Time to think about Emma, about what had happened. About what hadn't happened, too, for that matter.
About what it meant for him, for her. She had always been the one who wasn't interested in him. For things to have gotten that far—maybe he'd pushed her. Maybe, without thinking about it, his attention to her had, in a way, sort of… pushed things in that direction.
What was he supposed to do about it? Nothing, he guessed. Nothing he could do. Just the best he could. But that doesn't change much of anything.
No point in taking notes. He's already got better notes than he could possibly take, sitting right in front of him. A very pretty girl, fire-red hair, with tits that had come as a real positive surprise and attitude to boot, she'd given them to him for ten dollars a week.
He tapped his thumb on the desk in frustration. There was another half-hour of lecture left, and Weston was ready to go already. Why was he even here? What was the point?
Deep breath. He's not going to walk out. Not because he can't, because he absolutely can. Because he shouldn't, and therefor he won't, regardless of whether or not he can.
Think about something else, he tells himself. There's an edge of annoyance, even frustration, in his thoughts. Just fucking. Think about anything else. Not her, because you've already done enough damage.
Deep breath. Tap the desk. What else was there? Classes he wasn't struggling in? Football, where the God damned offensive line couldn't hold together to save their lives, while he's making the best throws of his life? Girls, where he'd fucked up real royally with the first girl he might have liked in a long damn time?
Nope. Nothing to think about. He pulls out his phone. It might piss off the professor, sure. Fuck him. There's more important things in life than American history.
And besides, wasn't it better than disrupting class by just picking up his stuff and walking out? Wasn't that preferable?
So the phone came out, and damn the consequences.
Nothing there, either. No place to escape to. Nothing to do but sit and wait and think about how bad he'd fucked up, and how no matter what he did from this point on, he was always going to have that black mark on his record.
That little day where he'd pushed things too far, where he'd put himself in the wrong place at the wrong time and it had caused a big fucking problem for him, and for her, and for everybody.
That was the worst thing, was the knowledge that regardless of what was going to happen later, there probably wasn't going to be any putting things back together again. He wasn't going to go back to a time before he'd finger-fucked Emma, while she was in some sort of delirious moment of weakness.
That was going to be on his head for pretty much the rest of his life, and the biggest hope he could have that it might be salvaged was that she would eventually, hopefully, get over it.
That was only going to be harder with him around. Not that he really had a choice in the matter, of course. There's just nothing to be done about it. What are his alternatives?
Quit school? Drop out, hope that he can make it through an NFL combine? Transfer to another school, learn another playbook, learn another team's weaknesses? Try to cover for them, too?
None of them were real options. No, he was just going to be in a place that fucking hurt from now on, and there was nothing that he was going to do about it. Nothing that he could do about it, whether he wanted to or not. That was where he was at, and that was where he'd stay.
Deep breath again. Calm down. His jaw was tightening. His thumb rapped hard on the desk. His knuckle hurt where he'd slammed it down a few times, but it didn't hurt near as much as it was going to.
Nothing was going to happen, and nothing was going to change. Didn't matter that there was other stuff going on. Didn't matter one bit.
Which was where he lived now.
No need to worry about whether or not he had fucked up. He obviously had. Now it was about trying to control the damage, and trying to figure out how to live with himself.
Deep breath. Fuck. His phone buzzes on the desk; several people turn to look at him. Craig shrugs, and they turn back to the lecture. Nothing to see here, and nothing to say to him. Not that he'd have listened.
The screen kicked itself on, and a notification pushed its way to the top. A text from Amanda. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He picked the phone up, moments before it buzzed in his hand. At least it was quieter that way.
A second text from Amanda.
'Call when you get this,' the first one said. 'It's about mom.'
There's a time for worrying about being impolite, and a time when you're past that. Craig slips the phone into his pocket and picks up his bag from the floor, starts heading down the side.
He keeps his head down, not wanting to invite a question about where he's going. Not wanting to look flippant as he leaves, either. But they're not stopping him.
He picks up the duffel from the ground and heads out the door. Nobody stops him, and nobody questions him.
The minute he hits open air he jabs the button to call. Amanda's face fills the screen and in his hand, the phone starts ringing. He puts it to his ear.
Amanda picks up on the second ring. She was probably waiting with the phone still in her hand.
"Hey," she says. She sounds tired.
"What's wrong?"
"How soon can you get back into town?"
Chapter Thirty-One
It was easy for Emma Owens, who had all the self-righteous bullshit attitudes in the world, to think that she had things under control.
It was harder to imagine the truth, which was that things had gotten so wildly out of control that she almost considered packing it in for a moment. Texting her students and telling them that she wasn't doing tutoring this week.
It wasn't like they were going to have a ton of material to cover. Nobody ever does, right after an exam. You tend to get a slow week anyways. The week before is review, and the week after is a little rest.
Well, it's rest for everyone who isn't a royal fuck-up. Those people get rests. Not Emma, though. She gets to remember just how bad she messed up.
There's something to be said for her ability to fuck things up. How she'd managed to take a guy who she thought was lower than mud a week ago, and somehow feel like she'd let him down—it just went to show that Emma Owens was near-infinitely capable of letting anyone and anything down. Failure was just assumed for her, she supposed.
She shook her head. No time to get down on herself. She had a meeting already scheduled, and she was going to be late for it if she didn't pull her head out of her ass.
She was already there by the time that Emma got to her usual spot. Already had the notes out for this week. There were fewer pages than usual. Less to cover, according to Peterson. Rest week and all that.
It wasn't easy to slip back into the role of tutor, but she did it. Slipped in like a pair of too-tight jeans. With a little effort and determination, she'd get in, regardless of what it did to the seams in the long run.
The session lasted less time than usual, too. Thankfully. Emma didn't have the patience for anything more. She took what she could get and that was about all she could manage. Her phone buzzed.
Craig. She opened the message with her stomach in her throat, and her heart beating hard enough to feel it in her fingertips.
'Not going to make it this week.'
She typed a message back. 'Something wrong?'
'Something came up. Back soon.'
When the fuck was 'soon?' What did any of this mean?
'Anything I can do to help?'
'Know a good surgeon in Oklahoma City?'
Sh
e didn't know how to respond to that. 'What happened? Is everything alright?'
His answer took a long time for how short it was. 'No.'
That was the end of it. Emma didn't know what she was supposed to do with any of this. Her skin was starting to hurt, and her stomach twisted and churned.
She should do something, but what exactly was she hoping for? What was she thinking that she could do? He'd already said as much. There was nothing that she could do.
She was pretty good at history. She could sit and watch a football game, if she had to. Math was easy, science was easy, but surgery was… less easy. Difficult. For her, impossible.
And if someone was hurt, someone close to Craig, then that was as far as that went. That didn't stop her from feeling like she wasn't doing enough.
'You need someone to go with you?'
The response was faster this time. 'No.'
'You sure?'
Longer. 'I don't have anyone who could come if I did. My sisters will be there.'
Emma could drop everything. It wouldn't even be hard. She could do it. Would do it. In a heartbeat and a half.
'Where are you right now?'
'Packing'
'Give me fifteen minutes.'
She slipped the phone into her pocket and hefted the bag on her shoulder. Normally, this was the hour or so she'd designated to picking fights over Craig Weston's bedroom habits. Plenty of free time.
She'd have to make a few calls, cancel her appointments. But there was nothing she couldn't afford to drop if she had to.
Craig's dorm was a fifteen minute walk, if you didn't take your time. She made it in twelve, ignoring the guys in the common room as she passed by. She'd already been here twice. No questions now, which was his. He was stuffing clothing into a leather satchel. It was most of the way full.
"I'm coming with you."
"Emma—"
"Don't 'Emma' me, Weston."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want you to be alone out there."
"I'm not going to be. My family's going to be there."
Emma could feel the frustration rising in herself, even as she tried to hold it back. "Don't argue with me, I'm coming with you. That's how it's going to be. Simple as that."
"I don't need you to do that," he said. He zipped the bag. "I'll be fine."
Emma's mouth tightened up into a thin line. "Don't do this."
"Don't do what? I have to go."
"Don't be weird."
He stopped, the bag hanging over his shoulder, a jacket hanging over it. "Emma, I should be back in a week or so. No big deal. You want to talk about, whatever, we can talk then."
The words hit her hard in the gut. What the hell was she supposed to do for 'a week or so?' What about him? She wasn't wrong for worrying. He was as fragile as anyone. Emma tried to find the words, but they wouldn't come.
"I don't want you to go alone."
"What, is this some sort of thing? You're trying to keep up your crusade against me doing anything hinky? Fine. I promise to—"
The anger burned too hot and bright to keep her mouth shut, in spite of what she wanted. "Shut up."
He shut up.
"I'm worried about you, you big dumb idiot, and I just want to make sure you're going to be alright. Is that such a problem?"
Craig took a deep breath. His shoulders slumped a little. It was the first time that she'd seen him bow even a little. For an instant, he almost looked like an ordinary man.
"Emma, I don't know what you want."
"Right now? I want to make sure that you're going to be okay. I know how upsetting it can be to lose someone close. Or even to risk losing someone close to you. And I don't want you to be alone, if things—"
Craig doesn't take the suggestion well. Emma's not sure how he could have. It's not an easy suggestion to take. Not by a long shot. Things could go fine. It's not polite to have mentioned it.
But if she could choose to have had someone be straight with her, or to be polite, when it was her own mother?
It wasn't hard to decide which she would choose, knowing now what she didn't know then. His expression weakens.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm here, aren't I?"
His eyes shift to the side. He straightens his back purposefully. Emma can see the way that he goes through it, like a checklist in his mind. Straighten, shoulders back, head back, chin up. Shoulders down and tucked.
"How long would it take you to get ready to go?"
"I don't know. Ten minutes?"
"You have a bag?"
She doesn't. "I'll just use a backpack."
Craig nods. "Okay. The car, then. We're in a hurry."
Emma follows. His legs are a hell of a lot longer than hers, but she's used to having to hurry to keep up with people. This is just a little worse than that. And besides, it's just like Craig said.
They're in a hurry.
Chapter Thirty-Two
What were they even supposed to talk about? Craig wasn't sure. The good news was, they had all the space in the world. Not many seemed interested in taking a trip to Oklahoma City, mid-afternoon on a Monday.
The bad news was, they had all the time in the world, too, and whether it was the case for her or not, Craig Weston was less comfortable than he'd been with a woman in… he couldn't think of a time that he'd been less comfortable.
Because whether Emma had his best interests at heart, whether she was right or not, acting the way he usually acted had taken things in all the wrong directions, and he wasn't remotely interested it screwing everything up a second time. Not if he could help it.
Not that he necessarily could control that. If things wanted to go sideways, then sideways they would go, regardless.
She'd made about the most awkward call he'd ever heard, explaining that 'something came up' and she was canceling all her tutoring. She'd give out refunds when she was back in town.
It was almost worth her ticket price just to sit there and watch her squirm around trying not to discuss what specifically happened. Everything was alright on her end, yes, but she needed to be out of town for a few days. Might be back next week, might not. It wasn't clear yet.
He looked over at her. She was leafing through the safety manual as if it were a magazine, glancing over the pictures before flipping it over again. She'd already read it at least twice, now. She started in for a third try.
"Emma, about what happened the other day…"
"I'm sorry," she says.
She says it flatly, like she doesn't want to talk about it. First she'd been all about trying to explain herself, and now it was don't-wanna-talk-about-it. Great.
"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you. You asked me to stay outside, and I didn't. So it's my fault."
She rolls her eyes. Craig thinks that she probably figures he doesn't notice. "Don't be a martyr, Weston. It doesn't fit you."
"What the hell were you sorry for?"
"For not knowing what I wanted."
"You seemed to want a—" Craig cuts himself off when a waitress comes by, smiling. "You seemed to want a lot."
"And I thought I did. But… Look. I don't want to get into this right now. This isn't my big chance to be a bitch, okay? I'm worried about you. I know how tough this shit can be. So I'm here to support you."
"What's that supposed to mean? Don't want to be a bitch about what?"
"Don't make me say it, Craig. I don't want to be rude, and that's all. I just want to be able to be nice and polite and comforting—"
Craig shifts in his seat. "How am I supposed to find that comforting?"
"You really want to know?"
Craig nods. Whatever she's about to say, she seems to think it's going to hurt. He's not sure what she's thinking she could possibly say that would be more upsetting than anything else that had happened in the past week.
"Fine. Look. You've got a history, Craig. You know that."
"Is that what this is about? You don't want to have your firs
t time with some promiscuous guy?"
Emma's face twists up. That's not a 'no' face, but it's not a 'yes' face either, which is progress, he supposes.
"Look. I didn't say that."
"I know you didn't, but what am I supposed to think?"
"You're right. Let me try again. I can't imagine that you were real close to all those girls, were you?"
No. Not in the least bit. "What's your point?"
"Well, I don't want to just… I don't know. Don't worry about it."
Craig frowns. So that's what this is about. Fair. Very fair. And the truth is, as much as he'd like to assure her that it's nothing like that, that he doesn't think of her anything like that, he can't say it.
Not really.
That would mean needing to be able to say to a certainty what he was feeling about her at all. Craig Weston had done a lot of fucking in his life. What he hadn't had, on the other hand, were a lot of relationships.
Outside of college, where the grand total was a whopping… zero, there was exactly one in high school, and it wasn't the kind of thing he was looking to repeat.
"I get you."
Emma seemed unimpressed by that response. "Oh."
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't 'okay.'"
"Well, that's what you get. I don't know what to tell you."
She turns back to her pamphlet.
It would be great if he could just say 'no, baby, I really care,' but that wouldn't be fair, would it? It would just be telling Emma what she wants to hear. She'd hear it that way, too. She'd know right off the bat, if he just followed the script she laid out for him.
But the truth was that he couldn't follow the script. Sure, he liked her plenty. Sure, he wanted to get to know her better. Was that love? Was that going to turn into something that lasted?
Who the fuck knows. He'd thought that it was going to last with Dani, too. Well, she'd apparently known better. Or maybe she hadn't, maybe it all just worked out that way. She sure didn't lose a ton of sleep over it in the end.
