And then, I opted for coffee instead of lunch and ducked into Captain’s Cup, thinking a coffee shop would be faster. Nope. I had to wait in an insanely long line for a black coffee. I could’ve trucked across campus to the cafeteria and gotten my drink way faster. And the kicker, as I left the café, some jerk threw a guided missile disguised as a frisbee. The damn thing homed in on me and smacked my arm right as I took a drink. Hot coffee spilled down the front of my shirt, leaving me no choice but to go back to the dorm and change. Of course, that detour cost me time and made me late for design class, which is where I am now.
I push through the door and come to a halt. All eyes turn toward me. I glance to where the professor is supposed to be standing and breathe a sigh of relief at her absence. At least I’m not officially late, but my tardiness cost me my usual seat. Todd gives me a “what can you do” look that I return with a shrug. My gaze wanders past the seat stealer and lands on the last empty chair. Great. I bite back a groan. No wonder he moved. He sat right next to Marla.
Marla’s stare down begins the moment I step forward and holds until I settle in my seat. I want to ask her what her problem is but think better of it. Her beef should be with Noah, not me. Outside of a friendship, Noah doesn’t want anything to do with me. A fact he keeps proving over and over.
I left Garret’s birthday party more confused than ever. Sure, Noah came to my defense with Caleb, but any reasonable person with our history would do that. Noah always has my back. It’s that look—the one that makes me think he wants me—that gives me mixed signals and jumbles my brain. One minute, he wants to devour me, but then the next, he pushes me away. This hot and cold attitude is exhausting. Maybe, Marla’s confused as I am. He could be doing the same thing to her. Who knows? She obviously thinks there’s more between them than what he lets on. I swallow down the harsh reality. One thing is for sure. I need to stay away from Noah Geren and quit torturing myself.
“Sorry I’m late,” the professor announces when she breezes into the room. “I’ve seen some great mock-ups so far. You guys are slaying it.”
I load the program for my design as the professor goes over the assignment and expectations. I’m so excited over my plans and have made my mock designs for all three categories: casual, dressy, and formal wear. The evening gown needs heavy tweaking, and there are still decisions to be made on the fabric pattern choices, but overall, I’m feeling confident.
The clothing industry caters to women with perfect bodies but falls short to the percentage of girls with flawed skin. I want to design clothes that make women like me feel sexy without drawing attention to those flaws. Sure, I’d love to wear a shirt with a plunging neckline and show off my cleavage—it’s rather impressive if I do say so myself—but those types of necklines aren’t conducive for people with surgical scars. People like me.
I’m anticipating backlash for designing shirts specially made for hiding certain body parts, and I get it. I do. Promoting a positive body image has never been more important. Everyone should feel comfortable in their own skin no matter the size or shape, scarred or not. But for me, that’s easier said than done. I don’t wear conservative necklines because I’m a prude. I wear them because I hate dealing with the stares or the questions that follow whenever my surgical scars peep through.
I place my hand over my chest. It’s a defense mechanism I’ve acquired whenever reminders of my congenital heart defect infiltrate my thoughts. Truncus arteriosus is the official name. For some reason, the artery leaving the heart didn’t branch. The defect left me with a slew of doctor appointments, echocardiograms, a handful of surgeries, an overprotective family, and scars. I’ve had to deal with people gawking at me my entire life, but my junior high years were the worst.
Initially, the surgeons were able to minimize the incisions sites, but the surgery during junior high was urgent. It changed everything. My scar stayed red and angry looking for the longest time. Kids can be cruel to people deemed different, and so can ex-boyfriends. Time may have faded the coloring, but my self-esteem has yet to recover.
This contest allows me a chance to showcase my ideas of designing clothes for people in the same situation as me. I want the freedom to feel sexy without having to worry whether my scar is showing and being blindsided by the random “what happened” question. This project is more than a contest. It’s personal.
I shift my focus back to the halter-style top with a high neckline. The statement I’m aiming for is sexy and chic while maintaining enough coverage to appease the modest person. The design isn’t quite right. Some scars may extend past the edge of the material. Plus, I need to incorporate more sex appeal, but my creative juices aren’t flowing. My impending algebra grade weighs heavy on my mind and bogs down my mojo. I need a score of a C or higher. If I didn’t get that grade, I’m pretty much screwed.
A few minutes pass without a single tweak. I cave, open another tab, and pull up CU’s blackboard, CU’s version of an online grade book. I hold my breath as the algebra scores come to life and scroll to the bottom, D-minus. My heart sinks.
What am I going to do?
Tears prick my eyes as I stare at the computer screen and see my chances in competing for this contest slowly diminish. It’s not like I didn’t try. I studied hard for this test. I don’t know what else I could have done differently. What makes things worse is there is only one more test before midterms and none after that until the final. My chances of increasing my grade look bleak.
But how can I fix what I did wrong when I don’t know how? Failing this class isn’t an option. Sure, I can drop and try retaking it next semester, or even during the summer, but I’ll be in the same situation I’m in now—the I-don’t-understand zone.
I knew the three-semester math requirement would be stringent for me. It’s not like I wasn’t warned. My parents’ reservations were enough to make me second-guess myself. But Braxton had my back. He believed in me.
Maybe, my parents were right to worry. Heck, even Caleb had warned me. When I told him my decision to come here, I thought he’d be thrilled, considering we’d be together. Foolish of me for thinking he’d want his girlfriend attending the same school. Isn’t that what most boyfriends want? Apparently, not him. He harped about how rigorous the program would be and pushed for me to attend a different school. I can still hear his stinging words. “You may as well go to a liberal arts school since your degree is meaningless.” Asshole. It’s not as if liberal arts schools are easier. Thinking back, I realize Caleb degraded me every chance he got. I’m not sure why I stuck with him. That isn’t true. I do know why. He was the only guy who had enough balls to ask me out despite my overbearing brother. Everyone else was afraid of Braxton. But I know I can make it here. This is the best place for my creativity. Once the math requirements are fulfilled.
Marla scoots her chair back, and I quickly close the browser. No way do I want her to know how much of a failure I am. But here’s the problem. Closing one program leaves the other application on full display. And that means Marla has full access to my design.
“That’s what you’re planning on submitting for the formal wear?”
I want to punch her.
Instead, I click the minimize button and straighten in my seat, preparing to defend my work. “There are a few tweaks left to do, but it’s getting there.”
“It’ll take more work than a few tweaks,” she scoffs and then drops her voice to a whisper. “It’s very boring and plain.”
Hence the tweaks.
I force a smile. “Then, I suppose you won’t have to worry about me competing against you.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You’re nowhere near my level.”
And somehow, I don’t believe we’re talking about this contest anymore.
“Come again?”
“You’ll need to be sexier if you’re going to win this competition. It’s like with guys. Your modest, good girl vibe you’ve got going on will never land a guy”—she taps her finger against her lips—
“of Noah’s standards.”
“And you think you can?”
“I know I can. Noah’s the type of guy who can’t resist good sex. And trust me, I deliver. I’m the only girl he’s kept around.”
The little tic in my jaw annoys me. She’s right. I know it. She knows it. Noah has never settled down with anyone. So, why her?
That’s when I take a closer look at her. Everything from her low plunging neckline to the confident way she moves her body screams sex appeal. That’s something I’ll never have. Sure, I’m confident enough with my appearance as a whole, but I’ll never dress provocatively. If Noah prefers someone like her, I don’t stand a chance.
“Good for you. I always want the best for my brother’s friends.”
“Don’t even pretend, sweetheart. I’ve seen the way you look at him. You can drop the sad puppy dog eyes whenever you see him. It’s never going to happen. He’s way too much of a man for you.” She gives my clothes a once-over and smirks. “He likes a little more zing. And face it, you dress like you design—boring.” She gathers her belongings and stalks away.
I bite back the tears that fight to release. I’ve never been good at math, but I’ve prided myself on my designs. Having her cut the one thing I thought I was good at nearly rips me apart.
If this is the type of girl you want, Noah, then have at it. Good luck with your life. Disgusted, I push to stand and check the time. At least, one thing is going right today. I still have enough time to grab my book and notes from the dorm and head to the tutoring center. Someone from the math department should be available to tutor.
It isn’t long before I’m standing in the student center waiting for my turn. As I move toward the help desk, I get a text.
Dalton: Thought we were on tonight. Where are you?
I look toward the ceiling and curse. In my haste to get here on time, I forgot about my run with Dalton. We’ve been weight conditioning and slowly building up my endurance, but we were meeting on the track today. I hate missing a workout, but I won’t be here next semester to even participate in the 5K run if I don’t pass.
Me: Sorry, I forgot to text. I’m at the tutoring center for algebra. Try again tomorrow?
Dalton: NP. I’d volunteer to help, but math? No, thank you.
I laugh, knowing exactly what he means. Not everyone hates arithmetic, though. Noah always excelled at it. He graduated valedictorian of the class, after all. Hmm, there’s another difference between Noah and me. And the list keeps growing, doesn’t it?
“Which department were you looking for help in?” the upperclassman manning the front desk asks.
“Algebra, please.”
His judgmental gaze flicks from the screen to mine, and that moment of awkwardness settles in. Years of feeling inadequate claws up my spine. Yes, I know I shouldn’t be struggling this hard over what others deem simple. Hell, most people excel at this class in the eighth grade. I’m not one of them.
The guy scrolls the computer and smiles. “You’re in luck. Room C-2 just became available. It’s down the hallway, fifth door on the left.”
I suck in a breath of encouragement as my feet carry me toward what I can only deem as an embarrassment. Whoever the tutor will be is going to have one hell of a time teaching me. Not only do I hate depending on some stranger to help me, I hate allowing people to witness my struggles with understanding the concepts. Opening myself up and being vulnerable to a stranger is the last thing I want to do. I stop outside the door; the sliver of glass running lengthwise along the frame serves as a peephole to the room. The tutor shifts into view, and I freeze.
That day I thought couldn’t get any worse just crashed and burned into a fiery hell. The guy I told Saturday night my algebra grade was fine—the same one who belittled and shamed me for my inadequacy and tore my last shred of confidence—sits there scribbling on a piece of paper. My entire world implodes.
Chapter Ten
Noah
Half-dazed, I hike my gym bag on my shoulder and trek across campus toward Renald Field. I’ve been unfocused these past couple of days from the repeated thoughts warring in my mind. And it pisses me off. What I should be concentrating on is the game. Baseball—the whole reason why I’m here at this school—takes precedence over everything else. Or, at least, it should. This year is undoubtedly more critical than a teammate jockeying for my position. I can contemplate how to handle this new freshman all day long, but focusing on myself is the only real control I have. Then, there’s my roommate’s bad attitude. Part of me wants to kick his ass, but Dalton has a point. Braxton and I have sheltered Shannon her entire life. And that thought leads to the biggest confusion of all. Why is the girl I’ve deemed off-limits consistently on my mind?
Ever since Garret’s party, Shannon’s hijacked every damn thought. And that admission frightens me more than losing my spot on the team.
A pack of four girls approaches me fast. This is what I mean about my mind in a fog. I didn’t even notice them walking. I swing the gym bag to my other shoulder and steer to the sidewalk’s edge, allowing enough room for them to pass. The taller one wears a navy and white spaghetti-strapped V-cut tank top and smiles seductively at me. I nod to be polite and feel…absolutely nothing. She’s attractive enough—blonde hair, large tits—but I’m in a funk lately. No other girl comes close to Shannon.
Fuck. That’s not good for me.
Would it matter if Dalton and Shannon were more than friends? Obviously, they get along well together, and the only reason holding them back is Braxton. My hand clenches my gym bag strap tighter. Okay, maybe I’m not ready to accept them being together either, but eventually, some guy will ask her out. Then what? I’ll have no other choice but to accept them. That’s what I want to happen. What needs to happen. She deserves to have a guy who can be there long-term. Who won’t let her down and leave her all alone. I am not that guy.
I grunt, disgusted with myself. This walk is supposed to clear my mind, not confuse me more. Maybe, once I pull out the pitching machine and get to work on tightening my defensive skills, I’ll feel more like myself. There’s nothing better to make you focus than receiving ball after ball the machine spits out. Harry may be an outstanding hitter, but sometimes, the coaches lean toward better defensive players than individual batting average. Catchers can hit the ball out of the park all day long, but if they can’t prevent passed balls or throw runners out effectively, they’re no good to the team. A mediocre defense catcher won’t make it far in this league. I have to remember that every time I step on the baseball field. This year is all about the game. I cannot allow interference to get in the way.
The light breeze kicks up and rips along the row of redbud trees lining the front of Dudich Hall, the student support building. The rustling sound of the leaves may have drawn my attention, but it’s the blonde rushing down the stairs holding it. I can hardly breathe. Her chin is dipped lower with her hand clutched to her chest. Her tell when she’s upset. I let out a shaky breath and do what I’ve done my entire life—go find out what’s hurting her.
“Shannon?”
Her head snaps toward mine. I hear the hiccup in her breath before she collects herself and flashes me the fakest grin I’ve seen on her yet. You can’t hide from me, Sprinkles. I know you too well.
“What’s going on?” I keep my tone even, not wanting to scare her off.
“Nothing. I was just going to the library.”
With narrowed eyes, I study her. Her glossy eyes leave me to question what really happened. Something or someone clearly upset her, and I have to fight back the growl clawing up my throat.
“You’re going the wrong way. The library is back that way.” I point behind me.
“Of course, it is.” Irritation laces her voice. Her back steels as if she’s found her confidence. “I’m heading there now.”
I glance back at the building she bolted out from. Dudich Hall. The building that houses the tutoring service inside. “What’s really going on, Sprinkles?”
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“Nothing.” Her smile widens so much it makes my jaw hurt. An obvious front and her other tell whenever she’s aware of people’s presence. “Nothing. I-I just felt like exploring the campus.”
“Exploring, huh?” Yeah, I don’t buy that for one minute. My curiosity spiked, I remain quiet. I have no right to hold her hostage until she confesses, but I need to know how bad she’s struggling.
“Mmmhmm. Taking a stroll. It’s a nice day—sunshiny and bright.” She clamps her mouth shut as if to quit talking.
“This is me you’re talking to. I can stand here all day until you fess up. I know something’s wrong.”
Her smile drops along with her tone. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re talking about sunshine and brightness. Don’t you think I know you by now? That I know how chatty you are when you’re nervous or upset? I’m going to ask one more time, and you’re going to answer. What’s wrong?”
Her shoulders slump as she averts her gaze over my shoulder. I know she’s embarrassed, but the hint of blush coating her cheeks is too adorable. God, what I wouldn’t do for different circumstances.
“I’m struggling in algebra.” She studies my reaction, but she’ll get none from me. Needing extra help in a class isn’t anything to be ashamed of. When I don’t say anything, she continues, “I know it’s not that much of a shocker.”
“Shannon, a lot of people struggle with math. That’s why the college offers a tutoring center. I take it you just came from there?”
“Yeah.”
I blink in surprise when a pained expression crosses her face. Did the tutor say something to her? Make her feel stupid or something? “Did the tutor explain the equations in understandable terms?”
“No, I-I couldn’t go through with it.” The shakiness of her voice melts my inside. The need to protect her surges through me, and I have to stop myself from reaching out to her.
Behind the Count: Cessna U Wildcats Book Two Page 7
