His nose wrinkles. “You turn your phone off for class? How…studious of you.”
I scoff. “Yes, well,someof us had to earn our spot here, and I would very much like to keep mine. So, if you’ll just?—”
“All right, all right, I’m going,” he says defensively, scooting back on his seat, his hands held up in surrender. “But we are still on for Izzy’s after this, yeah?”
He stares at me, waiting for my reply, as my own gaze drifts to the students around us, taking silent count of how many are watching our whispered exchange. A few mutter to each other, the rumor mill already fast at work. They don’t even try to hide their obvious gossiping or the skepticism slapped across their faces like overdone foundation. No doubt they’re wondering what Damian Navarro is doing talking to someone like me: a poor little nobody scholarship student with nothing to offer except her big brain. So much for all those new clothes making me look the part.
But then, that’s assuming the other students in this lecture even know who I am…which I’m almost positive they don’t considering that, unlike me—who is here because of my academic prowess and lack of financial means—they’re all future investment bankers or aspiring company owners planning to use the Bank of Mom and Dad to fund their eventual tech start-up. Or in the case of the rare few like Damian, heirs to major corporations, and taking this Applied Discrete Mathematics class is just one step on their path to a degree that will show they are remotely qualified to inherit Daddy’s billions.
All that to say, people like that do not tend to befriend people like me—Ronnie and her cousin excluded, but then, they are thewonderful exception to the Conwick rule. Come to think of it, aside from the cousins—and by extension, Eli—the only people I interact with at school are other scholarship students, and even then, only when conversing is absolutely necessary at our required work study. Outside of that, I rarely even see the other scholarship math majors; there are only a few of us, and none of our classes overlap due to varying academic trajectories and us being in varying years in the program.
Not that having them in this class would in any way make this more tolerable. In truth, they’d probably be judging me just as much as the rich kids are, albeit for entirely different, wealthy douchebag-shaped reasons.
A fresh wave of heat burns my cheeks as my mind whirls in about eight hundred directions. I’m not normally the kind of person who would care what anyone thinks of me, but after the fiasco with the bet in the spring, my skin isn’t quite as thick as it used to be, and I can’t stop myself from wondering what the students muttering around us might be saying. If seeing me with Damian has reminded them of my humiliation freshman year…
And if this whole thing is just setting me up for more of it.
“Dornan.” Damian’s voice snaps me out of those thoughts, and my eyes dart to his. “Izzy’s?” he prompts.
I swallow past the sudden lump lodged in my throat. “Yes, okay, fine,” I say in a rush, my heart like a snare drum, beating aggressively under my skin. “I’ll text you when class is over. Now, go.Please.”
I don’t want to see Damian’s reaction to my plea, so I turn my back to him again, and focus on Professor Bensen where he scribbles across the white board at the front of the room.
Or at least, I try to. In reality, I’m far too aware of the heat of Damian’s body behind me, and of his footsteps when he stands and walks away. The surprise of his appearance here has left me feeling somewhat claustrophobic, and I only seem able tobreathe again when I hear the faint thud of the classroom door closing.
“Now”—Professor Bensen taps the board with the tip of his marker—“who can walk us through the process of applying Dijkstra’s Algorithm to find the shortest route from A to each of these other four locations?”
Come on, concentrate, damn you,I scold my brain. Then, inhaling a deep, calming breath to slow my pulse, I once more raise my hand.
The next forty minutes go by without any fanfare or any more interruptions on Damian’s part, though I can feel the curious eyes of my classmates, their questioning stares following my every move, even as they begin to funnel out of the room the moment class is over. Trying my best to ignore them, I pack up my bag, and turn on my phone to find several messages from Damian along with a single text from Ronnie. Sometimes, I really do wonder if she’s actually psychic.
Fuckboy
Are we still on for today?
Is that a no?
You haven’t changed your mind have you?
Why aren’t you answering me?
Doooooooornaaaaaaaaan
????
If you don’t answer me I’m going to go put my in the nearest just to spite you
Rolling my eyes, I exit out of the texts from Damian, and bring up my chat with Ronnie.
Ronnie
Fancy meeting at Izzy’s? I’m not in the mood for psych class today so totally happy to skip! x
I frown at the message, chewing on the inside of my cheek. I went out of my way to avoid Ronnie and Andie this weekend so I wouldn’t have to tell them about my impromptu shopping day with Damian on Friday…and to avoid the very real judgment I would be on the receiving end of if they were to find out we kissed. And theywouldfind out because Ronnie would torture it out of me, like verbal bamboo shoots under my nails. I also might have failed to tell them about a certain planned coffee date happening this morning. I didn’t see the point as neither of them approve of this fake dating agreement, and I honestly didn’t want to endure another minute of the cousins attempting to psychoanalyze me. I swear, Ronnie takes one psychology class, and now everything is a damn therapy session.
Me
Sorry can’t today. I have a meeting with my advisor
