Phoebe looks decidedly unimpressed. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t joke about spelling.”
“Nope. You lose. 3 dull things from you, and that counts as your first one.” She laughs and I laugh along with her, until my phone buzzes in my bag. I grab it out of instinct, though I usually have it turned to silent when I tutor. I glance quickly to see if Knox has an emergency, if Whit did something ridiculous, or if Booker sent me a funny text.
But that’s not what I find.
Mother:Ty, we need to discuss the parole hearing. You’ll be there, obviously. And you’ll need to serve as a character witness. We need to show the board that Brett is part of a loving family and that he deserves to be with us, living his life. Someone else’s choices certainly aren’t his fault, not that the judge saw things that way.
My blood runs cold and my face must go pale, because Phoebe looks at me with concern. “Hey, are you ok?”
No, no I’m really not. Because for about ten minutes here, in the lush woods behind our campus, I forgot who I was, who Phoebe was. I felt normal. I teased. I laughed. I fucking relaxed. But none of that is allowed, especially not with her.
“Yea, I’m good. I forgot I have a study group I need to get to. Can you find your way back?” I ask, already ten paces down the hill.
“Um, yea. Are you sure everything’s ok?”
“Yea, just lost track of time. I forgot to tell you I had to finish up early today,” I lie. “I, uh...I need to go.”
And with those stellar parting words, I rush back to campus like my ass is on fire. Halfway home, I realize I left my hoodie there in the dirt, but it’s no big deal. I have a dozen others. But how pathetic is it that I hope Phoebe kept it?
***
Ty
It’s hotter than the gates of hell in the writing lab today. The AC’s busted and both Megan and Katie have bailed, content to post a sign on the door telling anyone who needs assistance to call the tutoring line to set up an appointment. They reserved a few rooms for that purpose in the library. Meg told me I was welcome to do the same, but I couldn’t let Phoebe down. I know this class is stressing her out. Besides, I’m a selfish bastard who didn’t want to deny myself the hour and a half I’d been looking forward to.
And if I had Phoebe’s number, I’d have texted her to meet me there. But I don’t, which is probably for the best. Wiping the sweat from my brow with the edge of my t-shirt, I curse myself for not exchanging numbers with Phoebe. It was an act of self-preservation, but damn. If I had her number, I’d be sitting in the cold-ass library right now, instead of sweating my balls off in--
“Sorry I’m late!” Phoebe calls as the automatic doors whoosh open. “I had to talk to my professor about my--holy hell, it’s hot in here.”
“It’s fine,” I lie. “We should get started.” She looks at me like I’m crazy, and honestly, it’s a look she gives me often. But some part of my brain tells me that this is good. It’ll get unbearably hot after ten minutes or so, and she’ll call it quits. Then I can leave without a guilty conscience. Who am I kidding? My conscience is guilty as hell where Phoebe James is concerned.
“Did you get the character analysis of Emma and Knightley turned in?”
“Yep,” she nods, sliding into the chair opposite me and depositing her bags on the table, just as she’s done three times a week for the last two weeks. She’s my only regular student and as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve started looking forward to our meetups. But ever since my mom’s text interrupted our last study session, I’ve been increasingly aware of the need to keep my distance.
But damn, it’s not easy to do.
Her long, light brown hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot and her t-shirt saysEasy Peasy. There’s a giant lemon on it. It’s a thin white tee, and it molds to her body. Damn, it looks good on her. Fuck me. Everything looks good on her, and I can’t stop myself from noticing. Then I spend five minutes bitching myself out for noticing. It’s a vicious cycle when Phoebe’s around--the constant push and pull between knowing I should run far and fast and wanting to be near her.
But noticing and acting are two different things, I tell myself for the four thousandth time. Yes, she’s beautiful. And funny. And sweet. And when she absentmindedly sticks a pencil in her bun, I find it irrationally adorable.
But she’s still off-limits.
“Ok, so is it bad that I think Darcy’s kind of a dick? I know I just started reading, but damn. Oh, God. Was I not supposed to say that?”
“Say what?” I ask, realizing I’ve been zoning out.
“That Darcy’s kind of a dick. I mean, I haven’t gotten very far inPride and Prejudiceyet, so I’ll reserve final judgment, but so far, I am not impressed. And yet, he’s like the gold standard hero.”
I laugh. “No, he is a dick. But it’s also part of his charm.”
“If you say so,” she tells me, rolling her eyes, and undoing her bun, only to thread her fingers through the silky strands and tie it up again.
I rest my elbows on the desk and lean forward. “Look at things from his point of view, ok? He was in a position to help her, and he did. Was he a sweet, cuddly teddy bear about it? No, but that’s just not who he is. It takes him a while to warm up to people, you know? But do you see the way he cares for her? The lengths he goes to just to protect her?”
She looks at me and I swear she can see right through me. “Yea, I think I can see that. Maybe quiet, broody men aren’t all bad,” she says, fanning herself with her printed-out syllabus, and I tug my fingers through my hair. Jesus. Sweat is literally pouring off me.
