Boyfriend Bargain (Hawthorne University #1)(78)

I prepare myself for one of his intense stares.

It doesn’t happen.

His icy grey eyes ghost over the room and I feel the brush as they flicker briefly on my face, but they keep moving, his expression blank.

And just like that, it’s back to the way it used to be: me, invisible to him.

“Dude, Z’s back,” breathes Sorority Girl a few seats away.

“The TA said the professor excused him for hockey stuff, but he’s been doing the work on his own. Maybe he’s back for good,” another girl replies.

Well. She certainly keeps up. My lips tighten.

“I hope this class improves his hockey game,” says a guy a few seats away.

I clench my fists and even though I’m angry and hurt, I can’t let anyone drag Z down. I turn around and scowl.

The guy’s eyes go wide. “If you watch the news then you know he’s losing his shit.”

I flip back around and stare at the professor. There has been rampant speculation about what happened at Concord State but no confirmation, and I’d have to be on another planet to not know that they barely won their last game against Denver.

I have an empty seat next to me, as usual, but Z heads to the front where he used to sit. Of course there’s a girl on each side of him, gushing.

Class gets started but I’m in a daze. I can’t stop staring at the back of his head.

“Miss Ryan, can you read the poem?” Professor Goldberg says, and I blink.

“Sir?”

He raises an eyebrow. “The Emily Dickinson poem?”

I let out a breath. Right. The one you read last night, Sugar. Get with it.

I give him a nod, but my eyes are on Z, and I think I see his shoulders tightening as he shifts in his seat.

I lick my lips and stare down at my laptop.

“Miss Ryan? Are you with us today?” the professor asks.

“Yes.” I clear my throat and read the poem.

““Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.”

“Excellent,” he says. “Elaborate, please, on the meaning.”

Oh.

Several long moments go by, and a few students turn to look at me.

But he doesn’t look.

He stares down at his notebook, pen twirling through his fingers.

Professor Goldberg gives up on me and looks around the room. “Initial thoughts, anyone? What is this poem about?”

“The poem is about a bird,” Sorority Girl says.

The professor lifts an eyebrow. “Indeed. Just a bird?”

There’s a rumble of chuckles.

“Hope is the bird,” I say. “The bird is a metaphor for hope.”

“Nice, but tell me more.” He scans the rows of students. “What does it mean? Come on, give me the good stuff, kids.”

Z stares down at his desk, and something shifts inside me, my anger turning to sadness. He’s in a dark place, and haven’t I always known it?

It’s part of why I was drawn to him…

I still want him.

I overhear Sorority Girl whispering to the girl next to her about Z and how he freaked out at the game. They’re wondering if he’ll be able to take the ice at the next one.

My chest rises.

We are over. We are—but I still want to protect him. I want him to live out his dreams. I want him to have hope.

I get the professor’s attention and he turns to me. “Yes?”

“The central idea of the poem is hope. Everything might be falling apart, but hope never stops. It’s there when you just can’t get calculus or when you didn’t get into law school. It’s there when darkness is inside you.” I stop, my voice verging on cracking, emotion threatening. I swallow. “Hope is there when you can’t figure out the fucking answers.”

Professor Goldberg gives me an approving nod. “Your participation point just went up a letter grade, Miss Ryan. I’ll forgive the profanity.”

I settle back in my seat. My heart feels like a block of cement is sitting on it. Hope for the future is what sustains a person, not guilt or regrets, and I want him to see that. He mentioned that his mom gave him the necklace for hope, but what if he’s lost so much that— Stop. You can’t help him.

Class ends a few minutes later and I take my time leaving, moving slowly and giving him enough time to get out into the hall and down the steps. I don’t want to come face-to-face with him. I’m not sure what would happen. I might break down, might beg him— “Hey, I’m sorry about being a dick,” says a male voice behind me, and it’s the guy who was talking about Z. He slides up next to me and sticks his hand out. His hair is a rich brown, his eyes a brilliant blue, and he’s wearing an HU football practice shirt. Another athlete. “I’m Dallas, wide receiver for the Lions. Been sitting in the row with you all semester. I’m a big hockey fan, and maybe that’s why I spoke out of turn. Just want them to go all the way, you know?”

He’s tall with a charming smile that’s open and honest, and it’s hard not to soften. I pause and then finally take his hand. His grip is firm and light, his gaze appreciative as he takes in my skinny jeans, tight black fuzzy sweater, flats, and hair, which is down and around my shoulders. I’m wearing more makeup than usual these days too, covering up the dark circles under my eyes.