Breakable (Contours of the Heart, #2)(46)

‘I noticed.’ Her voice was soft for such a smart-ass retort, candid curiosity in her steady gaze.

I asked for her number in return, and she asked if I needed help in economics. I almost choked, strung out between a now-familiar guilt trip and amusement at the absurd corner I’d backed myself into. Do you need help in economics? I asked why she’d think that, wondering, for two heartbeats, if she knew and was screwing with me.

If so, I completely deserved it.

‘I guess it’s not my business,’ she said, miffed.

I needed to move the conversation away from this line of thought. I leaned closer and told her the honest truth – that my wanting her number had nothing to do with economics.

She picked up her phone and sent me a text: Hi.

Her classmate walked up, wanting his seat. (Benjamin Teague, according to the role sheet. I’d checked his campus address, schedule, grades and any possible disciplinary notes – there were none. He seemed harmless, his fondness for bro T-shirts aside, and he made her laugh – both a point in his favour and a reason I sort of wanted to clock him cold.)

I surrendered the seat, holding back a jackass-level grin. She hadn’t called me … but she had programmed my number into her phone.

And now she’d given me hers.

Towards the end of class, I glanced up to find her watching me – a first. I hadn’t paid enough attention to the lecture, because I’d been immersed in devising and sketching alternative tissue-engineering designs for Dr Aziz’s research project next semester. Nothing but thoughts of Jacqueline could break through my excitement after getting his email yesterday, telling me I’d been accepted. I would be working with two of the university’s top engineering faculty members, and my final semester of tuition would be paid by the project’s grant. I would still tutor for Heller and work the occasional parking-enforcement shift, but I could quit the coffee shop, which currently sucked up fifteen hours of my week.

For the seconds Jacqueline and I stared at each other, Heller’s voice receded and everyone else in the room disappeared. I couldn’t return to Aziz’s project, or recall the mass of ideas swirling through my brain one minute ago. My past evaporated. My future plans blurred. Every cell in my body was aware of her, and her only.

I knew I could be careful with her. Her trust would be hard-won, because she was afraid of being hurt again, but I could win it. I knew, from these few seconds of staring and from the one time I’d held her that she would respond to me, under me. That I could coax her body to levels of pleasure she couldn’t possibly have received from her narcissistic ex, regardless how long they’d been together.

And then I couldn’t offer her anything more. At the end of this year – mere months away – I intended to take a job somewhere far away. To escape this state, and my father. To build a career and a life for myself, with no emotional entanglements. Not for a long time, if ever.

I wanted this girl, but I wasn’t going to fall in love with her.

She deserved someone’s whole heart. She deserved someone honest and loyal.

And I was not that man, no matter how much I wanted to be.

Landon,

We’re making steak fajitas tomorrow night – come if you’re free. Also, I’m giving a quiz over CPI first thing Friday morning, in case you want to work that into your Thursday worksheet. The quiz should take fifteen or twenty minutes of class, so feel free to grab a cup of coffee first and come in late.

CH



Jacqueline and I hadn’t gone over CPI, so as soon as I created the worksheet, I emailed it to her. I also questioned her interpretation of meant-to-be as it related to her decision to follow Kennedy Moore to college: Can you prove you’d be better off somewhere else?

I asked her major, wondering if she’d given up music altogether, hoping she hadn’t.

Her answer, music education, was a relief, but she lamented the thought of teaching, as if that would prevent her from performing. I couldn’t see the correlation. Woe to anyone who tried to tell Heller he wasn’t doing economics because he was teaching it. They’d get an earful about how he conducted research for respected peer journals, stayed current on global economic events, and participated in influential economic conferences.

I added a stern postscript ordering her to do the worksheet before Friday.

She emailed me back and called me a slave driver.

I closed my laptop and went for a run, but it didn’t lessen the uncontrollable effect of her impertinent little replies. I paced the apartment for half an hour before grabbing my phone and pulling up her number. Shoving all misgivings aside, I sent her a text: Hi. :)

She answered in kind. I asked what she was doing, and commented on her quick disappearance at the end of class. I told her to come by the Starbucks Friday afternoon, when it was usually dead, adding, Americano, on the house?

She agreed to come, and I had a moment of exhilaration followed by the desire to beat myself into a bloody pulp.

‘Why did you just sit there and let me do that?’ I asked Francis.

He supplied a steady feline stare.

‘You could have at least attempted to stop me.’

He licked a paw, ran it over his face, and stared again.

‘Is this how schizophrenia begins? First, talking to a girl as two different guys, and then talking to my cat. This is a new low.’

‘Meee-ow,’ he answered, tucking himself into a circle.