Breakable (Contours of the Heart, #2)(72)

The waitress brought our drinks and a basket of assorted fried stuff. Boyce picked out a beer-battered avocado slice and dipped it into the salsa. ‘Seen Pearl lately?’

I shook my head. ‘Not in a few months. She was doing well, I think – probably applying to med schools now. You’re more likely to run into her than I am, though. There’s, like, fourteen times as many students there as there are residents here, and I know she visits her parents often.’

‘True.’ He sipped his tequila.

‘So – you’ve seen her?’

His mouth kicked up on one side. ‘A few times.’

I shook my head, smirking. ‘You two have a strange relationship, Wynn. One of these days, you’re gonna have to tell me about it.’

‘Whatever, man,’ he said, dismissing the subject of Pearl Frank. ‘Any new adventures for you? Threesomes? Orgy parties? Cougar professors sexually harassing you?’ He waggled his brows, hopeful.

I ran my teeth over the ring in my lip and shook my head, laughing. ‘You know I’m studying or working all the time.’

‘Yeah, man – your hundred and one jobs. You can’t tell me you don’t take T-and-A timeouts, just to break the monotony.’ He glanced behind us at the growing crowd. ‘You’re too damned picky or I’d suggest one or two of the girls in this bar. What about that tutor job? Any hot chicks needing supply and demand demonstrated at close range?’ I stared into my beer for one second too long, and he slapped his hand on the table and leaned closer. ‘Maxfield, you son of a –’

I put my head in my hands. ‘I’m kinda getting over something. Or trying to.’

He was quiet for about five seconds. ‘One of those students you tutor?’

Fuck me – how did he know that? But Boyce always knew. I nodded.

‘Hmm. Knowing you – and I do – that sucks ass. If it was me? I’d be all over that shit. Just as well I’ll never be anyone’s tutor. Or boss.’ He tossed back the last of his tequila and signalled the waitress for another round. ‘See, me – I need to get hired by some hot chick so I can be the one being harassed.’

In one flash, I imagined Jacqueline and me swapping positions – if she were the tutor and I were the student. If I’d been a high-school-senior bass player to her college-girl bass tutor … Every muscle in my body contracted and hardened. Goddamn, I would seduce her so fast her head would spin.

The waitress thumped our second round down and Boyce laughed and clinked his shot glass to my frosted pint glass. ‘To whatever you’re thinking, dude. That’s the look of a guy who’s gonna get him some. Anything I can do to help?’

I shook my head, startled at the intensity of that one-minute fantasy.

That’s what it was, of course. A fantasy.

Two more weeks of economics classes. Two more self-defence modules. Over.

When Boyce was driving me back last night, I caught the altered sign of the Bait & Tackle, which had added ‘Coffee & Wi-Fi’ to its name. I could imagine old Joe painting the sign extension himself – which is exactly how it looked. I thought about stopping by, signing into my campus email to see if Jacqueline had written to me. To Landon.

Once I thought about her – home alone, parents skiing, dog boarded, I couldn’t stop worrying. I reminded myself that we’d travelled in opposite directions for this break. She went four hours north while I’d meandered four hours south. If she was in trouble, there was nothing I could do about it.

If she was fine, I could relax. All I had to do was check.

But I’d left her standing in front of the language arts building three days ago, when I’d made the decision to suspend this craving, at least for the break. If I texted her now, everything would start all over. That wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

Then Caleb fell asleep on my bed after eating at least two pounds of turkey and double helpings of everything else. Dad, Charles and Cindy were all glued to a closely contended football game I couldn’t focus on at all, and Carlie whined, twice, ‘I’m so boooorrrred.’

My convictions vaporized and I volunteered to accompany Carlie on an exploratory drive around town. Her father happily surrendered the keys to his SUV. We rolled down the windows and I submitted to a pop station in exchange for stopping at the Bait & Tackle & Coffee & Wi-Fi.

‘That’s a mouthful,’ Carlie said, one brow angling with the sort of superiority only a sixteen-year-old girl can deliver. Once inside, she observed, ‘This place is like a stage set. Are they for real with these flowery chairs?’ Her opinion of the coffee: ‘Blech. It tastes like fish.’

She checked out the souvenir shelves while I signed on and encountered a dozen useless emails, but nothing from Jacqueline. Landon had no plausible excuse to write to her. There was no worksheet to send. No upcoming quiz. So I described the new-and-improved Bait & Tackle, and above my usual signature, LM, I added a casual: You’re locking and alarming your house every night, right? I don’t mean to be insulting, but you said you were going to be home alone.

I stalled for fifteen minutes, but she didn’t answer.

Carlie, all out of pithy observations on the décor, purchased a bright pink T-shirt with bait written across the chest – which her mother would probably confiscate immediately – and a snow globe containing sand-coloured ‘snow’ and a tiny replica of the original Bait & Tackle, sans coffee and Wi-Fi.