Bring Down the Stars (Beautiful Hearts Duet #1)(20)
Bullseye.
Weston
“Goddamn,” Connor grumbled as he came out of his bedroom in flannel pants and an undershirt the following Friday morning. He tossed his cell phone onto the designer couch his parents had bought us. “It’s too damn early in the morning for their bullshit.”
I looked up from where I knelt by the front door, tying my running shoes. “Whose bullshit?”
Connor yawned, scrubbed his hands through his dark hair. “Dear Mom and Dad have decided that they want monthly reports on how I’m doing in my Econ classes.”
“What for?” I tied my other shoe, then bounced up and down on the balls of my feet to warm up.
“To make sure I’m not fucking it up. What else?” Connor yawned again and squinted tiredly at me. “Christ, Wes, it’s not even light out.”
“Ten miles, rain or shine,” I said.
“I know, but I’m usually not awake to witness it. I’m exhausted just looking at you.”
“I think jealous is the word…”
He snorted a laugh. “Seriously, though. I’m screwed. I suck at math.”
I leaned on the console table near the door, arms crossed, giving him my full attention. “Exactly what did they say?”
“They said I needed to demonstrate responsibility. And to prove that I can apply what I learn in Econ, and that I didn’t choose it as my major only because you did.”
“Busted.”
He laughed. “Shut up.”
“So do the work,” I said. “When you’ve got the degree, you’ll be able to use it to run your sports bar.”
Connor’s normally mega-watt smile was bitter. “On top of that little ultimatum, they gave me an earful about how Jefferson’s going to graduate Harvard with honors. As if I’d forgotten that since the last time they told me. And he’s dating some socialite from Connecticut. Looks like they’ll probably get engaged.”
“Poor bastard.”
My gut told me Connor would be better off without his parents’ money. I was grateful for all the times they bailed my mom out of trouble, and Connor and I lived like goddamn kings in the off-campus apartment the Drakes paid for. But it all felt like unpaid debt.
I moved to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to stay at Amherst?”
“Of course I do,” he said, his grin returning. “You’d be lost without me.”
I smirked. “Do your best. I’ll help you out if you need it.”
“Just like old times?” he asked. “Except not as many papers to write.”
“True. But I’m pretty good at math.”
“You’re pretty good at everything.”
“No argument there.” I went to the door.
“Hey, Wes?”
I turned. “Yep.”
“Thanks.”
A smartass remark was on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it down. My best friend slouched on the couch, pressed down by the weight of his parents’ expectations.
“No problem, man,” I said.
“Enjoy your torture.” Connor stretched out on the couch, slung his arm over his eyes. “Which reminds me, I hope Autumn shows up at your meet tomorrow.”
My hand gripped the doorknob. “Oh. Right.”
Connor’s worry melted away into a sleepy smile. “Can’t stop thinking about that girl.”
Take a number.
Without another word, I stepped out into a chilly September morning. The dawn was just beginning to glow in the east. I shivered a little in my black long-sleeve shirt and fitted running shorts that came down to my knees. The coppery sunlight spread as I started my run along the outskirts of the campus.
Running was like meditation. It cleared my mind and burned through some of the anger and pain that still haunted me. If I wasn’t in the mood for music, I paced myself with a mantra:
Fuck him.
Forget him.
He’s gone.
But since meeting Autumn, my feet hit the pavement to a new chant while the streets slipped underneath me.
Get over it.
Forget her.
Move on.
It made no fucking sense that I couldn’t stop thinking about this girl. Amherst was filled with smart, pretty women, many of whom I’d known in the Biblical sense. Yet Autumn Caldwell’s beautiful smile and sweetness suffused my every waking moment. Something good and whole in her spoke to something rotted and broken in me.
Get over it.
Forget her.
Move on.
I blended the words into the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement. Slipped them between the huffing of my breath.
It didn’t work that day. Autumn Caldwell was alive in my thoughts and I couldn’t run away from her.
Later that afternoon, I sat in my favorite course: Poetry, Essay, and Lyrical Writing. I hid behind my Econ major with an English Lit minor, where I could take the classes I truly cared about.
At the end of his lesson on form, Professor Ondiwuje assigned us a poem.
“Object of Devotion,” he said from the front of the lecture hall. He was in his mid-thirties, with smooth, dark skin and eyes that were sharp with intelligence and observation. Dreadlocks spilled over the lapels of his gray suit.