The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(13)

Dark brows.

Chin trembling, she offers me a wane smile, and I realize I know her; it’s the same girl who was here earlier in the week, the one who stole my study spot.

“You’re sure?” I have two sisters, so I’m kind of an expert on when girls are bluffing; this one is trying to get rid of me.

“I’m sure.”

I pull down the brim of my ball cap, tipping it in her direction.

“Well, I’m just across the way if you need anything, at the desk in the corner. Paper, pencils, body chalk for the corpse if you need an accomplice.” I give her a wide smile.

She tucks the hair behind her ears. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“All right, well, I’ll just be…” I point over my shoulder. “Give a holler.”

“Thanks.”

I meander back to my desk slowly, listening for the telltale sign of sniffles. Weeping. Sobbing.

Anything.

Despite hearing none, I have a hard time getting back to work, unable to focus, straining for noise on the other side of the room, and before I know it, I’ve wasted an entire forty-five minutes doing jack shit.

Deciding there’s no hope for it, I start packing up my crap.

“Hey.” A small voice practically whispers, interrupting.

Backpack slung over one shoulder, long hair now pulled back into a sleek ponytail, the girl bashfully approaches my table, face still red, eyes tired.

But friendly.

I bet when she’s not ugly-crying all over the library study tables, she’s actually kind of cute. Pretty.

“I’m heading out, but…I just wanted to say thanks for coming over to check on me, and, you know, being a concerned citizen and all.”

She musters up a weak smile.

“Don’t worry about it, I have sisters—I’ve been down this path a time or two.” Or a hundred, usually under duress.

When I was younger—ganglier—my sister Veronica used to sit on my chest to hold me down while she spilled her guts so she’d have someone to talk to. I had to hear all about her drama—drama with my parents, with boys, with her friends.

Her teen years were my worst nightmare.

“So are you feeling better?”

Her smile is wobbly. “I am. Much better.”

I shift on the balls of my feet, hands stuffed in the pockets of my jeans. “That’s good.”

“I’m…” she considers her words. “I’m new here this year and it’s been…a challenge meeting new people. Everyone has their friends.”

The backpack I’ve hoisted over my shoulder gets set down on the study desk.

“Yeah?” I want to ask her how it’s been challenging, but don’t want to pry. Still, it seems like she needs someone to talk to, and I have a little time to kill, so I sit back down in my chair. “How?”

She shifts, worrying her bottom lip, and I can tell she’s holding back, unsure about invading my space and taking up more of my time.

“Want to sit?” I grab a nearby chair, dragging it over as a gesture of encouragement.

“Uh…sure.” Tentatively, she closes the space between us, pulling the chair out the rest of the way. Sets her bag next to mine. “But only if it’s not a bother?”

“Nah, I have a few minutes.”

“All right.” Pause. “Is this weird? I’m so sorry my crying interrupted you before—I’m really embarrassed about that.”

“You were crying? I thought that was a herd of dying cats,”

I joke, failing to mention that her crying was less irritating than her hogging my favorite study spot.

“Haha, very funny.” She laughs, sniffling. “But also true.”

“We’ve all had our shitty days—this one was yours, I guess.”

“Yeah.” She’s quiet for a few beats. “So what was it I interrupted? What are you working on?”

“Human anatomy paper. Tedious.”

“That sounds…” her voice trails off.

“Boring? It is.”

“Boring is not at all what I was going to say! What’s your major?”

“Kinesiology.” I grab the water bottle out of my bag and take a long pull, trying to stay hydrated. “What’s yours?”

“Pre-law.”

My brows go up. “What’s your focus?”

“I’m thinking family law.”

I smile. “My dad is a lawyer.”

This news perks her up. “Really? What kind.”

“Real estate. Mergers and acquisitions.”

“Whoa, fancy.”

It kind of is. “He loves it.” I rack my brain for something new to say, blurting out, “So do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Her shoulders sag. “Not really. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Why, did you do something stupid?”

“Maybe. I don’t know—I guess time will tell.”

“Time will tell?” I ask slowly, treading lightly.

“As in, nine months from now?”

“What?” She looks horrified, the implication turning her face an unflattering shade of red. “No! No, that’s not even remotely close. God no.”