Beg You to Trust Me (Lindon U #2)(11)

But the three-hour film class only happens once every Wednesday night, and the young, thirty-something professor—from NYU as he so humbly announced the first day—made it clear that he didn’t tolerate anyone skipping even one class. He excused one absence with some sort of note, but after that he deducted points from our final grades. And even though Pearce could have easily gotten me out of this class thanks to our team’s winning streak as of late, I didn’t feel like granting the douche who teaches it the satisfaction. He made it clear he didn’t like me, or any jocks, early on and wouldn’t let us off the hook because we won the school trophies for their case.

Clearly, the dude had his head stuffed in one too many toilets by athletes in his day.

When I finally arrive at Fitzelle and drag my sorry ass to the theater that, thankfully, is on the first floor, I don’t bother taking the many sets of steps down to my usual seat up front but rather drop into the one closest to the doors in the last row.

No way are my legs going to take me back up the small incline to leave when the time comes. And I don’t feel like being death glared at by Mr. NYU if I fall asleep, which is a high probability. I look forward to this class, especially knowing we’re watching The Big Lebowski tonight, but already know I don’t have the energy to keep my eyes open past the first forty-five minutes that consists of him lecturing on film techniques.

I almost don’t notice that there’s somebody else a few seats down from me until something heavy thuds against the cement floor in between the rows of layered seating. My eyes move toward the girl whose light eyes look bugged out as soon as they meet mine.

The brunette from the bakery.

What are the odds?

“Didn’t know you were in this class,” I remark, suddenly a little more awake.

She only stares, her blue eyes humorously cartoon-like as she gapes at me.

“What’s your name?” I ask, studying her curiously as more people fill the room. It shouldn’t surprise me that I haven’t noticed her until now. The seat she’s in seems strategically picked, probably the one she’s been in since the first day. I’m usually one of the first people here and always head toward the second row in the front where me and a few buddies of mine chill.

Still, my new seat neighbor remains silent, but that doesn’t stop me. “I’m DJ. Sorry about the other day. Didn’t mean to freak you out at Bea’s.”

Her fingers grip the armrests until they turn white, and I wonder if she’s going to try running. Except, she can’t. Not easily, anyway, since I’m right in her way. Unless she vaults over the chair, which would be epic to see.

“You mute or something?” Ma would smack me upside the head if she heard me ask anyone that. We have a deaf-mute neighbor, Craig. I was six when I asked him why he always made weird signs with his hands instead of just talking and I think my mother about murdered me. Thankfully, Craig didn’t seem to mind. He and Ma are still friends, and he even plays card games with Grandma Meadow once in a while.

I sigh when she gives me nothing except that deer in the headlights look. Even freaked, she’s still cute in a girl next door kind of way. Doe-eyed and soft-faced. “Listen, I didn’t mean to wig you out at the bakery. I just wanted to say hi. Introduce myself. You know, properly, since we didn’t at the football house.”

Her face drains of color.

“I’ll admit, I was going to give you my number,” I continue, probably hopelessly, “but I don’t do the double dipping thing. It’s not my style. Told myself a long time ago that I was done with that shit. So…”

Once the words are out, I realize what a douchebag I sound like. Christ, I used to have manners. She didn’t need to know that I wasn’t going to dip my wick in something one of my teammates already did. If I were smart, I would have left that go unsaid, but now I sound like motherfucking Wallace.

I groan internally and swipe a hand down my face when she sputters out, “W-What?”

So, she does talk. “That was a dick thing to say. Sorry. You’re acting all weird on me and it sort of just came out. My ma says I need to work on my filter. Most people who know me say that, actually.” I offer a limp, apologetic shrug. “I don’t mean anything bad by it, by the way. We’ve all been there. Party hookups, I mean. I definitely had my fair share over the past couple of years. And back in Boston? Yeah, pretty sure Ma was worried I’d knock someone up.”

When she bends down and grabs her things from the floor, she quickly stands. “I need to go.”

My brows pinch. “What? But the movie is—”

“Let me through.” Her words are rushed, choked, and she looks like she’s ready to bulldoze past my legs come hell or high water. It’s the only reason why I stand and watch as she very carefully, and quickly, passes me while making sure not a single piece of us touches.

The hell? I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. I was only trying to be honest. “You’re going to miss the film,” I point out stupidly as she pushes open one of the double sets of doors.

When I see her retreating back disappear, for a third fucking time, I drop down into my seat and hear it groan under the sudden weight.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself.

I was getting real sick of her running.

Should have just skipped class.