Bring Down the Stars (Beautiful Hearts Duet #1)(12)

I squirmed inside. At first glance, in her expensive-looking dress and carefully-matched cardigan, I’d pegged her as a stiff and prissy trust fund baby.

Wrong, Turner. Just sit here in your wrongness and be wrong.

“I’m on a scholarship too,” I said.

“Oh?” Her smile was tinged with relief that we were on the same team, financially speaking. “For what?”

“NCAA. Track and field,” I said. “Your double major is in…?”

“Social anthropology and political science.”

“Social anthropology,” I said. “The major of choice among all humanists.”

She rolled her eyes, the sadness replaced by a confident spark that made the gold stand out. “Going for a master’s in smartass, are we?”

“I’ve heard that once or twice.”

“I’ll bet.” Autumn tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Social anthropology is the study of modern human societies and their development. I want to have a master’s degree that focuses on a humanitarian aspect.”

“Sounds ambitious,” I said. And good, I thought. Noble. Sincere. Nothing I’d ever be accused of.

“Maybe it’s idealistic,” Autumn said, her finger trailing over the edge of her book. “Technically, the master’s degree doesn’t actually exist with that kind of narrow angle, so I’m going to create a project to submit to Harvard Grad School. Build my own degree.”

“What area of emphasis?”

“I don’t know yet. So many causes need attention. Like how population impacts global health and the environment. Or maybe disability rights. Or how racism affects people on socio-economic levels. Something like that.” She shrugged and reached for her book. “I only know I want to help.”

I only knew I didn’t want to be done talking to her.

“You were in my class this morning,” I said.

She looked up, her hazel eyes luminous. “Econ with Environmental Applications?”

I nodded.

“I didn’t see you.”

“I was in the back. You sat up front.”

“Did you like the class?”

I shrugged. “It’s required for my major.”

“You don’t sound enthusiastic about it.”

“Do I need to be?”

“If it’s going to be your life’s work, one would think you’d be at least mildly interested. Passionate, even.”

“I don’t know if it’s my life’s work. And passionate, no. Letting feelings get involved in important life decisions is a surefire way to make a mess of everything.”

My tone was turning sour. Writing should’ve been my life’s work, but I had to relegate it to a back burner. It didn’t matter how I felt about writing when I needed to help support my family. Besides, after the Sock Boy fiasco, I wasn’t in a big hurry to share anything again. Aside from classwork, I kept my personal musings in a journal and I kept that journal in a locked drawer.

Autumn crossed her arms over her chest. “You don’t think feelings are important?”

“Feelings,” I said, “are like tonsils. Mostly useless, and occasionally a source of pain and discomfort.”

She laughed. “So, what’s the alternative? Have them removed?”

“If only.”

Which, from the stunned look on her face, was exactly the wrong thing to say to a girl like Autumn Caldwell.

She sat back in her seat, arms still crossed. “Well, I think being passionate about life is exactly why we’re here. To experience life in all its facets, including the painful. Isn’t that where great art comes from? Beauty and pain?”

I nodded slowly. “I guess that’s true.”

“Beauty and pain,” she said, almost to herself. “I don’t think you can separate the two.”

“Maybe pain exists to make us appreciate the beauty,” I said.

Autumn glanced up at me, her eyes soft. Inviting me closer.

I wanted to be close to this girl, but I was counter-programmed against letting anyone in; a little souvenir from Dad abandoning us and then having my innermost thoughts on the matter splattered all over Boston. They didn’t call me the Amherst Asshole on the track for nothing. I had a literal mean streak, outrunning everyone and leaving them in my rearview.

I coughed the softness out of my voice. “Or maybe pain is just pain, and we romanticize the hell out of it to make it survivable.”

Autumn leaned back. “I like your first theory better. Then again, my roommate is always telling me I’m a hopeless romantic. Well, I was anyway.”

“Was?”

Autumn smiled sadly.

I waved my hands. “Never mind. Sorry. I’m…”

Better on paper.

Autumn heaved a sigh worthy of Juliet on her balcony and her delicate fingers toyed with her pen. “What good is romance, anyway? A bunch of pretty words don’t mean anything unless there’s something real behind them.”

The sadness in her eyes I’d seen earlier returned, and I wondered if it had a name. Some asshole who’d pissed on her sunny romantic ideals and left her with clouds and rain.

She needs someone good. Someone who’ll make her smile and laugh. A decent guy with a big heart…