Bring Down the Stars (Beautiful Hearts Duet #1)(74)

Right. And ruin Connor in front of everyone. No dice, Sock Boy.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” she asked, her eyes on the grounds.

“What is?”

“This graduation ceremony. We’re celebrating that you’re back, and trained enough to go away again.” Her hazel eyes were crushed emeralds and gold over chocolate brown. “Two weeks. It’s so short.”

I opened my mouth to ask her how she was. Or how her father and the farm were doing. But that black hole in my gut sucked all my words away.

Or maybe I’d given them all to her already.

“Feels like everything is slipping away so fast,” she said. She glanced up at me. “You didn’t have to do this. You did it for him.”

“I did it for me too. To pay for college.”

Autumn shook her head. “You could’ve found another way. But you stuck by him.”

“He’s my best friend.”

I’d die for him.

She craned up on her toes and kissed my cheek. Cinnamon and the softness of her lips suffused me. “Most definitely not an asshole, Weston Turner.”

No, just a liar and a fraud who loves you.





Two days later, we were back at Amherst. I dropped my bags in our apartment, traded my uniform for running clothes and took off while Connor made a pit stop at Autumn’s place. I didn’t want to think about how they were celebrating our homecoming, but my imagination helpfully offered scenario after scenario; her dress being torn off, buttons clattering, kisses that were full of moans, and his hands on her body, touching her everywhere…

I ran up Pleasant Drive, toward the Amherst campus, pushing myself faster and faster, until—mercifully—the visions of my imagination burnt up. Thanks to Basic, I was in the best shape of my life. Olympic level-speed and fitness. I didn’t need a stopwatch to tell me I’d destroy all of my old times in every race, if I had the chance.

But that door was closed. I’d shut and locked it, and handed the key to the United States Army.

Sir Sly’s “&Run” played in my earbuds.

Heavy as the setting sun…

The sun sank in a cold, leaden sky as I ran along paths that wound through the green expanses of grass between buildings. Frost bearded the lawns, turning them silver, and my breath puffed in front of me like a locomotive. I sped past students on their way to class, hunched into their coats. I didn’t recognize any faces, since I never bothered to make friends. Except for Matt Decker. And Connor. I never needed more.

I count all the numbers between zero and one…

At the Creative Arts Building, I shut off the music and leaned against the wall to catch my breath. I was hardly winded, but my lungs ached with scratchy regret. I’d chosen this path, and now I was so far down it, I couldn’t turn back. My throat and chest burned with the realization that the path I’d been on, the one I questioned and sidestepped and denied for years, was where I belonged all along.

I didn’t expect Professor Ondiwuje to be around. Maybe he was teaching a class, or maybe he’d taken the semester off for sabbatical. I knocked on his office door anyway.

“Come in.”

I took off my knit cap and opened the door.

“Weston Turner,” he said, leaning back in his chair, a smile breaking over his face. “Or is it Private Turner, now?”

“Wes is fine,” I said. “Though I’ve been known to answer to Einstein, maggot, and shit stain.”

Professor O laughed. “Boot Camp must be exactly as I imagine it.”

“The movies make it look easy.”

“But you persevered. Please. Have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.” I sat stiffly, my cap in my hands.

“When do you ship out?”

“Next week. To Fort Benning. Military Occupational Specialty training.”

“What division?”

“11B, Infantrymen. My drill sergeant said they’re the backbone of the Army.”

The professor nodded. “Infantry bears the heaviest burdens of war.”

I smiled faintly, imagining myself on a dust-choked road in unbearable heat, fighting a regime that gassed its own people. But I couldn’t see beyond the flight with our unit that would take us to Fort Benning, never mind Qatar.

Professor Ondiwuje folded his hands on his desk. His dreadlocks brushed the collar of his navy blue suit. Like Autumn, he was always dressed impeccably. His brown eyes met mine warmly, eyebrows raised.

“The last I heard from you was news of your enlistment and putting your education on hold,” he said.

“Had to. Got called up a little faster than anticipated.”

“I’d say so.” The professor wore a thin-lipped smile. “You never turned in your last assignment, the Object of Devotion poem. I was looking forward to reading it.”

“My circumstances changed, sir.”

“Quite drastically,” he said. “And I’m not sir. I’m not your commanding officer, only a poet. Like you.”

“I’m not a poet,” I said. “Not anymore.”

“That’s the worst tragedy I’ve heard all year. Did you never even start my assignment?”

“I started it and can’t stop. I’ve been writing it since you assigned it. Stanza after stanza, crossing them out, erasing them, starting over, again and again and again. I could write it forever.”