The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(101)
Beside me, a guy whose name I haven’t made the effort to learn mutters something out of the side of his mouth. It sounds like confederation. That doesn’t seem right. He coughs “confederation” again into his hand. Nervous laughter spreads across the room while my cheeks light up like twin flames.
Down in the front of the lecture bowl, Professor Clive’s lips thin. “Mr. Gavriel is saying consideration, Ms. James.” He shifts his gaze to the poor guy next to me. “Mr. Gavriel, since you know the answer, perhaps you can share the holding of the case?”
Mr. Gavriel shoots me a sympathetic look before whipping out his perfectly constructed notes and proceeding to discuss mutuality and illusory promises and other shit that I don’t have the first clue about.
I casually draw a notebook over my own chicken scratching where the ink is smeared and bleeding through the page from where I drooled on it when I fell asleep, along with a healthy dose of breast milk and baby spit.
It’s hard to hear the last of the lecture with embarrassment roaring in my eardrums, but I take copious notes in the hopes that when I review this crap later, it will all make sense.
After class is over, Professor Clive gestures for me to join him in the front of the room.
He steeples his fingers below his chin. “Ms. James, Professor Fromm shared with me your home circumstance, and while I can appreciate how difficult that must be, the standards in class are not modified due to motherhood.”
Stiffly, I reply, “I didn’t think that they would be. I apologize about today and promise that there won’t be any lapses in the future.”
“I certainly hope not, but then again, we grade on a curve and someone has to be on the bottom.”
I raise my hand to scratch my neck, not because I itch, but because of the overwhelming urge to flick him off.
“It won’t be me,” I assure him.
He peers at me for a long, uncomfortable moment before dismissing me with a slight nod. “We’ll see.”
35
Tucker
Sabrina shows up at my apartment on Friday afternoon carting enough stuff to fill an entire baby store. Ever since Jamie was born, I’ve learned I can no longer leave the house with only my wallet, phone and keys.
Nope. Just taking Jamie for a short walk requires a diaper bag overflowing with everything from baby wipes to pacifiers to the tiny stuffed duck that she screams bloody murder if you try to take away from her. Plus the stroller, her hat, extra clothes in case she spits up on herself.
And with all that gear on hand, half the time I don’t end up using more than a diaper and bottle, rendering the rest of the stuff useless.
I don’t mind, though. I love being a dad. I wish I got to see Sabrina and the baby every day, all day, but right now I only get a few full days a week and my nightly visits to Sabrina’s house. Each time I’m there, I offer to spend the night and she gently shakes her head. I think she feels uncomfortable having me around her shady stepfather, and the more I get to know Ray, the more I hate him. The bastard is rude, crude and lewd. He’s not a good dude. Yep, Dr. Seuss could write a series of adult rhyming books about that creep.
“Hey.” Sabrina pushes the stroller through the narrow front door, and I don’t miss the dark circles under her eyes.
When we spoke earlier this morning, she said she hadn’t caught a wink of sleep because Jamie woke her up every other hour. Our daughter has a voracious appetite, and I know for a fact that she loves Sabrina’s tits as much as I do, because whenever you try to bottle feed her with breast milk, it takes twice as long as when she’s on the breast.
“Hey. How’s my girl today?” I ask with a smile.
“Surprisingly chipper considering she kept me up all night.”
“I meant you, darlin’.” Rolling my eyes, I lean in to kiss her.
She’s wearing some fruity-tasting lip-gloss—strawberry, I think. And it’s so delicious that I dip my mouth for another taste. I swipe my tongue over her bottom lip and groan softly.
Fuck, I want to stand here and kiss her forever. Or even better—rip her clothes off and lose myself in her body for a week straight. But our six weeks aren’t up, and even if they were, I’m not sure Sabrina even wants sex. She’s so tired all the time, well on her way to becoming a zombie.
I don’t know how she’s managing to attend classes, get her reading done, write papers, and still be there for our daughter. It’s a testament to her strength and determination, I guess, though I wish she’d let me do more to ease her stress. Hell, even asking her to come over today, where she can study in silence while I take care of the baby, required a thirty-minute debate before she eventually caved. She’s having a tough time studying at home, with her grandmother constantly chatting her ear off about what the Kardashians are up to while Ray stumbles in and out of the kitchen to get a fresh beer.
Here, I have a roommate who works during the day, so it’s nice and quiet. Plus, I haven’t been getting much construction work lately due to a recent spate of non-stop rain, so this last week I’ve been at home, bumming around and researching various business ventures.
When a disgruntled squawk comes from the stroller, I chuckle softly.
“The little princess doesn’t like being ignored, huh?” I squat in front of the stroller and carefully undo the various snaps and buckles that are keeping Jamie secure. Then I lift her into my arms, one hand cupping her tiny butt, the other supporting her neck as I hold her up in front of me.