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Chapter 12
Hudson
Of course, Charlotte Howland wouldn’t remember me. The last time I saw her was in the sixth grade. We weren’t tight despite the fact I had an idiotic crush on her. My desk was behind hers in geography class, and I watched her chew on her pencil during the tests. She was pretty even back then and liked showing off. When the teacher asked a question, she’d sit up straight and raise her hand toward the ceiling. Her interest in school was social then, so it’s shocking to see how seriously she’s taking it now.
But I’m ecstatic to get a second chance at her.
“Hello, class. I’m Professor Frank Tyler. And this is freshman English.” It’s Monday morning, and at the front of the lecture hall, the teacher scribbles illegibly on the whiteboard. “This is your assignment for the next class.” He turns around to face us and looks disappointed already. I try to figure out why he’s making that face, but honestly, I really don’t care. I’m still buzzed from the weekend.
Quite a few people from my dorm are in the class—Jaxon, Asher, Charlotte, Wren, and Tracey. Last night, I figured out that most of the people in our dorm went to boarding school except Asher and me. He says he went to Rockingham High, but that’s impossible. I never saw him there, and he definitely wasn’t at graduation.
Asher sits a row behind Charlotte and keeps staring at the back of her head. She must sense him staring because she keeps running her hand over her hair. Eventually, he leans over and whispers something in her ear. Her shoulders tighten as his hand brushes her hair. His fingers pull a strand out of place.
I don’t see the two of them together, but what do I know about women and taste? Women fall for losers that make no sense to date, but there’s a tension between them that feels way off. Like she really doesn’t like him, and he resents her, but they have to put up with each other. There’s a little too much opposition to make an attraction.
They stop messing around when Wren looks over and scowls. Well, not all women like bad boys who wear ratty leather jackets that need to be fumigated. Too bad Wren’s not my type; she reminds me of my mother.
Prof. Tyler doesn’t keep us long on the first day. He spends a half hour lecturing us on the privilege and responsibility of attending college. The guy’s a presumptuous ass. I have a solid plan for being here, and it’s not to party. I’m going to network my ass off and have them invest in my start-up. I glance at Charlotte, who’s putting her hair up into a sloppy bun. Well, now I have two reasons for being here.
“I enjoy giving pop quizzes on the readings,” Tyler rocks back and forth on his heels. “And all grades count, including participation. Be prepared to read your essays aloud in class.”
Class ends, and Charlotte gets up quickly from her seat. She practically runs up the aisle, leaving her friends behind in the lecture hall. I have a thin sliver of time before Asher catches up with her. I grab my jacket and backpack and head out the door in hot pursuit. She’s almost at the end of the path when I call her name, and she stops.
I jog up to her. “Hey, Charlotte, you want to get lunch? My treat. And we need to talk.”
She looks toward the lecture hall doors as Asher walks out. His intense gaze narrows like a hawk on a dove when he sees her standing beside me. Charlotte links her arm in mine and practically drags me away.
“Okay,” she says, “but let’s go off campus.”
Hiking in New England is a must, especially in the fall when the leaves are changing colors. The fiery orange and reds against a crisp, clear sky form a kaleidoscope of color that amazes me each and every year I experience it. On the other hand, walking sucks when you have to do it everywhere. Freshmen aren’t allowed to have cars on campus; insurance reasons is the excuse. I’d have my Beamer here in a flash, but then again, I don’t mind having extra time with Charlotte.
From the corner of my eye, I watch her, and I’m surprised how she’s downplaying her wealth. Back at Stonehaven, I rarely saw her in the same outfit twice a month. Now it seems she wears the same jeans almost every day. Doesn’t matter. A pretty girl can dress in a contractor’s bag with a belt around it and still look hot.
“You really don’t remember me?” I ask her as we head down High Street.
She huffs before replying. “No, I don’t. You’re cute and everything, but I really don’t remember you. What year were you in?”
“Same as you. We went out once.”
Charlotte stops in her tracks and makes a face like I’m nuts. “We couldn’t have unless you dreamt about it.”
I grab her hand, and we turn down Fieldstone Avenue, in the direction of Oak and Ivy Bar. “Okay, so we were probably twelve.”
“A school dance?” she asks, smiling.
“Yeah, but it counted as a date because we danced twice. You even let me kiss your cheek.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t remember you, and I kissed a lot of boys at Stonehaven.”
I pull the heavy oak door open for her, and Charlotte heads toward a barstool. I catch her arm and tug her toward a booth in the back. Standing aside, I motion toward the seat, and she slides in across the high-back bench. I sit across from her, grab the menu at the end of the table, and hand it to her.
“Order what you want,” I tell her.
She doesn’t order much, just tomato soup and a green salad. I order a BLT and when I order a beer, the waitress cards me. Charlotte watches my wallet closely as I hand my driver’s license to the waitress. Her lips part as if she wants to ask the lady to show it to her.
I slip it back into my wallet as the waitress walks away to get my beer.
“How old are you?” Charlotte asks. “Really.”
