All my professors wanted to give out big projects and final assignments and tests this week. It gave me very little time to apply for grants and scholarships, but I still knocked out about half the list. It took me days to complete since I only had a stolen hour or two every night. Even when I get into bed, I’m not sleeping; I’m scrolling social media, looking for photos from the ATZ party. For photos of Sexy Shakespeare. Nothing’s turned up, though. No pictures of guys in masks with sandy-blond hair.
It’s tempting to give up, free up some brain space, but,goddammit, I want to kiss him again.
Professor Campbell finishes her explanations and passes over release forms for when the students arrive. Then she leads me and Mac back into the lobby and disappears.
An uncomfortable silence spreads through the room like lava. I’m not sure where to look, but my eyes keep landing on Mac. The beige walls don’t hold my interest. Or his—he’s typing on his phone, the ghost of a smile on his lips. From this angle I can see his nose is a little crooked. Maybe a sports injury? He did play a sport, I think. I vaguely remember him wearing jerseys freshman and sophomore year. Crooked nose and all, Mac is undeniably handsome. His skin is sun-kissed, and his hair is messy in the kind of way that makes me want to run my fingers through it and smooth it down.
Whoa.Why the hell am I thinking about running my fingers through Mac’s hair? Maybe Jade is right. I do need to get laid.
Remember how annoying he is, Jessie. He can’t be attractive and annoying.
He can be, actually. And he is.
“Did you volunteer for this?” I ask, crossing my arms. Maybe if he says something annoying I’ll stop thinking of him…like that.
“Sure did,” he says, glancing up. His smile widens, taking over his face, and I dig my fingernails into my arms. That smug smile drives me nuts.
“For your résumé?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“Well, it does look good on a résumé, but I’m interested in Sara’s work around self-compassion. Did you volunteer?”
“She asked me to be on the project,” I say, straightening a little.
“Nice,” he says. His face reads impressed, but it’s never that simple with Mac. “Did you get your grade from that psychology quiz on Friday?”
I did, as Professor Campbell emailed them out earlier today. I didn’t do well, though, given the stress of my life right now. Leave it to Mac to know exactly when to ask about something like this.
“Yes,” I say, squinting as if to ask, “What’s your point?”
“I got a ninety-nine. What did you get?”
“A ninety-seven,” I mumble, and he raises his eyebrows at me, his face radiating superiority. It boils my blood, and I clench my teeth, pinching my lips together.
I would make another comment, but a student arrives for the experiment and Mac gets up to hand them a form. After that, more students trickle in, and we have to hand out and collect release forms while my blood boils the whole time. I’m practically lightheaded from the anger. I direct the students into the experiment room, a fake smile plastered on my face, and when everyone on the sign-up list has arrived, Mac and I take our places in the observing room.
Professor Campbell walks in and starts the experiment. She asks everyone to draw a self-portrait and gives them time to do so. After this she’ll collect the portraits and pass out a short quiz with math and vocabulary questions.
The quiz is hard—I looked at it myself. The math is advanced, and even I don’t recognize a lot of the words in the questions for the vocabulary portion. Sara will pass it out without saying much, just letting them know they have five minutes to complete as much as they can. She’ll start a timer and let them go.
The sessions are being recorded, so we don’t really have to watch, but I pretend it’s the most riveting thing ever. I need to cool down, but Mac’s grade on the psychology quiz still feels sour in the back of my throat. The air in the observation room is absolutely stifling. I wish we could prop open a door or something because I’m too warm. I remove my cardigan, but it doesn’t help. It’s not the temperature; it’s sharing the space with someone who annoys the ever-living hell out of me. If the silence between us in the lobby was uncomfortable, this is downright torture.
I fiddle with the ends of my hair and bounce my leg, but it does nothing to dispel my frustration. I steal a glance at Mac, but he looks perfectly content.
Of course he does.Ugh.
“Did you do the statistics homework yet?” he asks, cutting through the silence.
This is the other class we share this year besides social psychology. I’m not doing as well in there as I am in psychology, which means his grade is no doubt higher than mine.Is that why he’s bringing this up?
“I did.” I lean forward in my chair, trying to show I’m more interested in observing the experiment than chatting with him. Especially if he’s just in the mood to compete. Normally, I am too, but I feel like I might snap at any moment, and I try not to snap at people I barely know.
“It was kind of hard, wasn’t it?” he asks.
“I guess…?”
“Do you like statistics?”
What the hell?
