He probably thought it was the perfect insult.
The jack apple.
Even knowing what he’s doing here—that he’s purposefully being a jerk because I hurt his feelings about the parent thing—it still pisses me off.
Not only does he know what he’s doing—being intentionally cruel—he’s also just being honest. That garbage about how people as brilliant as him shouldn’t be held to the same standards . . . I bet he actually believes that.
“Well, guess what?” I take a step closer to him. “Lily McPherson is apparently a person with asinine standards just like me. So like it or not, you need me to help you impress her and the rest of the committee.”
“Yeah, I get that.” He matches my advance, taking a step closer, too. “But so far, you haven’t done much, have you?”
“That’s because you keep fighting me, every step of the way.”
“I’m fighting you every step of the way because your suggestions are stupid. Okay, so I look like a homeless man? So what? The committee should look at my ideas, rather than my wardrobe. That’s what should matter.”
“Maybe. In a perfect world. But this isn’t a perfect world.”
“Or maybe you don’t know how to impress the McPherson committee any more than I do. Maybe your suggestions are crap because the only thing you know how to do is look good.”
I just roll my eyes as I jab a finger in his direction. “Look, you are out of options. Maybe I can help you. Maybe I can’t. But I’m tired of fighting you. If you want to play hard ball, fine. It’s on. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that the only thing worse than your clothes is your beard. So that”—I waggle my finger in the general direction of his face—“is coming off. Whether you like it or not.”
There’s only a flicker of panic on his face before he tamps it down. “You can’t make me shave my beard.”
“Watch me.”
“I like my beard.”
“Too bad. It’s off-putting.”
“Beards are popular.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “Like you would know what’s popular.”
“I have eyes,” he snaps. “I see students with beards all over campus. Ergo, they are popular.”
“Some beards, maybe. Not that one. It looks more like a bramble designed to keep knights out of Sleeping Beauty’s castle than an actual beard.”
“My beard can’t matter that much. I’ll wear whatever damn suit Rodrigo makes for me, but I’m not shaving my beard.”
I give him a cold, assessing once-over.
He has no idea who he’s messing with.
If he’d asked nicely, maybe I would have let him keep it. I would have settled for getting it trimmed. But now?
Now that he’s acting like such a jerk?
Now that beard is a line in the sand. It is the Rubicon he’d chosen to cross.
That beard js the cross I will die on.
I don’t even care if he gets the McPherson Fellowship at this point. That beard is coming off.
“Just remember,” I say to him.
