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I ignore him and glance up. “Is this because of your punching thingy?”
He gives me a flat look. “Punching thingy.”
I shake my head. “Your heavy bag, whatever. Is it because of that? Is that why your knuckles look all swollen and torn?”
His jaw that was dipped and relaxed before has now inched up and hardened a little. “You only have an hour to finish your ten pages. If you can’t, the pages roll over to the next day.”
Maybe I should be worried about this new rule, pages rolling over. But I’m not, and pressing a hand to my chest, I lean even further in my chair. “Oh my God, does this happen every time you punch that thing?”
No answer is forthcoming from him.
Or that’s what I think until his fingers flex around the pen again and he clips, “No.”
“So then what happened?
His face has a resigned look on it, like he knows I won’t let it go until he answers. So he does. “Just went a little harder on it.”
“Why?” I ask, exasperated.
I’m not sure why I care to be honest.
But his knuckles really look awful. They must hurt like a bitch too. And I just have to know.
“It’s just a workout. It happens.”
I study his face then.
For a second I think something lurks behind his tightened features. Something dark and troubled, but I can’t be sure. Because it’s so subtle and quick, that something. Here one second and gone the next, leaving his beautiful face blank.
“It happens,” I repeat suspiciously.
He doesn’t like my suspicion and it’s obvious in his tone. “Yes.”
Why don’t I believe him?
Why do I feel like there’s more?
And again, why do I even care if there’s more?
But wait a second, I’m supposed to care. I’m supposed to act like it at least.
That’s the whole point, right?
This is how I gain his trust. This is how I get him to spill all his secrets to me.
By caring. By being friendly and nice.
“Well in case you didn’t know,” I say with raised eyebrows, “there are other ways of working out. Ways that aren’t this…” I glance down at his hand again that’s still clutching the pen before looking up. “Painful and injurious.”
His eyes rove over my face. “I’ll make a note of that.”
Then he goes back to his reading.
I don’t, however.
I keep staring at him. “Why do you do it?”
He resumes writing on the notepad, his strokes fast and efficient like before. But I don’t get deterred.
“You know, the whole punching thing,” I add.
He flips a page of his book.
“I’ve actually always wondered about that,” I keep going, setting my own pen down. “Your whole punching hobby. Like, it doesn’t make sense, right? I mean, on the one hand you have your books. You have two PhDs. In history and art history. Like, how interesting does history have to be, for someone to get two PhDs in it? It’s… incredible. And then…” I pause as he flips another page, his pen at rest for the moment as he reads, his eyelids flickering. “You have your heavy bag. Which you occasionally hit so hard that your hand looks like that. Like someone ran it over with a truck or something. So how does it all go together? Books and violence.”
I wait for him to say something.
Although I don’t think he will because in the middle of my whole monologue back there, he’d started to write. His pen had started to move, noting things down, his eyes swinging back and forth between his book and his notebook.
But I’m nothing if not persistent.
So I forge ahead. “Okay, tell me the truth: you have issues, don’t you?” I squint my eyes at him; a few strands of his dark hair have fallen on his forehead. “Like, major issues. You have to. To do something like that. Not to mention, I have never seen you laugh. Like ever. And I’ve known you for four years. Unfortunately. I mean, forget laughing. You never even smile. What’s up with that? What’s up with Mr. Marshall?”
Exactly.
What is up with him?
Why is he so serious all the time? So intimidating and grave.
I gasp, stabbing a finger at him. “Is it because you’re a professor? And you think that no one will mess with you if you’re scary all the time? No student will ask you to bump up their grades. Or give them an extension on their homework assignment.”
No reaction from him whatsoever.
If anything, he looks even more engrossed in whatever he’s reading. There’s a light frown between his brows and his other hand, the one sporting the silver ring — which also looks dark and busted; so much so that his ring gleams even more today — reaches up and he scratches his scruffy jaw with his thumb.
My throat grows dry for a second. At the sexy gesture.
