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Victor hung back again to talk to his brother. “—this Friday. Luna will be there.”
“What? I’ll be where?”
“Dinner with my parents this Friday,” Victor replied to me, but spoke to Adonis. “She’ll be there too.”
Adonis flicked to me and looked away just as quick. “Why would her presence tempt me into going?”
“Because we’ll have a guest. Mom and Dad will be on their best behavior. You know it’s uncouth to air your dirty laundry before an audience,” Victor said in a high, snooty voice.
Adonis and I snorted. If that was an impression of his mother, it was perfect.
“Come on, Don. At least come to get to know my fiancée.” Victor snaked an arm around me, snapping me to his side. “In a year, we’ll all be family. No matter what anyone says.”
“Well, Miss Sinclair?” Dark curls hung over unreadable eyes. “Would you like me to attend, so we can get to know each other?”
Why does this feel like a trap?
“Yes,” I finally said. “That would be nice.”
“Then, I’ll be there—provided we can all be civil.”
“Good.” Victor dropped his arm, my usefulness over. “I’ll tell Cook to make your favorite.”
He left, leaving me and Professor Anthony alone. As soon as the door swung shut, I slapped my paper on his desk. “Professor, I’d like to discuss your comments on my paper.”
“Of course, you would,” he breezed. “Because the wise thing to do is stroll in ten minutes late, then hold me back ten minutes to argue you know more than me.”
“Exactly.”
He flashed me a look through his lashes, though I could almost swear amusement played on his lips. “I can save you the trouble: my comments stand. Prove me wrong by doing better on this week’s paper.”
“How can I? You say you want open, so I give you open. You ask for vulnerability, I rip open the deepest wounds of my childhood and spill them on the page. I talked about the pain of not knowing my father and the other half of me, but that it’s taught me to cherish the family I’ve got.”
He pulled a face, gazing up at the ceiling. “Now, where have I heard that— Oh, yes. In every greeting card ever made.”
“See, this is the not nice thing we were talking about.”
I didn’t mistake his expression that time. He was definitely amused with me.
“It’s not my job to be nice, likable, or everybody’s buddy, Miss Sinclair. It’s my job to push you to your highest potential. This”—he dangled my paper in front of me—“is not it. Don’t argue with all this passion. Write it. Prove you’ve got something real to say.” He snapped his briefcase shut and headed for the door. “See you Friday. Oh, heads up, my mother prefers semiformal attire at dinner.”
“I know what she prefers,” I snapped at the closing door. “Ugh. Great comeback, Sinclair.”
Snatching up my paper, I stuffed it in my bag, mind turning to that week’s assignment.
Discuss a book, essay, or work of fiction that’s had a significant effect on society.
Seemed like an easy, researchable question, but I knew whatever book or essay I picked would tell more about me than it did about the effect on society. I could choose Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Beloved, or The Grapes of Wrath, and is there a single thing I could say about any of them that he wouldn’t call unoriginal? Especially since literature PhDs have been talking about these books for decades.
I have to come up with something else. Something he won’t expect. Even better, a book he’s never heard of.
I left the classroom, walking out of the building into the clear, cool morning. Cato waited for me at the bottom of the steps, flipping and clicking a lighter on and off. He took pages out of his backpack and set them on fire, watching them curl, crinkle, and burn.
Gazing past him, I spotted a security guard talking fast into his walkie, fixed on Cato.
“Nothing about this can be good,” I muttered. “Hey, Cato. We should get going right—”
A missile struck the side of my head, exploding ice-cold wetness in my hair, ear, and down my shirt. Shrieking, I whipped around as the shutter click went off. Hanson, one of the guys in my class, howled as he snapped pictures.
“Your fucking face! That was—” His eyes bugged. Turning tail, he booked it as Cato chased him, the two of them disappearing around the building—the security guard hoofing it after them.
The three of them were gone, but the people hanging around, laughing their asses off were not. Iris took over taking pictures in Hanson’s place.
I glanced at the thing he threw at me, bloodcurdling.
An iced latte.
Chapter Eight
“Where are we going?”
The next morning, I strolled by Rafael’s side, growing more confused as he led me around a part of campus that was new to me. His headphones were on, playing a hummable song going by the soft, pleasing sounds coming from his throat. But I knew he could hear me. It wasn’t that he didn’t hear enough, it was he heard too much.
