AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter 7
Caprice
The week without Ethan passesslowly, and another typically lackluster weekend crawls into Monday with sluglike constancy. The excess free time my empty calendar presented—thanks to Ivy abandoning me to “study” with Daveand another away game forKaden—eventually convinced me to spend some time reworking math problems in preparation for the next quiz. It only took me a hundred tries each to be able to work through them without referring back to Noah’s step-by-step instructions. Even with the extra practice, I’m a hot mess of nerves when I get to the cavernous lecture hall.
“Please leave at least one empty seat between yourself and others,” my professor says, her expression stern. Though she’s never asked this of us before, we all comply.
There’s a touch of anger in her voice as she continues. “Several of your classmates cheated last time, so we’ll be doing things the old-fashioned way from now on. They won’t be rejoining us. There are several versions of the quiz, so don’t bother trying to see what your neighbor is doing.” She takes a moment to level us all with a glare. “Any instance of cheating will earn that student an immediate fail. My TAs and I will be watching.” Her cheeks lift briefly in a thin smile, but only to facilitate the death rays coming from her eyes.
A bead of sweat dribbles its way down my spine, the hard plastic auditorium chair squeaking in protest as I try to get comfortable and drawing several sets of proctoring eyes. Awesome. I pull the spiral hair tie off my wrist and contain my mass of curls in a fruitless effort to restore brain function. All I can think about in the silence is hownotto appear like I’m cheating. The fact that I’m not—never intended to—matters as little as my not being a terrorist when I go through airport security; innocent or not, the angst is real.
I can barely read the stupid numbers on the page, and my handwriting looks like a five-year-old’s, but I soldier my way through the problems. It helps that several of them are structured exactly like the ones I worked over the weekend. Checking and double-checking my steps, I look for stupid mistakes like I made last time, but don’t find any. Either I’ve done well or I’m too dumb to catch my own errors. Too soon the quizzes are collected and my professor starts explaining the next concept, but the lecture flies over my addled brain.
Noah won’t be pleased.
Even the mostly sunny sky and the smell of fresh-cut grass as I walk to the golf course don’t dispel the pit in my stomach. What if I bombed again? Mechanically, I retrieve my clubs, check the whiteboard for today’s location, and head to the practice green. Did I just guarantee myself a solid fail? Hope dwindling, I’m caught off guard when Ethan looks up from helping another student and sends what feels like a flirtatious grin my way. I smile back, and he holds my gaze for several counts longer than instructorly interest would dictate. My smile deepens, and I notice my stress levels inch down a hair. It feels good to see him again.
We’re working on long rolls and hitting out of the bunkers today, and that protracted eye contact has me wishing I had him to myself. Anticipation provides a nice distraction from more serious matters, but class is half spent before he comes my way. I spot him in my peripheral vision, clipboard held to his lean chest, while I’m lining up a long putt on the green. My heart rate climbs in a much more pleasant way than it does in math, and I sink the shot.
“Looking good,” he says, obviously talking about my putt, though his tone convinces my hormones otherwise. He holds my eyes, navigating toward me without walking into anyone’s line.
I smile back, soaking up the attention while admiring his stride and debating what to say, to flirt or not to flirt. He passes close enough to brush my shoulder. The slight contact sends a flutter of awareness down my arm before he moves on to the next student, leaving me with only the slightest hint of his cologne.
Well.
It’s our only direct interaction during the whole class. My golf game has plenty of room for improvement, so his inattention leads me to believe that I imagined any romantic interest on his part. I’ve almost convinced myself, until he catches my eye as I’m leaving.
He stokes his smolder and turns his full attention to me. “See you tomorrow,” he says like he can’t wait.
So maybe not imagined?
Ethan’s mixed signals are similarly confusing on Tuesday, and it takes my entire walk from golf to math lab to squash the flutters and remind myself he isn’t really interested.
Unless he is.
A grumble of frustration escapes as I yank open the math lab door.
Noah greets me from his usual chair with a raised eyebrow. “Score?” he asks.
Deep in rumination on the caprice of men, I wonder briefly if he’s referencing my love life. “I’m not... what?” I say, buying time for my thoughts to switch from romance—or the lack thereof—to logic.
Annoyance flashes briefly in his eyes, but I find my feet before he can chew me out for not being invested in my academics or any of the other obnoxious things about me I can see swirling behind his cold front.
“Oh, the quiz,” I say. “I don’t think they’ve posted scores, but I’ll check.” This is only a tiny blurring of the truth that I haven’t yet dared to look. His finger taps a moderate tempo against the tabletop as I log in and find the newly posted pitiful score, along with an image of the graded quiz. Someone bled all over mine. To cover my disappointment I’m about to make a wisecrack about how I more than doubled my score from the last one, but that tapping finger warns me against it. I swallow a sigh and turn my screen so he can see.
“Hmm,” he says, more puzzled than disappointed. “Why is this on paper? Wasn’t the first online?”
“Some people cheated,” I answer, thankful for the aside. “She told us they wouldn’t be coming back and said she’d fail anyone else who got caught.”
His chin lifts a hair. “And how did you take that?”
“How do you think I took it? I can’t afford to fail this class just because one of her TAs thinks I’m cheating. I freaked out!”
“Ah,” he says, as if this explains everything. He taps a few more times for good measure. “Do you know any breathing exercises?”
I scoff. “Of course I do.” He knows my major. It may sayrecreation, but it’s mostly about therapy. Why would he— “Oh.”
He nods, know-it-all that he is, when he sees I’ve made the connection. Every therapist needs a therapist indeed. I just didn’t think Noah was the type to appreciate that kind of thing.
