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I take a step back, and he drops my hand, folding his arms across his broad chest and leaning against the table, waiting for my reply. Smug.
I am speechless. There are no words for the embarrassment burning through my memory, my face, my neck.
When I don’t say anything, he continues. “I made friends with one of the guys.”
Ryan. My sister’s husband.
“And we got along so well that when we reconnected a few years later, he wanted to set me up with his wife’s sister.”
Oh, for a hole to swallow me. Is it not enough that I have relived my idiocy a million times since that night? That I have attempted, in all my interactions since, to bepresent, toseepeople?
No.
Noah—not a nameless first-date-gone-bad, and definitely not my semi-approachable math tutor—Noah Jennings, of the Great Shame, is relishing his victory.
“I don’t enjoy setups—no one does.” His lips curl, though there is nothing nice about this smile. “But Ryan knew me better than anyone, so I figured it couldn’t bethatbad.”
“Please, stop.” If my voice is a living thing, it is microscopic. If he hears, he doesn’t listen; he can’t help but see the pain that he’s inflicting, that he chooses to ignore.
“Little did I know,” he continues, “my ‘date’ had even less desire to be set up than I did. And when she discovered that I didn’t fit herrequirements, she didn’t bother hiding her disappointment.”
He knew about my height requirement? Had I said something to Claire? My stomach clenches.
“Yeah, I heard you,” he confirms. “Then I watched as you did your best to ignore me, as you treated everyone around you with indifference or disdain—and in the case of your sister’s friend, outright hostility.”
My sister’s friend? Ah yes. Mandy Miller. Hearing her name still triggers me, though the response now is more of sadness than aggression. I can’t help but groan as I realize whatthatexchange must have looked like from his already biased and uninformed perspective.
“I don’t think you understand—”
“Oh, I think I do.” He isn’t about to let me explain. “You were openly hostile to someone who was nothing but friendly.”
“But—”
He holds his hands up to stop my words. “When I realized it was you I had agreed to tutor,” he says, “I briefly hoped you had changed or that Ihadmisunderstood. But—in addition to not even recognizing me—you proved yourself when you showed only irritation at the inconvenience a man’sdeathhad causedyou.”
“Is that really what you think?” I say, unable to mount any better defense.
“You’ve given me no reason to think otherwise.”
My hands are fisted, my fingernails digging into my palms as I try to recall the thrill of skydiving to force angry thoughts from my head. But all I get is the sick feeling right before I jump.
I glance around, worried about how much attention we’re attracting, but everyone is too stressed about finals to notice our quiet, if heated, exchange. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bells are going off between my ears, warning me to hold my tongue, my training reminding me that words spoken in anger don’t heal.
“I know enough.” His smugness is like an earthquake to a nuclear power plant, and suddenly there is a crack in my reactor and my embarrassment vaporizes in the heat.
“How dare you! You know nothing! Nothing of Mandy, nothing of my thoughts or feelings, nothing about me at all! How dareyoujudgemewhen you have deliberately baited and laughed at me for three months!”
If anything, his smugness intensifies at my outrage, but I’m past caring now. I’ll have my say.
I step toward him. “My entire major is focused on helping others. You don’t know anything about me but what you convinced yourself to see—because I insulted your pridethree years ago!”
“Oh yeah. Yourmajor.” He laughs, ignoring my jab. “Recreation management. Do you really need a degree to go camping or run a zip line?”
My face heats at the stereotype, and before I can stop it, any semblance of containment fails and the toxicity possesses my tongue. “You know, you remind me of that Taylor Swift song,” I say.
His head tilts to one side—in that way I don’t find attractive—as he considers and throws his next barb. “What, the one where she moons over a guy that has no interest in her?”
“Hardly.” I give him a venomous smile. “The one called ‘Mean’.”
