Page 66 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

My brow puzzles for a second, then I realize.

“Stella . . . she didn’t go abroad?” And now my chest hurts in sympathy. Not that it didn’t before, but now it’s pure sympathy. And I feel like a dick for even thinking any of this was about me. That she wanted to break up, or trade me in for Dalton.

“Nope. I checked. And while her name was on the welcome page for the website, she never registered. I called, and they said she withdrew a few days before the program’s start. It was too late for them to offer the scholarship to a replacement, and I was second on the list.”

“Oh, Rach,” I say, reaching up to touch her cheek. She covers my palm with hers and holds me to her. Her eyes are red, and I can tell she’s been crying.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “You feel like she stole your shot, and then wasted it.”

She nods, then drops her gaze to her lap, her hands moving back to their comfort zone, just under her thighs.

“I’m so mad at her. Not over Dalton, but over a trip to Germany,” she laughs out. Her gaze shifts up, and her crooked smile is a window back into my girl. She’s working through this.

“If you had gone?—”

“I know,” she finishes my thought.

Neither of us speaks, but we stare into each other’s eyes for several quiet seconds. We know what we both meant. If she had gone, we wouldn’t have gotten to know one another. She wouldn’t have been here to rescue me in chemistry. We might not have ever truly met. We wouldn’t have fallen in love.

“Do you regret it?” I ask, sucking in my bottom lip and holding my breath.

She shakes her head with little pause, and my chest cracks open with relief. It’s temporary, though, because I have a new question. One that I suspect has just as easy an answer, but I’ll only know if I ask.

“When were you going to tell me about the pool to win money by bringing me to a ball?” It sounds convoluted saying it out loud, so much so that Rachel flutters her eyes closed with a laugh that borders on absurdity.

“I didn’t plan on it . . . since I never entered.” She covers her face with flexed fingers and peers at me through the space between the middle and index.

No longer needing a physical barrier, I stand and swivel my chair around, then take her hand as I sit again, pulling her onto my lap. I cradle her into me, kissing the top of her head and feeling like the luckiest asshat on the planet.

I hold her in silence for nearly a minute. Eventually, she begins to tell me about the various issues she’s been running into on her project. I understand none of it, but I love listening to her talk about her work. She’s passionate about chemistry, and when she talks about chemical communication—whatever the hell that is—her eyes literally twinkle. I’m not sure what reaction in her body makes that happen, but it’s a phenomenon strictly unique to her.

After taking up nearly an hour of time she should probably be figuring out all of those issues she attempted to explain to me, I stand and kiss her goodbye . . . for now. I halt just inside the doorway, though, deciding to work out one last hiccup.

“Since there’s not really a financial reason to go to the ball, and since Dalton isn’t as big of a concern as I originally may have thought, how upset would you be if I . . . maybe . . . went to an endorsement dinner instead?” I smile through my teeth, my molars clenching while I silently hope I didn’t overstep any assumptions.

Her sharp intake of air worries me.

“Or, I can go. It’s fine.”

She holds a hand up and stares just to my side for a moment.

“It’s . . . it’s nothing, honestly. That’s fine. Please. Endorsements sound big. And I know you love dinner.”

I narrow my gaze and shift to look at her sideways.

“I do love dinner, but . . .”

She exhales, her shoulders dropping.

“I’m getting an award for student of the year. It’s not really that big of a deal. And I’ll just get my award then come home. It’s before the ball anyhow. And you know how little I like the idea of hobnobbing with hors d’oeuvres being bandied about.”

I shake my head.

“No, student of the year is a big deal.” I immediately consider ways I can squeeze in both obligations, but Rachel steps up and twists the string on my hoodie around her finger before flitting her gaze up to mine.

“It’s a big deal that I will celebrate with you later. I promise.”

I take her on her word. But I also think she’s underselling herself. Rachel is bound for greatness. And missing her big night feels like I might just miss out on her beginning.

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