Page 9 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“I’m sorry she did that to you. It sounds awful. I hope you were the one to break up?”

I wince and my cheeks heat up with a rush of guilt.

“She dumped you?” Rachel slaps her palms on either side of her face with shock, then moves one of them to cup her mouth, muffling her words. “I’m sorry. That came out harsh.”

I laugh it off, mostly because I’m over it. Also, I took it as a compliment. She’s right. It’s amazing that I am the one who got dumped. I was a damn good boyfriend. And Amy isn’t exactly a rocket scientist. Shit, is Rachel a rocket scientist? She might be.

“Yeah, I know. I should have seen the writing on that wall for sure. We were—are—two totally different people. But the point I’m making is this: I know that a basic science class isn’t a challenge for a lot of people. I know I’m slow when it comes to math, and it takes me a few times to get concepts. But you don’t make me feel bad about it. I know when we started today you weren’t really hip on this whole thing.”

She begins to object, shaking her head, but I wave her off and chuckle.

“Don’t pretend. It’s okay. I get it. I mean, if I was assigned to teach you football, I’d probably be just as frustrated.”

She shakes with a short, silent laugh. I like that I amuse her.

“I guess I’m saying thanks, is all. And I want you to know that you’re a nice person. A lot nicer than some people deserve. If you get what I’m saying.”

Our gazes lock for a handful of seconds, and I revel in the tightness in my chest when we stare at one another. I like tension. Some people call it butterflies, but it’s more about the rules of attraction. And about the rush of dopamine. It’s the best part of being with someone new.

“I get what you’re saying,” she finally utters, her voice caught between a whisper and her normal soft voice.

The quiet comes in again, but rather than looking me in the eyes, Rachel begins to pack up. I guess I’ve taken up a good amount of her afternoon. I still need to get to the weight room. And it’s my night to cook for my roommates, so I’ll need to pick up beef for tacos.

I gather the notes from our review sessions and fold them together in thirds to slip them in the back pocket of my jeans. Rachel catches me doing it and chuckles to herself.

“I promise I’m taking this seriously. I will get a folder for our sessions. A hole punch, even. You’ll see. I’m keeping everything, and I will have the study guide of all study guides by the time I pass this class.”

She straightens her spine and crosses her arms over her chest, her backpack weighing down her shoulders and a smug grin tugging her mouth more to one side.

“What?”

“You said ‘by the time I pass this class.’”

I blink a few times, recalling my own words, then break into a wide smile.

“You’re right. I did,” I say with a shrug. I’ve come a long way from pointless, I suppose. All in less than two hours.

I follow her to the main door and hold it open for her and her enormous backpack.

“Can I walk you home?” I gesture to her bag, a silent offer to carry it. She shakes her head.

“I’m going back to the lab.” We pause at the top of the library steps. I wonder how many hours she spends in that building. Then another thought strikes me—perhaps she’s faking it to get out of walking together.

“Right.” I nod. “Well, when should we meet again? I’m not sure what the test schedule is yet, but?—”

“Wednesday. We should meet Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

My shoulders drop when she says Friday.

“Not long on Fridays,” she’s quick to add. “And we can make that a morning session if you want. It will be review for any tests you get back. But I know the schedules for everything in your section. If you think we need more, we can add sessions in. Or if you turn into an instant chemistry genius, we can cut back.”

My head falls back and I belt out a heavy laugh.

“I doubt I’ll be signing up for a second major in chem anytime soon. If you can get me to tolerate this subject it will be a huge win.”

I drop my chin and my gaze rests on her soft lips. The hair I pushed behind her ear has come loose again and is twisting in the breeze, cutting across her face. I reach forward and put it back where it belongs, careful not to touch her face this time as I tuck it behind her ear. There’s a difference when I’m doing something for show. Right now, I just want to be nice. I want her to think of me as nice. And I want her to swallow hard, just . . . like . . . that.

“So, Wednesday,” I confirm, dropping my hands into my front pockets.

---