Page 59 of Brazen Criminals

It makes sense. But it also feels like a betrayal. I finish my granola bar and take some ibuprofen with my coffee. “I’m going to file my restraining order after class,” I say.

“Good.”

Trips pulls into one of the parking ramps—of course he paid for a parking pass. Surprisingly, he’s able to fit his beast of a truck into one spot, not cutting across multiple spots. He’d probably get the pass revoked if he parked like an asshole though, and come winter, any covered spot in the city is a hot commodity. He turns off the car and faces me. I tap my leg again, stupidly nervous that he’s staring at me,one two three four five,one two three four five. “I’ll see what I can do,” I say.

He pulls twenty dollars from his wallet. “Payment for your time. You can get a real breakfast while you work.”

I shake my head, but he gently tucks the bill into my sling. “Please. This won’t feel good.”

I meet his steely gaze and reluctantly nod. His eyes flick down to my lips. I hold my breath, worried he’s going to kiss me. He just got off my asshole list yesterday. We are so not at kissing yet. Luckily, he grunts, grabs his bag from the backseat and throws himself out of the cab. I let out a shaky giggle as I slide out of the truck. We trudge toward Hansen Hall, together but apart.

The line at the Starbucks upstairs is long, so I take my time choosing an egg sandwich and an iced mocha while building my “Bryce paper” in my mind. I hand over the cash with my order, grab my sandwich, tuck it into my backpack, and head to the outdoor patio, a coffee in each hand.

Finding a nice sunny spot, I settle in, pulling out my laptop and the sandwich I stashed. This one arm thing is already annoying, and it’s only been a day. I finish the egg biscuit in four bites while my computer boots up, slurping down the mocha.

I’m forced into self-reflection while I eat. Why in the world am I worrying about how to format a paper about my ex-boyfriend’s strengths and weaknesses? Answer? Because I hate to do things wrong. Can I mess this up? Probably not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to get it right the first time.

My brain takes the lead while I berate my own perfectionistic tendencies and decides on a SWOT analysis—strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats. Business classes for the win!

Over the next hour, I detail Bryce’s life in broken shards of business lingo. Strengths and weaknesses are easy to navigate, but opportunities and threats are harder to define. People in his life seem to be the best corollary—the people he likes and trusts, and the people he’s rubbed the wrong way.

By the time I’m done, I’m wondering why I ever stayed with the guy. The list of people who like him is a quarter the length of the people who can’t stand him, including all the friends I made freshman year besides Emma. Huh. Maybe I should have done a SWOT analysis before this—I might have saved myself a year at least.

Only a year ago, I wouldn’t have had the guys. These hot crooks somehow gave me a safe place to regroup and see things clearly. I double-check my paper for spelling and grammar mistakes before texting Trips, letting him know it’s done. Two seconds later, he’s gotten back to me with his email address. Just the email address, no need to waste words, I guess.

The sun is getting hot, so I finish my mocha and pack up. It’s almost time for class anyway.

Business law is a fun ride, and I’m sure this is my favorite class for the semester. Trips and I once again end up in an adversarial position, but it doesn’t feel as angry this time, more like a challenge than a fight.

Class ends, and when I go to pick up my bag, Trips is there, his finance friends standing behind him as if they can’t leave without Trips leading them to the door.

He grabs my backpack and tosses it over his shoulder. “This is my roommate, Clara. Clara, this is everyone.”

I smile at the future high rollers, getting a few smiles back. “Hey,” I say.

Trips moves down the stairs, his flock following behind. Because he has my bag, now I’m stuck following too.

“What happened to your arm?” one guy asks.

Trips turns back and scowls, but the guy doesn’t see. “Rough weekend is all,” I say. This guy doesn’t need to know my whole situation.

“It sure looks like it. I’m Jonah, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Jonah.”

Trips stops walking once we’re in the hallway, his entourage parting ways around us. “I’m driving you to the police station,” he says.

“Don’t you have class?”

“Not for another hour.”

I shake my head. “Trips, I’ve got this. I’m sure it’s going to take forever. I’ll just head over there myself and go back to the house.”

He crosses his arms and glowers at me.

I try again. “I have work later anyway. You don’t have to be my chauffeur.”

He’s still glaring. I decide to glare back. Finally, he sighs. “Please,” he says, surprising me. “I won’t even stay. I’ll just get you over there safely.”

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