Page 111 of Overtime
“The offer’s standing. See you later, gator.”
“Bye, Wyatt.” My smile is more grimace than joy.
My face stays locked like that as I make my way upstairs to the study area. I’m pretty sure my student is already waiting there and is probably docking points off my rating. He’s one of those pretentious freshmen who got into this school because they’re a legacy and can’t face up to the fact that he’s not as smart as he thought he was. Sessions with him are always a hoot—and I say that with sarcasm as thick as honey.
Sure enough, my student’s there. And he’s sitting all the way at the back, as if he knew making me walk the entire length of the building was the perfect punishment for me.
“You’re late,” he says in his snooty voice.
“Which means we don’t have a second to waste, right?” I say this with a sugary smile, and it’s the perfect way to cut his tirade short. He mumbles something that I probably don’t want to discern.
As I settle down and take my things out of my bag, I explain how I would structure the essay he has to write. This kid needs tutoring in the same kind of thing as Aran, and it makes me wonder how it’s going for the Bolts captain with his new tutor. When I canceled my remaining sessions with him, I made sure Melinda shifted him over to a guy tutor like Aran intended all along.
I hope he’s freaking happy now with his hockey and his tutor-dude and?—
I shouldn’t think like this. Aran didn’t lead me on or treat me like crap. He even wanted to stay friends. I’m the one who can’t see past her giant, flaming torch for him.
Sighing, I open my laptop and try to do some writing. I get as far as three words—He doesn’t want—before my mind goes kaput. The hero of my novel is supposed to be professing his love for the heroine because he doesn’t want to live without her. But she has her reservations because she’s been played one too many times. It’s almost like I reversed the roles without realizing it until now.
“Hey, what should I do if this happens?” my student asks, his voice grouchy.
I tear my eyes away from my screen to see what he’s pointing at, but something distracts me from the corner of my eye.
It’shim. The one who doesn’t want me in real life.
Aran sits at the table in front of mine, facing me directly. He’s drinking a green concoction like on the day we met. And like then, his eyes observe me from above the rim of his sports bottle.
My heart rate spikes. I follow my student’s finger to where it’s pointing at an error message on his computer. Apparently, I’m supposed to know IT now.
“Um, I don’t know. Maybe try restarting?”
“I can’t do that. I didn’t save my work, you dolt!”
I frown. “Not my fault, and no need for name calling.”
“Whatever.” He smacks his computer a few times. I go back to mine.
Lies and deceit. My eyes go straight back to Aran instead of to my work.
This time his aren’t on me. They’re narrowed at my student as if he’s plotting a dark academia book in his mind.
This is why I fell for him. Little things like this that made me feel like he cared. And maybe he did. But it really freaking sucks when the guy you like only cares for you as a friend. I don’t know how other people cope, because I can’t. I paw around the table until I find my favorite pen and my journal and make a note to consider the unrequited love trope for my next hockey book. Except my characters will get the happy ending I didn’t. It’ll be cathartic.
I pause. This is the first time I’ve felt inspired at all in weeks.
Dang Aran. He’s both the sickness and the cure.
I bite my lip and put my hands on my keyboard. Let’s focus on the words, not on the boy staring at me across the tables, not on the rude student next to me, not on the throbbing stabs of pain in my abdomen. Just the writing. Nothing else.
After that whole pep talk, I end up typing some gibberish. Instead of focusing, I peep over the edge of my laptop screen and almost jump out of my skin.
Aran is smiling at me. It’s that slow, tiny smile that looks like a smirk from afar but warms his eyes until they’re molten chocolate. The one that often preceded a kiss for the ages.
I can’t take this anymore.
Without thinking, I spring to my feet and scamper away from the tables. Pure nerves give me the speed I lacked earlier, and I only stop when I’m behind one of the massive bookcases. I need a quiet moment alone to compose myself.
I breathe so hard that my head spins, and as I steady myself against the bookcase, I realize something’s very wrong. And it’s not that Aran is approaching this little nook.
