Page 10 of Win You Over
I stare at my phone, watching the typing bubbles appear, then disappear again before his reply pops up.
Holden: Prof. Hottie? You know what – I don’t want to know. Fine, we’ll do it your way. Your place, Friday. Send me your address.
I’m typing out a reply when another message comes through.
Holden: And we are not hanging out or doing anything that gives you the idea we can be friends. We are not friends.
Me: Sure,leeutjie, whatever you say. ;)
Holden: Don’t call me names.
Me: It’s a nice name. Promise. I’ll tell you all about it on Friday.
Holden:Urgh
“What are you smiling about?” Finn asks, trying to peer at my phone. I turn off the screen and shove it in my pocket.
“Nothing. Come on, I have time before my next class and I’m hungry.” There’s a bounce in my step as we make our way to one of the university’s cafes.
Friday cannot come soon enough.
Chapter 5
Holden
“You can’t honestly be considering going to hishouse,” Theo says, a mixture of disbelief and alarm in his voice.
I pick up my laptop from the small desk we share, and tuck it into my case, then check I have my notebook and a pad of post-it notes. The little bright squares make communicating with people easier. Who knows if I’ll actually be able tosayanything to Remington during our forced partnership? The thought alone leaves my mouth dry and that mental wall slowly resurfacing.
“Not much choice,” I manage because that’s the truth. I tried speaking to the professor – emailed him about my reluctance to work with Remington and was met with an ultimatum. Make it work or fail the assignment.
The all too familiar sensation of panic rattles in my chest when I think about being alone with someone who has the potential to hurt me. Not that I think he would, but that fear is deep-seated and ingrained.
“I guess,” Theo concedes. “Just don’t put up with his shit, okay?”
I offer Theo a sly smile that I hope says“do I ever?”A fake gesture of confidence that I do not possess.
The day goes by quickly and by the time our final class ends, I’m in a full anxiety spiral. Sweat beads on the back of my neck despite it not being too warm out and I make a desperate dash towards the bathroom to throw cold water on my face.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I reach one hand into my pocket, running a finger over my knife while internally working through the few tools I remember from therapy. Reminding myself that I am not that weak little boy anymore and Remington isn’t one of those kids from my past.
I found Dad’s pocket sized fishing knife when we were packing up to leave the UK. It had been in a box of his belongings which Mum was sending to the dump. I hid it under my pillow in the days leading up to our departure, then snuck it into one of my suitcases before we left. It’s the only part of my dad, besides some photos, that I kept. Holding it reminds me of him and of a time when things had been easier. I wouldn't actually hurt someone with it – that's not why I carry it. And even if its existence could land me in trouble, it's important to me in ways I can't explain to anyone.
Taking a few deep breaths, I straighten, fix my hair and adjust my bag on my shoulder, then exit the bathroom and head towards the bus stop. Remington’s family home isn’t too far from the university, but it’s far enough away that walking isn’t an option. Especially on a wet, drizzly day like today.
I’m waiting for the bus when a white Aston Martin pulls up at the stop, the window rolling down as soon as the car is stationary.
“Want a ride?” Remington asks, leaning out of the window.Of coursethis is his car and of course he would happen to drive past me a few minutes before the bus is due. These days, it’s like he’s everywhere and I can’t shake him and his stupid smile.
“You’re coming to mine, right?” he asks when I don’t reply.
I hesitate for a moment, moving from foot to foot while looking down the road for the bus.
“Get the fuck in the car, pretty boy, you’re getting wet,” he says, a smile planted on his face. I scowl at him, narrowing my eyes, and all he does is spread his lips wider.
“Okay, sorry. Please get in the car, Holden.” He puts on a sing-song voice. The rain falls harder on my shoulders, and I concede, opening the door and sliding in, melting into the soft leather seat.
I’m taken aback by the interior. It’s pristine, with that new car smell and not a speck of dirt or dust to be seen. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Everything about Remington is so poised and put together. He’s not a jock. Not a frat boy, either. He doesn't fit into any stereotypical box, really. He’s the golden child – everyone’s best friend, yet he surrounds himself with bullies. He’s conceited, charming in that way serial killers can be, and sometimes he’s a huge ass.
