Page 100 of The Longest Shot
Her voice is immediate, fierce. “You know this material, Rook. Your problem isn’t intelligence. Your only issue is translating what’s in here”—she reaches out and taps my temple, the brief touch sending sparks cascading down my neck—“into something those academic robots recognize.”
The casual confidence in her voice, the certainty that I’m capable, is validation I didn’t know I was desperate for. My parents only ever cared about results, and my coaches only ever cared about performance, but Morgan sees something else and seems to give a damn aboutme.
“You’ve been studying since we… stopped… right?” she continues, skirting around the fact that the last study session we had involved removal of clothes.
“Digesting and regurgitating the material every night,” I repeat, a smile tugging at my lips. “It's very sexy, actually. Nothing like academic bulimia to end the day.”
“Everything doesn’t have to be sexy, Fitzgerald.”
“Hard disagree.” The flirtation slips out quieter than usual, just between us, and the way her cheeks pink makes my chest feel dangerously full. “I’ve seen you chewing on pens when you study…"
“You’re an idiot,” she says, but there’s warmth in it.
“Your idiot, apparently,” I say, then immediately want to disappear into another realm. “I mean… not that you… we haven’t… fuck… I?—”
She’s definitely fighting a smile now, and it shuts me up and brings my own goofy smile to the party. We lapse into silence again, but it’s different now. Charged. The sun is getting lower, painting everything in deeper golds, and I know we can’t avoid the library-shaped elephant sitting between us anymore.
“The library was…” I start, then stop, searching for words that aren’t jokes or escape routes.
“A disaster,” she finishes, but there’s wry humor in her voice. “Though we did get your paper done.”
“And then you ran.” No accusation, just fact. Like “the sky is blue” or “Galloway is Satan’s least favorite nephew.”
She’s quiet long enough that I start to worry I’ve already fucked it up, but then she finally speaks. “I did," she says, her voice a whisper. "It’s what I do when things feel too real and when I start to feel things I can’t control. I run like the Flash, but with more emotional damage and better hair.”
The honesty of it, the admission wrapped in just enough humor to make it bearable for her, makes me want to reach for her. But I don’t. Not yet. Because when that moment comes, if it comes, I want her to choose it, in the vain hope that touching won't lead to her fleeing once again.
“You running away sent me into complete panic mode,” I say, matching her honesty. “Remember those old cartoons where the robot gets confused and then starts smoking before it explodes? That was my brain."
She turns to look at me, something almost soft in her expression, and then she reaches out to grab my hand, her calloused fingers interlacing with mine, and damn if this isn't the single best moment of my life. “I pushed you away and created the exact condition that would make you spiral," she says.
I nod. “The gala was stupid and selfish. I was panicking and defaulting to making noise, being the hero, and fixing the silence. I?—”
"James," she says.
"—I'm really sorry. I only wanted to help by getting you the resources?—"
"Rook," she says.
Her use of my nickname snaps me out of it, and we look at each other, really look, and suddenly we’re both laughing. Not loud or performative, but genuine, rueful laughter at our own predictable disasters, and how we've spent the last few months giving and taking emotional body blows.
“We’re kind of a mess, aren’t we?” she says. “I run, you chase. I go silent, you get loud. We’re like broken clockwork.”
“Perfectly mistimed,” I agree, shifting slightly closer, testing the waters. “Though you know what’s funny?”
“What?” Her voice catches slightly, and I catch her eyes dropping to my mouth, even as her knee still touches mine and her hand remains entwined with mine.
“We’re so predictable," I laugh.
“Doing the same thing and expecting different results,” she recites.
We’re both grinning now, and I’m struck by how easy this is when we’re not performing or defending. We just… fit. And, as if to illustrate it, she shifts closer and snuggles her torso against mine, close enough that I can count the freckles across her nose.
“Right," I say. “So maybe we try something different.”
Her eyes search mine, pupils dark and wide. “Like what?”
I lean in slowly, telegraphing every movement, giving her every chance to run.
