Page 12 of Told You So
“Sorry,” she utters quietly, and slips into a seat at the end of the front row.
“And yet, this keeps happening,” the professor mutters.
Bethany blushes and her mouth opens, like she’s going to say something in her defense, but she purses her lips closed instead and sets down her notebook.
Professor Murray lifts an eyebrow, and I want to request that, for once in his miserable existence, he shove his commentary up his ass.
I wouldn’t say I’m protective of Bethany, per se, but I’ve seen sides of her no one else has. No matter how complicated our non-friendship is, I know what it looks like when she’s scared and vulnerable, especially when it comes to Jesse. I also know he’s the most important person in her life, and I have a feeling that, whatever her morning routine might be, Jesse is crucial to it. The size of her heart when it comes to that kid melts the frustration and anger away, like it was never there.
“As I was saying,” the professor continues, and he walks to the other side of the room to finish handing out the exams. “Your final project is coming up, and I want you to start thinking about what you want it to be...”
I try and fail not to look at Bethany or notice her profile two rows below me, as I wait for the tests to reach my row. Tapping my pen on the table, I make myself think about what I’m going to do for my project in this class that I haven’t already done, especially given my final externship project I’m already working on for Sam.
Bethanyruns her fingers through her hair, capturing my attention again, then she leans down to pull a pencil from her bag. She pauses, unlocks the screen of her phone and checks it one last time, before she straightens in her seat and removes a test from the stack as it passes.
Even through the whispers of the classroom and Professor Murray’s voice droning on and on, I can hear her exhale, or at least, I think I can. Maybe I just imagine it as she settles in to take the test.
Like she can feel my eyes on her, she glances over her shoulder at me. Her gaze shifts away from mine just as quickly as it found me, and she practically turns her back to me. I should be self-conscious to be caught staring at her, but that was the first couple weeks we had class together. Now, it is what it is.
When my test finally reaches me, I’m grateful for the distraction.
Three
Nick
After my third and final class of the day, I arrive at my parents’ house, back in Saratoga Falls. This is how it is every Monday: school, family time and home cooking, then bartending for the night at Lick’s—a nice ease into a week of chaos. It’s a great balance, actually, one I’m used to, and I appreciate the routineandthe guaranteed home-cooked meals. Between my mom and Sam, I get to eat like a king all week, and I barely have to crack open the cupboard.
The door’s unlocked and I step into the foyer. “Knock, knock!” The house smells like roast beef and my stomach approves with a rumble.
“In here!” my mom calls from the kitchen. “I’m just pulling dinner out of the oven.”
I head toward her,stomach gurgling again. “I’m frigging starving.”
Stepping into the newly remodeled kitchen, I inhale the savory scent of deliciousness and spit my nicotine gum into the garbage.
“Is the gum still helping, sweetie?”
“Meh.” I open the fridge and stare inside, looking for leftover spaghetti or pot pie and mashed potatoes, but it’s empty.
“Let me guess, you didn’t eat lunch again,” my mom says, tugging her oven mitts on.
I laugh at her naiveté. “Oh, I’ve eaten, Ma. You know me better than that. I’m a growing boy. Me like food. It’s the oral fixation thing, I guess. And the fact that I’m always hungry.”
“Well, I’m proud of you for quitting.”
“Thanks, Ma.” I glance around at the pristine granite countertops and the dish-less sink. “How is it that the kitchen is so clean, and yet, I know you’ve been cooking for hours?” I ask her as I lean in and kiss her cherub-smooth cheek.
“It’s called practice, sweetheart. If you ever cooked, you would know how to multitask.”
“Me not know this word,cook...”
She smiles despite herself and cracks open the oven door. Heat whooshes through her hair, sending the blonde-gray wisps dancing. “It’s my own fault for spoiling you,” she says under her breath. “I’ll take the blame.”
I chuckle and pour myself a glass of water to chug.
“How’s the apartment?” she asks, always worrying about me.
“Great. Quiet.” Five or so years ago, before I moved out, I didn’t think my parents’ house was very large. It has always just been my childhood home. Living in an apartment less than a quarter of the size, though, was a big eye-opener, but I love it. There are no parents to fuss about my old boxers and undershirts that are worn through.
