Love Story(72)
Author: Jennifer Echols

Footfalls sounded in the stairwell again. Descending.

It wasn’t Hunter. It couldn’t be him coming back to me. Or if it was, he simply realized he’d left his coat in my room, and his shirt and his underwear.

The hall door bumped shut.

I held my breath.

My door opened. He would gather his things and make a hasty exit.

He closed the door softly behind him. He shed his jeans in the soft light and slid into bed beside me. Because I’d rolled over to sob into the pillow, there was less room for him now. He pressed against me until I scooted over with my back to him.

Soft clicks sounded behind my head, and then the tiniest beep. He must have retrieved his Rolex from his room. He was setting his alarm.

“You never take that thing off,” I whispered, hoping my voice didn’t sound shaky from crying. “Why didn’t you wear it tonight?”

“I didn’t want to know what time it was,” he whispered back. “I still don’t, but I’m paranoid about missing that anatomy test. I’d rather stay here with you forever.”

He said it so casually. His watch beeped a few more times. But heat spread across my chest—adrenaline from excitement, and horror. Was he saying what I thought he was saying?

To double-check, I whispered, “I thought this room made you claustrophobic.”

“Not with you in it.” He set his Rolex on my filing cabinet, a hollow metallic sound. Then he spooned hot against me, draping his arm over my waist.

He kissed my hair.

My bed was a soft nest surrounded by windows onto the cold city, but I felt my arms prick with chill bumps when he kissed me. He was not acting like he had seduced me for money. He acted as if he was happy to be with me and loath to leave. If I was right this time, he was not going to like the story I’d written in anger on Thursday night, which we would be discussing in Gabe’s class tomorrow.

HE WOKE ME BY KISSING MY mouth in the gray morning light.

“My anatomy test is at eight,” he whispered between kisses. “My books are upstairs.” He kissed me more deeply, sighed as if I’d tempted him and he’d finally given in. He collapsed on top of my bare body. “I don’t want to go, but I’ve got to.”

He raised himself off me and looked for his clothes on the floor.

I gazed warily at him, but I supposed it was still early enough that he mistook my misgivings for sleepiness.

“I’ll see you in calculus, okay? And creative writing.” My body tingled as he leaned in and gave me one last, lingering kiss. Then he opened the door. He murmured something in the larger room. Summer giggled. The outer door closed.

I pulled on sweats and poked my head into the larger room. Jřrdis, in her pajamas and thick, heavy-rimmed glasses, made dissatisfied noises in Danish as she peeled faces off her collage and flicked the curled paper into the trash. Summer stood at the mirror over her dresser, evening out her hair with a pick.

“I’m really sorry, guys,” I said as I walked in. “I should have asked your permission for Hunter to sleep over. It just sort of happened.”

“What bull.” Summer grinned.

Jřrdis nodded. “Why do you think he cuts heads for me? I do not think he enjoys cutting heads.”

I was still trying to digest the fact that she thought of her art as “cutting heads,” which was disconcerting, when she went on, “I don’t mind what you do with him as long as I am not the one who has to sleep in the wee chamber.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

“It won’t?” Summer squealed, setting the pick down. “What do you mean?”

“Have you read my story for Gabe’s class?” I asked her.

She nodded. “It was different. Brutal. I meant to ask you about it. It seems like you were depressed when you wrote it, or tired.”

“Angry,” I corrected her. “It’s about the guy Hunter helped me get away from last May.”

Her eyes widened. “Has Hunter read it yet?”

“Obviously not,” I said.

“What is the matter with this story?” Jřrdis asked.

“It’s incredibly dirty,” Summer said. She and Jřrdis turned to me, outrage on their faces at the thought that I would treat a gentleman such as Hunter in this manner.

“Honestly, guys,” I said, “a lot has gone on between Hunter and me and our families over the years. More even than you know about. I thought he was using me last night. I was mad and I used him back. But now that it’s happened, I think there may be more between us than using each other. And if that’s true on his end, I just screwed up everything with this story.”

“Why do you keep doing that?” Summer squealed again.

“I’m writing what I know,” I murmured.

“You don’t know shit,” Jřrdis said. “This boy clearly loves you. He sits here on the bed and cuts out my photos in the hope that you will walk by.”

“What do I do?” I whispered.

“Call him!” Summer forced her cell phone into my hand.

Feeling weak, I sank onto Jřrdis’s bed and punched in the number I knew by heart. “Busy.” Who was he calling this early in the morning?

“Text him,” Jřrdis said.

I dropped the phone into my lap. “I can’t bother him with this right now. He’s headed into a huge anatomy test.” Shaking my head, I handed the phone back to Summer. “I’ll try to talk to him in calculus class.”

But he came into calculus just as the TA was passing out the test—probably because he’d taken extra time with his anatomy test. He sat beside me and gave me the most brilliant smile. But we couldn’t talk. And while I was still struggling with imaginary numbers, he turned in his test and left. He had to be headed to the library to read my story. I couldn’t follow him because I had to go to history to turn in my paper.

That’s why I sat in the creative-writing class in the afternoon, poring over my story, reading it as Hunter would read it. The other students eyed me and whispered as they came in and sat down in their upholstered chairs. I put my hand over my mouth, anticipating the worst.

Obedience

by Erin Blackwell

“You will do as you’re told,” her grandmother said. “Your college tuition is a gift, and I am not obligated to give it to you. If you choose not to follow in my footsteps—study business, and run the family farm—I choose not to help you.”

The girl looked around her grandmother’s office, at the crystal chandelier, the silk Persian carpet, the rich leather-bound books on the walnut shelves, and considered her grandmother’s words. If she took her grandmother’s offer, she would give up her dream of becoming an artist. But how could she support herself out in the world? She would be destitute and so

low.

The girl made her decision. “You’re right,” she said, “and I’m sure I’ll thank you for this tough love when I’m older.”

“That’s the way.” Her grandmother smiled, a perfect bow of blood red lipstick. She reached out with one perfectly manicured hand and stroked the girl’s hair away from her eyes for the first time since this argument had begun several weeks before. “Now that we have that settled, you know what would make me even happier?”