Nightwork, page 15
“Thanks.” And because he was tuned into the discussion as he opened the bottle, he spoke without thinking.
“Claudio didn’t actually love her.”
Ben looked over, tilted his head. “Because?”
“What? Oh, sorry. I was just thinking out loud.”
“Finish the thought.”
Stuck, he shifted in his chair. “I mean, how’s that love? He’s duped by Don John—and everybody knows Don John’s an asshole—into thinking Hero’s banging some other guy. Why doesn’t he head right up there and deal with it? He waits until the wedding, condemns her—doesn’t say what the hell. And he’s fine if she dies for it. Even her dad’s fine with it. But nobody’s saying how about the guy banging her? Nobody’s saying get a rope for him. How’s that love? She’s just a woman, right, nice to look at, and he can get another. Benedick and Beatrice meet and stand on even ground. Hero and Claudio don’t.”
He wished he hadn’t noticed how the redhead smiled at him when he finished.
“He thought she betrayed him, on the night before their wedding.”
This from Hayley the debater.
“‘Thought’ is the word, isn’t it? He never asks, never demands an explanation. And he doesn’t believe her when she denies it. He’s passive, and so’s Hero. They’re solid foils for Benedick and Beatrice.”
“Hero should’ve told Claudio to stuff it. Thanks for nothing, you dick,” Jen continued.
“Right? And maybe how she’d rather marry Dogberry. At least he knows he’s an ass.”
That got a laugh Booth found surprisingly satisfying.
That brought on a couple of the theater kids acting out some lines from Dogberry and the watch.
“Let me ask you this before we wrap it up. Sorry, you’re in my Monday and Thursday class.”
“Booth. Booth Harrison.”
“Right. Very solid paper on Henry V. Will these two couples, those four crazy kids, make it?”
“Sure, I think so. Benedick and Beatrice are crazy about each other, they’ve both got brains and won’t ever be bored. Claudio and Hero will just passively drift through, follow traditions, break no norms, and they’d be fine with it.”
“I have to agree, and on that note, pick up your debris and get out of my house. Next week, on campus, same time. We’ll discuss the relationships in Midsummer. Adding some magical hijinks as another wedding approaches.”
People shuffled up, gathered their debris, and the noise level rose with it. Out of long-ingrained habit, Booth started gathering up what others left behind.
“I hope we didn’t scare you off.”
“Oh, no, sir. It was good. You even started with my favorite comedy.”
“I’ve a particular fondness for it. You’re doing excellent work in my class. It wouldn’t hurt to participate more.”
Shit—stood out.
“I guess I’m more absorbing right now.”
“Don’t wait too long. I like hearing my students’ voices.”
He disposed of the trash he’d picked up, kept the half Coke for the ride. And since the redhead huddled with the jock—had to be a thing there—managed to get out of the house without running into her again.
Some of the kids lingered outside, hanging out on the lawn, the sidewalk. Some climbed into cars, others straddled bikes, and some, he imagined, would hike the mile and a half to campus.
“Hey, Booth, do you mind giving Jen a ride back?”
Zed had his arm around her shoulders, but it struck Booth as more companionable a move than romantic. Either way.
“Sure, pile in.”
“Thanks. Your first meeting, right?”
“Yeah. I liked it.”
“We’ve got a Drama Club that meets the first Tuesday of the month. You should join. How come you guys haven’t talked him into the Drama Club?’
“Rejected,” R.J. told her.
“One at a time. I’ve got a full class load this term.”
“Gotta have an outlet.”
Jen chatted all the way back in a manner that told him the three of them knew each other well.
“I can drop you at your dorm,” Booth told her. “No problem.”
“No dorm, thanks. I live with these guys. No sexcapades, just five of us living in platonic chaos. You hooked up?”
“Ah, no.”
“Bad breakup in Texas,” R.J. supplied.
“I hear that. I’d ask you out because you’re really cute, but you’re not my type.”
That had him glancing in the rearview, as R.J. had grabbed shotgun. “Okay, why’s that?”
“I am a petite Asian goddess at five-one. And you’re a long, lean machine. What are you, six-three?”
“And a quarter.”
“See. We’d look stupid right off with a foot and a quarter difference. So more Platonicville.”
“You could wear heels.”
She laughed, slapped Zed on the leg. “I like him. You told me I would.”
He liked her, too, the free-wheeling way of her, and drove home after the drop-off, pleased with the whole evening. Now that he’d shipped the redhead and the jock, he could put her out of his mind all the way.
* * *
She ambushed him the next day. He never saw it coming, and walked right into it.
She waited outside the class, then just blocked his way.
He said, “Hey. Hi.”
“Hey. Hi. Let’s go get coffee.”
It stumped him, so he was slow off the mark. “Actually, I need to—”
“You’ve got an hour and a half before your next class. Me, too. Let’s get coffee. I’m buying.”
Rude, in his mother’s world, was a four-letter word. “Okay. Do you need something?” he asked as she took his arm, pulled him along.
“Yeah, coffee. I overslept this morning—I hate when that happens—and barely had time to knock down a single cup on the dash.”
“No, I meant from me.”
“I do. I have a burning question.”
She hadn’t had time for the braid either, he thought, but had managed to pull her hair back in a long, sleek tail. And flipped it back as she looked at him.
“Okay.”
“Do you believe in reincarnation? You know, we live many lives until we get it all the way right?”
It didn’t come close to any question he expected. But since she was leading him along—she obviously knew just where she wanted to get her coffee—he considered the answer.
And thought of his mother, how short her life had been, how hard so much of it turned out to be.
“Yeah. There has to be more than one round.”
“I think so, too. So I’m wondering—second burning question—if I did you wrong in some past life, and that’s why you don’t like me. I’m generally considered pretty likable, but maybe in that past life I strangled your dog.”
“I don’t think you strangled my dog or anyone else’s.”
She gave him a long, knowing look with those fabulous eyes.
“Past lives are tricky.”
“And anyway, I don’t don’t like you. I don’t know you.”
“Now’s your chance.” She aimed straight for a café among the shops, eating up ground on those long legs. “I liked what you said about Claudio and Hero, so you get that chance.”
The place was packed with students and staff craving coffee, muffins, cookies the size of dessert plates.
“I don’t really drink coffee. Much.”
She stared at him with those oddly amazing green eyes. “And yet you stand and breathe and function.” She stepped up to the counter. “Miranda for both. Café Americano, extra shot.”
He figured that was enough espresso to drive an eighteen-wheeler cross-country.
“Do your eyes bug out like an electrocuted cartoon cat after you drink that?”
“We’ll find out.”
“Vanilla latte.”
“Ah, a coffee wimp.”
“Accepted.”
She paid, and they shuffled aside to wait.
The whole place smelled like coffee—a scent he’d never found translated satisfactorily to the actual drink. But even through it, he caught her scent.
Light, fresh.
Because he did, he reminded himself he’d hooked her up with the jock. Phil. Phil the jock.
“So … where’s Phil?”
She arched one eyebrow—the left. He’d noticed she had that skill—quirk—whatever. And she took her phone out of her pocket to check the time.
“I think he’s got his film studies class about now. Why?”
“No reason. I just figured since the two of you were … a thing.”
She smiled that smile, then turned to grab their drinks when they called her name. “Let’s take these outside, out of the noise. A thing,” she repeated, as he got the door. “We do have a thing. It’s called friendship. We clicked in sophomore year. Sophomore because I took enough college-level in high school and in summer courses to come in as a sophomore. He’s really smart, funny, athletic—starting quarterback this year. And he’s crushing pretty hard on this grad student right now. Chad.”
“Oh.”
“He’s not my token gay friend, just my friend. Any problem with that?”
“No. Jeez, no.” Except it made him a mess again.
“Good, I draw a hard line at bigotry in any and all forms. So,” she continued as they walked. “Transfer in your senior year. Why’s that?”
“If you spent two minutes around R.J., you already know.”
She laughed, gestured to a vacant bench. “Bad breakup. Most of us have had one, but we don’t usually move to another state.”
He blended stories on the spot. “I wanted a change. I’d toured the campus before, and I really liked it, but … My mother died.”
“Oh, Booth, I’m so sorry.”
She meant it, he could feel it when she put a hand over his.
“It was all hard, and after my aunt—my mother’s sister, she’d been with us through it all—we both wanted out of Chicago. She was looking at New Mexico, so since Texas was on my list, I took it. It’s a great school, but when I had the excuse, I guess, to switch, I took it. And it feels right here.”
“Preaching to the choir, as I basically grew up here. How about your father?”
“Never in the picture. Your dad’s great.”
“Top dad in the world of dads.”
He needed to know more. He didn’t want to, but needed to. “Your mom?”
“Mmm. Long story. Short version? She fell out of love with us, wanted someone and somewhere else, so she left.”
“Now I’m sorry.”
“No, actually, it worked out best for everybody. She’s living the dream in Hawaii—the big island—with Biff.” She’d slipped on sunglasses when they sat down, and now tipped them down to peer at him over the tops. “That’s his actual name.”
Shit, shit, shit! He liked her.
“Well, he has to live with that.”
“He does. They do. And my father and I are—as she sees it—stuck in the muck of academia. I guess we just like the muck.”
She took a long, slow drink of her coffee, tipped her head back to the sky. “So, Booth Harrison from Chicago via Texas, what do you want to do with your life?”
“Right now? Learn. I like learning.”
“Me, too. What’s wrong with us? And what do you do for fun that doesn’t involve learning?”
Break into houses, he thought, crack safes, bargain with fences.
It might’ve been his job, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t fun.
“I like music, and hanging out with the dog next door. Mac, golden retriever. He’s pretty great. I like to cook.”
Down went the shades again. “You cook?”
“Yeah. I learned when my mom was sick, and I have some friends in New Orleans and spent some time there. I got better at it.”
“My dad and I fumble around the kitchen. We actually hired someone—Suzanna—to come in twice a week and make meals so we don’t starve. Well, now that we’ve established I didn’t strangle your dog in a past life, you can show me your culinary skills sometime. Meanwhile, I have some prep for my next class.”
This time she lifted up her sunglasses, tapped a finger under her eye. “Did they bug out?”
“No. They’re beautiful.”
She slipped the glasses back in place. “Luck of the DNA lottery. Good talk,” she said as she rose. “See you around?”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks for the coffee.”
“That barely qualifies as coffee, but you’re welcome.”
She left him there, sitting on the bench, looking down into what barely qualified as coffee.
And he knew he was sunk.
Since avoiding her now seemed stupid, Booth did his best to keep any encounters brief and casual. He’d come to UNC to learn, and to have the best experience he could in his final year of college.
Though he’d already started looking at some postgraduate classes. After all, when he finally let go of college, he’d probably need to get some sort of day job as cover for his actual career.
He could start a cleaning company. God knew he had the experience. And he’d taken some accounting and some business courses at A&M, so he had a handle on that.
But this year he’d earmarked for the sheer pleasure of learning what appealed.
Two months in, he held solid As, a small circle of friends, and a routine that satisfied him.
Then R.J. and Zed dragged him to a football game.
He didn’t dislike football; he was completely neutral on the sport. While his mother and Mags had supported the Bears, they hadn’t done so with the same fervor they devoted to the Cubs.
Sports just hadn’t been one of his interests, but he’d learned—especially in Texas—that if a guy didn’t want to stand out, he warmed a seat at a few football games and cheered for the home team.
And when the Tar Heels met the Cavaliers on the home field, you showed up at Kenan Stadium wearing school colors.
He did his job, wore a school hoodie, cheered for the mascot—a live ram named Rameses. He ate a very decent pulled pork sandwich, yelled, booed, or cursed at appropriate times along with around fifty thousand others.
And thought, with some regret, of all the empty houses ripe for the picking on this cool, clear night in October.
He knew enough about football to see that while Phil the jock was on his game, the defense was sorely lacking. As a result, the Tar Heels ended the first quarter up seven.
They made it ten to seven at halftime, which boosted the sprits of the home team crowd.
Since Zed busied himself flirting with his current date, and R.J. and Jen argued with surprising passion over a flag thrown on the Tar Heel’s offense in the last minutes of the half, Booth decided to stretch his legs.
And there she was.
In a stadium of fifty thousand, he ran right into her.
She wore jeans, a school hoodie with her hair tumbling down her back. People milled and flowed around her as she leaned against a wall and finished texting someone on her phone.
She tucked it into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie.
“Football fan?”
He started to say sure, then the truth came out of him. “No, not remotely. Peer pressure.”
She pressed her palm to her chest. “Friendship. Well, and family. If my dad somehow whacked off his own right arm before a home game against Virginia, he’d tell the ambulance to detour here first.”
She held up a finger, pulled out her phone. “That’s him now, asking me to pick up some fries before I go back. He nervous eats at these games. He’s got a friend who went to the University of Virginia, and they place a serious bet on any game.”
“Really?” The professor hadn’t struck him as the gambling type. “How much?”
“A shiny quarter. The same quarter—the lucky quarter. A coveted prize for seventeen years and counting.” She gestured to one of the concession stands. “Hang with me while I do my daughterly duty. I heard you were tutoring Ken Fisher—he’s the right tackle, or left tackle. Or something. Phil told me you were helping him with his French class.”
People milled around them. He didn’t notice.
“Yeah, he needs a foreign language credit, and he’s having a hard time with it. Professor Relve asked if I would. He’s got her for French 101.”
“Phil says it’s helping. Ken’s got to keep his grades up to keep his scholarship and stay off the bench. Do you have time to take on one more?”
His heart tripped a bit. “Do you need some help?”
“Me, no. Je parle français très bien. Mais j’écris français très mal. Conversational, no problem, but the reading, the writing, I’m not good enough to help Hayley, and she’s struggling.” She ordered the fries, turned back to him. “Do you have time, and what do you charge?”
“I could see what I could do. Ken’s paying twenty a session.”
“Sounds right. Let me know, okay? She seriously tanked her last assignment, and she’s freaking.”
Maybe he’d found his day job early. “I’ve got time between classes on Mondays—nine-thirty to ten-thirty, and on Wednesdays one to two. Thursdays, same as Mondays. If any of those work.”
“I’m booking you for her.”
“Okay. If she changes her mind—”
“She won’t. Freaked. Hayley doesn’t tank assignments. Give me your phone.”
She pushed the takeaway box of fries at him as she took it. “Putting my number in your contacts. Just text me if anything changes with you.”
“Got it.” He didn’t mean to ask, knew it was a mistake, a terrible idea, but he did it anyway. “Do you want to maybe grab a pizza sometime?”
She smiled, did that single eyebrow raise. “Yes. But I’d really like to come to your place for dinner and see if you can really cook.”
Bigger mistake. Much bigger. But … “Sure. Ah—”
“How about tomorrow night. Does seven work?”
“It could work.”
“Great.” She took out her phone again. “I need your address.”
In a kind of daze, he gave it to her. “Well … any, you know, allergies or things you don’t like, won’t eat?”
“No allergies, and if you cook it, I’ll eat it.” She took the fries back from him, shook the box. “I have to get back before these get cold. I’ll let Hayley know about Monday. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
