The Blueprint, page 4
I sat up, alarmed. I enjoyed a good run as much as anyone else, but sprinting sideline to sideline with Coach Taylor watching us dispassionately was not my idea of a good time. “Are we in the picture?”
“Not sure.”
Fuck. The receivers’ coach wasn’t exactly known for the warm fuzzies. Seeing most of his offensive line partying on a boat probably didn’t improve his mood. Sundays we were supposed to stay home and rest up.
Well. Nothing for it. I sighed. “Might as well live it up, then. I have a feeling we’re going to pay for it tomorrow.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Warner said with a grin. “I’m gonna get a drink. What do you want?”
“Nothing for me. Thanks.”
He flipped me off and headed to the bar. I glanced down at my phone again. No missed calls, no missed texts. There was no point in redialing until Kelly was forced to get a restraining order against me. Nothing would budge him when he was being stubborn.
I wouldn’t stop by after we docked.
No matter how much I wanted to.
I was trying to give him his precious space. I scowled. Although why I was suddenly supposed to give Kelly, my best friend for practically most of my fucking life, space was beyond me. All I knew was that, a couple weeks earlier, he gave me some rambling speech about “finding himself” and “figuring some things out.” He needed time to figure out where his life was going.
I was doing my best to comply. But like most things you didn’t realize you were addicted to, staying away was easier said than done.
I would stay away. But if he didn’t answer in a couple of days, I’d track him down—in person. I sent him a text to that effect, using the word motherfucker quite liberally, and put my phone back in my pocket.
As far as threats went, two hundred and fifty pounds of irritated tight end on your doorstep was usually pretty effective.
Chapter 4
Kelly
THE FIRST day of class usually went one of two ways: (a) I remembered why I loved teaching and why I’d dedicated my life to it. Or (b) I wondered why I’d even been born at all and what I could do to remedy that situation. As one of my more helpful students passed out copies of my syllabus, I wondered which category the day would fall into.
I stood in front of my first class of the day, arms folded, eyes trained on nothing in particular. If I had to guess, I’d probably say I looked deep in thought.
In actuality the deepest my thoughts went was that I needed coffee—like, yesterday. I also regretted my morning jaunt for fast food that was a little too fast. And I wondered if I was the only person who went to Taco Bell for breakfast who wasn’t a fucking stoner.
“Dr. Cannon?”
I smiled at the red-haired girl who passed out my syllabi, and she blushed. “Yes, Miss…?”
“Laura. Laura Foster.” She smiled brilliantly, and I knew immediately that, willing or no, the semester’s teacher’s pet had found me. “We’re short three syllabi. Would you like me to run down to the computer lab and make a few extra copies?”
“No, but thank you. I have a few extra.” I smiled to soften the blow, but she didn’t move. I blinked. She stared. “Was there something else?”
“The extra copies?”
I managed not to roll my eyes as I dug them out of my messenger bag and handed them over. She beamed and scurried off. Good grief, Charlie Brown. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her pass out the extra copies and wondered what kind of stimulant she had and where I could find some.
I cleared my throat and prepared to raise my voice over the din of close to a hundred students flipping through the pages of the syllabus. It sounded like a flock of birds taking flight over and over again. “Please use the next few minutes to read over the syllabus, and then we’ll get started.”
I readily acknowledged that the document was a bit lengthy, but I always found it easier to let people know beforehand exactly what I expected from them. How could people meet my expectations if they didn’t know what they were? Of course they could find a copy of the syllabus online, on the university’s course management system, but there was nothing like having a paper copy.
I’d buried my office hours deep in the middle of the packet, in small print. I sighed as Laura closed a bright-pink highlighter with an audible snick. She’d probably already found them, highlighted and circled them, and made an appointment with the department secretary.
While they thumbed through my syllabus, I could feel a lot of curious gazes on me. Might as well get it out of the way. I gave them plenty of opportunity to get a good look and didn’t fidget as I watched them watch me and take in the piercings and stubble and visible tattoos and all manner of things a professor probably shouldn’t have.
The largest and my favorite was the skull-inspired sleeve tattoo with a series of grayscale, intricate clocks, and clock hands. The whole thing was beautiful and detailed with a little steampunk flair. It also managed to cover up a lot of the stupider tattoos I’d gotten for reasons I didn’t remember.
As for the piercings, I’d had them so long by then that it was hard to remember they were even there sometimes. The three in my left ear were pretty standard—two silver balls and a tiny diamond stud. And the tiny, tasteful silver hoop in my eyebrow. It wasn’t like they could see the tongue piercing.
The phase of proving that I was my own person was long over, thank fuck. So were the days of giggling in a tattoo shop, half-trashed, with an equally trashed friend egging me on—and waking up and to play naked Twister in a mirror to see what I’d done to myself the night before. I don’t know how the piercings and tattoos went from stupid mistakes to a map of my life, but they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon—not even for the administration, who eyed them warily at our departmental meetings.
At least I’d done my preppy best to teacher-ify my outfit—new dark-wash jeans, not my usual ripped and torn fare, and a white pressed button-down shirt with built-in elbow patches. In deference to the heat, I had to ditch my sport jacket and roll up the sleeves, but the way I rolled them, all you could see was the tail end of one of the clocks. My black-framed glasses helped. So did my parted and carefully styled hair. I was pretty sure I looked neat enough to pass muster.
From the looks on some of their faces, they thought I was much cooler than they expected. At that point in my life, I didn’t know whether I found that endearing or exasperating. I guess they expected a physics professor to look like their textbook pictures of Newton—wild hair, crazy eyes, and all. To come in and see a youngish-looking guy with arm tattoos and face piercings was probably a relief.
Suckers.
I’d disabuse them of that notion soon enough. I may not have looked the part, but I was an unapologetic proud nerd. At least that’s what my sister said to anyone who would listen.
I cleared my throat, and some of the paper rustling died down. “This course is a study in algebra-based physics. Topics will include motion, forces, energy, and the properties of… the properties of….” I looked around for a marker to write on the board with, but I came up empty. “Properties of solids, liquids, and gases.”
I continued to paw through the drawers underneath the podium as I spoke. “We will also touch on wave motion, sound, and electricity in order to prepare you for Physics 1102.”
With a sigh I finally gave up on locating the marker. O’Rourke had the room right before and after me, and the man never remembered to leave the markers. “There will be four exams throughout the semester, and you will be allowed to drop your lowest score. Quizzes and homework in between will not be graded because, make no mistake about it, they are for your benefit.”
I leaned on the podium with both elbows and warmed to the topic. “This isn’t a course based on memorizing formulas. In fact, I’m going to give you a formula sheet with most of the exams. And before you get too excited, just realize that, if you don’t know how to manipulate each formula, I might as well be handing you an Applebee’s menu.”
There was a light smattering of laughter, but I was dead-ass serious. One of the girls in front raised her hand. I didn’t try to acquire her name—the core sciences were so popular that the auditorium was jam-packed. No way I’d be able to remember them all. “Fourth row. Yes?”
“You didn’t put an attendance policy on your syllabus.”
“Do you need one?” I asked.
“One of my other professors, Dr. O’Rourke, gives us three excused absences before it affects our grade.”
“If your attendance isn’t important to you, it’s not important to me.” My attendance omission was deliberate. I had no intention of babysitting a group of adults—young or not—and begging them to attend my class. “Dr. O’Rourke needs an audience when he lectures.” I smiled. “I do not.”
Laura pushed out her bottom lip a little—probably at the thought of her fellow students not being flogged for missing class. “What if we don’t understand the material?”
“I’m not going to hold your hand, but I know these problem-solving techniques will be new to many of you. It’s not a crime to need extra help.” I met a few eyes to make sure they understood that I meant every word. I graded hard and expected them to learn—go figure—but I wouldn’t be an asshole about it.
“If you begin to have difficulty with the course, please consult with me outside of class. I conduct a study group on most Wednesdays, so you’re free to join. My TA, Justin, will also be on hand for questions.
“I know that professors generally go over the syllabus and policies on the first day. To kind of get you guys acclimated to what we expect of you.” I smiled kindly at the class and enjoyed how much they trusted my soothing words. It made snatching the rug out from under them that much sweeter. “I’m not that kind of professor. Pull out the required text, and let’s get started.”
The best part of the auditorium experience was that the groans were almost in surround sound. It briefly seemed like displeasure in Dolby Digital. I chuckled delightedly. “Welcome to Physics 1101. It sucks.” More groans, and I winked. “You’re gonna love it.”
I KNEW the moment the clock inched close to the hour mark without even looking, mostly from the sounds of people packing up. I reminded them to follow the syllabus schedule for homework and then stopped trying to talk over the sound of a hundred kids putting away their laptops and supplies.
They crowded out the door as though their lives depended on it, like zombies had attacked our building and the last chopper to safety hovered above our roof.
Fuckers.
I liked them anyway. We started on a good foot, which was a bit of a relief. It wasn’t necessary for my students to love or even like me, but it certainly helped.
I packed up my own stuff a little slower, like a normal human being. In the middle of disconnecting my laptop from the overhead screen and answering a question from Laura, my phone rang. I glanced at the screen.
Blue. Why wouldn’t he know the exact moment I dismissed my class? I sent him to voicemail and pocketed my phone. He was a persistent motherfucker. I’d give him that. But he didn’t seem to understand that I didn’t want to talk about the Robert thing. What was there to say? I dumped a perfectly viable option as a potential husband so I could moon over my best friend?
“Aren’t you people cleared out yet?”
I glanced up to see Connor O’Rourke come in the door. My mouth relaxed into a smile for several reasons—he was my friend, and he had two Starbucks cups in hand. It was mostly the Starbucks thing, though.
“We’ve still got three minutes,” I informed him.
With a dark look in Connor’s direction, Laura finally left. I barely held in a sigh of relief. I had worried she’d follow me straight to my next stop. Then I groaned inwardly. It was my only nonphysics class, but it was still a core science. She would probably be waiting in the front row.
Connor handed me one of the cups, and I sniffed the plastic lid. I was pretty sure receiving a cup of coffee should qualify as mood therapy. Yes, I could make coffee at home, but it just wasn’t the same. “You’re a god among men.”
“That’s what my last lover told me, yes.” He winked and started to unpack his supplies—laptop, binders, and a stack of what looked to be syllabi. “It’s caramel macchiato today.”
“Mmm.” I took a sip and scalded my tongue. Then I went in for more—worth every lost tongue cell. I watched him unpack for a minute and then said, “If you can produce one marker out of that briefcase, I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”
He grinned. “Is there ever going to be a time when you don’t ask me about those fucking markers?”
“Is there ever going to be a time when you don’t abscond with them? Goddamn, O’Rourke, write the ransom note already. I’ll pay.”
He laughed. “Don’t you have another class to bore to death?”
“That I do.” I shouldered my bag and headed for the door. “Thanks for the pick-me-up.”
“Welcome. Hey, you free for dinner on Friday?”
“Sure.” I made an irritated noise. “Actually let’s make it lunch. I won’t have much time in the afternoon. I’m heading up to see my parents this weekend.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “This wouldn’t have something to do with a certain televised proposal, would it?”
I rubbed my forehead tiredly. “A little bit, yeah.”
I needed to go home and explain myself in person before they heard from someone else. If they hadn’t already. Fucking Robert. He’d officially forced my hand. Didn’t he know it was bad form to propose and out someone all in the same breath?
I thought about telling them my news and still drew a blank on what they would say in return. I gave brief thanks that I still had four days to postpone the inevitable, and I sighed.
“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to call them?”
“Yes. It certainly would,” I said meaningfully.
He grinned. “Cheers to procrastination?”
I gave him a wry smile in return and tilted my coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
Chapter 5
Kelly
FRIDAY.
Doomsday. I was trying not to be dramatic, but that’s what it felt like.
I ended my last class a little early—the kids were still planning a statue in my honor as I left—and cut out before five o’clock traffic. I’d packed a bag earlier and stashed it in the trunk so I could stay the entire weekend. Anything else would be unacceptable to my mother.
It was a four-hour drive to their house, and thankfully, traffic was pretty light. I preoccupied myself with music and snacks and anything but thinking about what I was going to say when I got there. But one could only stall for so long, and soon I arrived in my old neighborhood.
As I turned down our street, I reached over and clicked off my iPhone, interrupting Kanye’s rap about the good life. I may have been a grown man, but I still didn’t pull up to my parents’ house blasting music. I coasted to a stop in front of their house and felt a strange sense of rightness come over me.
There was just something about coming home that never got old.
My childhood home was your typical Florida ranch, with a big backyard that had been the bane of my weekends. It was also the reason I employed a lawn service, even for the tiny patches of grass I called my back and front yards. From the looks of the cars in the driveway, both of my parents were home. I parked behind my mom’s minivan and headed up the front walk.
The porch was still as comforting and Southern as ever, with wide, sweeping railings and several flowering plants placed strategically to make it even homier. A butterfly wind chime hung near the front door, but the stagnant heat ensured it was still and silent. There were also several cushioned chairs I’d never seen before and a porch swing with a fluffy pillow that claimed There’s no place like home.
As I looked around and breathed in the air that was a little salty from our proximity to the beach, I acknowledged there had never been a smarter pillow.
I keyed in the code on the front door and turned the handle when the light turned green. It felt weird letting myself right on in, but I knew my mom would have a fit if I knocked.
“You’re part of this family,” she would declare dramatically, as though she were auditioning for a lifelong dream part on The Young and the Restless.
A vein in my forehead pulsed in warning just thinking about it.
I smelled something good cooking, but I couldn’t tell exactly what it was. I scowled as I kicked off my sneakers at the door and saw a pair of boots in my cubby. My cubby. I knew exactly whose boots they were. Sure enough, when I came through the foyer and entered the living room, I saw Kennedy sitting on the couch next to our father. I scowled. “What’re you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“I thought you were going to the Keys for the weekend.”
That was kind of why I timed my visit that way. I didn’t want to confess in front of an audience, for heaven’s sake. From the amused glimmer in her eyes, she knew that.
“Change of plans.” She shrugged. “You’ll just have to deal with being the second favorite this weekend. Besides, I didn’t want you to miss out on seeing my beautiful face.”
“I could’ve gone another year without laying eyes on that ugly mug.”
“Then don’t pass by that hall mirror.”
I scowled some more. Both of us took strongly after our mother—we had the same dark hair and pale frosty-gray eyes, same basic face structure with lashes too long, a nose too short, and the identical dimples in our left cheeks. We even shared a lanky body shape and a hatred of our height of five eleven—she wanted to be shorter, and I wanted to be taller.
I pointed at her. “You need to get your stupid stinky boots out of my cubby.” I hadn’t actually gotten close enough to them to tell if they were odiferous or not, but it was Kennedy, after all. The smart money was on stinky.
“You don’t even live here anymore, freak. I’ve got dibs.”
