1

HANNAH

He doesn’t know I’m alive.
For the millionth time in forty-five minutes, I sneak a peek
in Justin Kohl’s direction, and he’s so beautiful it makes my
throat close up. Though I should probably come up with another
adjective—my male friends insist that men don’t like being called
beautiful.
But holy hell, there’s no other way to describe his rugged
features and soulful brown eyes. He’s wearing a baseball cap today,
but I know what’s beneath it: thick dark hair, the kind that looks silky
to the touch and makes you want to run your fingers through it.
In the five years since my assault, my heart has pounded for only
two guys.
The first one dumped me.
This one is just oblivious.
At the podium in the lecture hall, Professor Tolbert delivers what
I’ve come to refer to as the Disappointment Speech. It’s the third
one in six weeks.
Surprise, surprise, seventy percent of the class got a C-plus or
lower on the midterm.
Me? I aced it. And I’d be lying if I said the big red A! circled on
top of my midterm hadn’t come as a complete shock. All I did was
scribble down a never-ending stream of bullshit to try to fill up the
booklet.
Philosophical Ethics was supposed to be a breeze. The prof who
used to teach it handed out brainless multiple choice tests and a
final “exam” consisting of a personal essay that posed a moral
dilemma and asked how you’d react to it.
But two weeks before the semester started, Professor Lane
dropped dead from a heart attack. I heard his cleaning lady found
him on the bathroom floor—naked. Poor guy.
Luckily (and yep, that’s total sarcasm) Pamela Tolbert stepped in
to take over Lane’s class. She’s new to Briar University, and she’s the
kind of prof who wants you to make connections and “engage” with
the material. If this were a movie, she’d be the young, ambitious
teacher who shows up at the inner city school and inspires the
fuckups, and suddenly everyone’s picking up their pencils, and the
end credits scroll up to announce how all the kids got into Harvard
or some shit. Instant Oscar for Jennifer Lawrence.
Except this isn’t a movie, which means that the only thing Tolbert
has inspired in her students is hatred. And she honestly can’t seem
to grasp why nobody is excelling in her class.
Here’s a hint—it’s because she asks the types of questions you
could write a frickin’ grad school thesis on.
“I’m willing to offer a makeup exam to anyone who failed or
received a C-minus or lower.” Tolbert’s nose wrinkles as if she can’t
fathom why it’s even necessary.
The word she just used—willing? Yeah, right. I heard that a ton
of students complained to their advisors about her, and I suspect the
administration is forcing her to give everyone a redo. It doesn’t
reflect well on Briar when more than half the students in a course
are flunking, especially when it’s not just the slackers. Straight-A
students like Nell, who’s sulking beside me, also bombed the
midterm.
“For those of you who choose to take it again, your two grades
will be averaged. If you do worse the second time, the first grade
will stand,” Tolbert finishes.
“I can’t believe you got an A,” Nell whispers to me.
She looks so upset that I feel a pang of sympathy. Nell and I
aren’t best pals or anything, but we’ve been sitting next to each
other since September so it’s only reasonable that we’ve gotten to
know each other. She’s on the pre-med path, and I know she comes
from an overachieving family who would lay into her if they found
out about her midterm grade.
“I can’t believe it either,” I whisper back. “Seriously. Read my
answers. They’re ramblings of nonsense.”
“Actually, can I?” She sounds eager now. “I’m curious to see
what the Tyrant considers A material.”
“I’ll scan and email you a copy tonight,” I promise.
The second Tolbert dismisses us, the lecture hall echoes with
let’s-get-the-hell-outta-here noises. Laptops snap shut, notebooks
slide into backpacks, students shuffle out of their seats.
Justin Kohl lingers near the door to talk to someone, and my
gaze locks in on him like a missile. He’s beautiful.
Have I mentioned how beautiful he is?
My palms go clammy as I stare at his handsome profile. He’s new
to Briar this year, but I’m not sure which college he transferred from,
and although he wasted no time becoming the star wide receiver on
the football team, he’s not like the other athletes at this school. He
doesn’t strut through the quad with one of those I’m-God’s-gift-to
the-world smirks or show up with a new girl on his arm every day.
I’ve seen him laugh and joke with his teammates, but he gives off
an intelligent, intense vibe that makes me think there are hidden
depths to him. Which just makes me all the more desperate to get to
know him.
I’m not usually into jocks, but something about this one has
turned me into a mindless pile of mush.
“You’re staring again.”
Nell’s teasing voice brings a blush to my cheeks. She’s caught me
drooling over Justin on more than one occasion, and she’s one of the
few people I’ve admitted the crush to.
My roommate Allie also knows, but my other friends? Hell no.
Most of them are music or drama majors, so I guess that makes us
the artsy crowd. Or maybe emo. Aside from Allie, who’s had an on
again/off-again relationship with a frat boy since freshman year, my
friends get a kick out of trashing Briar’s elite. I don’t usually join in (I
like to think gossiping is beneath me) but…let’s face it. Most of the
popular kids are total douchebags.
Case in point—Garrett Graham, the other star athlete in this
class. Dude walks around like he owns the place. I guess he kind of
does. All he has to do is snap his fingers and an eager girl appears
at his side. Or jumps into his lap. Or sticks her tongue down his
throat.
He doesn’t look like the BMOC today, though. Almost everyone
else has gone, including Tolbert, but Garrett remains in his seat, his
fists curled tightly around the edges of his booklet.
He must have failed too, but I don’t feel much sympathy for the
guy. Briar is known for two things—hockey and football, which isn’t
much of a shocker considering Massachusetts is home to both the
Patriots and the Bruins. The athletes who play for Briar almost
always end up in the pros, and during their years here they get
everything handed to them on a silver platter—including grades.
So yeah, maybe it makes me a teeny bit vindictive, but I get a
sense of triumph from knowing that Tolbert is failing the captain of
our championship-winning hockey team right along with everyone
else.
“Wanna grab something from the Coffee Hut?” Nell asks as she
gathers her books.
“Can’t. I’ve got rehearsal in twenty minutes.” I get up, but I don’t
follow her to the door. “Go on ahead. I need to check the schedule
before I go. Can’t remember when my next tutorial is.”
Another “perk” of being in Tolbert’s class—along with our weekly
lecture, we’re forced to attend two thirty-minute tutorials a week. On
the bright side, Dana the TA runs those, and she has all the qualities
Tolbert lacks. Like a sense of humor.
“’Kay,” Nell says. “I’ll see you later.”
“Later,” I call after her.
At the sound of my voice, Justin pauses in the doorway and turns
his head.
Oh. My. God.
It’s impossible to stop the flush that rises in my cheeks. This is
the first time we’ve ever made eye contact, and I don’t know how to
respond. Say hi? Wave? Smile?
In the end, I settle for a small nod of greeting. There. Cool and
casual, befitting of a sophisticated college junior.
My heart skips a beat when the corner of his mouth lifts in a faint
grin. He nods back, and then he’s gone.
I stare at the empty doorway. My pulse explodes in a gallop
because holy shit. After six weeks of breathing the same air in this
stuffy lecture hall, he’s finally noticed me.
I wish I were brave enough to go after him. Maybe ask him to
grab a coffee. Or dinner. Or brunch—wait, do people our age even
have brunch?
But my feet stay rooted to the shiny laminate floor.
Because I’m a coward. Yep, a total chicken-shit coward. I’m
terrified that he’ll say no, but I’m even more terrified he’ll say yes.
I was in a good place when I started college. My issues solidly
behind me, my guard lowered. I was ready to date again, and I did.
I dated several guys, but other than my ex, Devon, none of them
made my body tingle the way Justin Kohl does, and that freaks me
out.
Baby steps.
Right. Baby steps. That was my therapist’s favorite piece of
advice, and I can’t deny that the strategy helped me a lot. Focus on
the small victories, Carole always advised.
So…today’s victory…I nodded at Justin and he smiled at me. Next
class, maybe I’ll smile back. And the one after that, maybe I’ll bring
up the coffee, dinner, or brunch idea.
I take a breath as I head down the aisle, clinging to that feeling
of victory, however teeny it may be.
Baby steps.
GARRETT
I FAILED.
I fucking failed.
For fifteen years, Timothy Lane handed out A’s like mints. The
year I take the class? Lane’s ticker quits ticking, and I get stuck with
Pamela Tolbert.
It’s official. The woman is my archenemy. Just the sight of her
flowery handwriting—which fills up every inch of available space in
the margins of my midterm—makes me want to go Incredible Hulk
on the booklet and rip it to shreds.
I’m rocking A’s in most of my other courses, but as of right now,
I’m getting an F in Philosophical Ethics. Combined with the C-plus in
Spanish history, my average has dropped to a C-minus.
I need a C-plus average to play hockey.
Normally I have no problem keeping my GPA up. Despite what a
lot of folks believe, I’m not a dumb jock. But hey, I don’t mind letting
people think I am. Women, in particular. I guess they’re turned on
by the idea of screwing the big brawny caveman who’s only good for
one thing, but since I’m not looking for anything serious, casual
hookups with chicks that only want my dick suit me just fine. Gives
me more time to focus on hockey.
But there won’t be any more hockey if I don’t bring up this
grade. The worst thing about Briar? Our dean demands excellence—
academically and athletically. While other schools might be more
lenient toward athletes, Briar has a zero-tolerance policy.
Fuckin’ Tolbert. When I spoke to her before class asking for extra
credit, she told me in that nasally voice of hers to attend the
tutorials and meet with the study group. I already do both. So yeah,
unless I hire some whiz kid to wear a mask of my face and take the
makeup midterm for me…I’m screwed.
My frustration manifests itself in the form of an audible groan,
and from the corner of my eye I see someone jerk in surprise.
I jerk too, because here I thought I was wallowing in my misery
alone. But the girl who sits in the back row has stuck around, and
she’s making her way down the aisle toward Tolbert’s desk.
Mandy?
Marty?
I
can’t remember her name. Probably because I’ve never
bothered to ask for it. She’s cute, though. A helluva lot cuter than I
realized. Pretty face, dark hair, smokin’ body—shit, how have I never
noticed that body before?
But I’m noticing now. Skinny jeans cling to a round, perky ass
that just screams “squeeze me,” and her V-neck sweater hugs a
seriously impressive rack. I don’t have time to admire either of those
appealing visuals because she catches me staring and a frown
touches her mouth.
“Everything okay?” she asks with a pointed look.
I grumble something under my breath. I’m not in the mood to
talk to anyone at the moment.
One dark eyebrow rises in my direction. “Sorry, was that
English?”
I
ball up my midterm and scrape my chair back. “I said
everything’s fine.”
“Okay, then.” She shrugs and continues down the steps.
As she picks up the clipboard that contains our tutorial schedule,
I fling my Briar Hockey jacket on, then shove my pathetic midterm
into my backpack and zip it up.
The dark-haired girl heads back to the aisle. Mona? Molly? The M
sounds right, but the rest is a mystery. She has her midterm in hand,
but I don’t sneak a peek because I assume she failed just like
everyone else.
I let her pass before I step into the aisle. I suppose I can say it’s
the gentleman in me, but that would be a lie. I want to check out
her ass again, because it’s a damn sexy ass, and now that I’ve seen
it I wouldn’t mind another look. I follow her up to the exit, suddenly
realizing how frickin’ tiny she is—I’m one step below her yet I can
see the top of her head.
Just as we reach the door, she stumbles on absolutely nothing
and the books in her hand clatter to the floor.
“Shit. I’m such a klutz.”
She drops to her knees and so do I, because contrary to my
previous statement, I can be a gentleman when I want to be, and
the gentlemanly thing to do is help her gather her books.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine,” she insists.
But my hand has already connected with her midterm, and my
jaw drops when I see her grade