by G. , Whitney
“Okay, look, Rachel, don’t take this personally but …” He sighed, running his hand through his hair. “You’re a nice girl and all, like really nice, but …”
“But what?”
“I was trying to fuck and you weren’t, okay?” He placed his hands on my shoulders. “That’s it. You were talking about a long-term relationship after we’d only dated for two months, and we hadn’t even fucked once. I liked you, but not enough to keep writing you letters and shit like we were in a long-distance relationship.”
“You did write me a letter. One.”
“Well, I’m honestly shocked I wrote that.” He laughed.
“It was the one where you clearly lied about having a life-threatening disease!” I pushed his hands away. “Thank you for finally being honest, but just so you know, I would’ve fucked you eventually!”
Everyone in the bar suddenly became quiet, and the DJ turned down the music.
“I’m very sorry, Rachel,” he said, lowering his voice. “I shouldn’t have lied to you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. You should’ve said, I’m an asshole and the only reason I joined this program is because I want to fuck.” I felt someone grabbing my hand from behind, someone trying to tug me away from him, but I jerked it back. “Like, do you know how many times I prayed for you! Are you really that much of a coward, that you couldn’t break up with me like a normal person?”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” He looked around, noticing that other people were watching us. “You’re the type who wanted something serious, and I didn’t. I mean, let’s be real, Rach. We wouldn’t have been able to keep up with each other via social media, and the email service only worked every now and then. Did you really think we would last once my semester on the ship was over?”
“You told me that you read romance books,” I said. “Was that part true, or was that a lie, too?”
He sighed and shook his head, and before I could get my next word out, I was being lifted up and tossed over someone’s shoulder. Ethan’s shoulder.
Undeterred and still feeling some type of way, I shouted, “I hope you get the help you need for that flesh-eating disease on your cock, Jordan Hampton! Sorry we didn’t quite work out, but I’ll keep you in my prayers!”
He glared at me as I was carried away, and the second I was outside, I heard everyone inside laughing. The DJ turned the music right back up.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ said, laughing, “I guess this is a perfect time to play you my new Days of Our Lives mix.”
Ethan carried me to his car and opened the passenger door, setting me right on the seat. He buckled my seatbelt and placed the child safety lock on the door before sliding behind the wheel.
He shook his head as he pulled off onto the street, and as we approached a red light, he looked over at me. “So, what were you saying about not being a hothead anymore?”
“I was saying that I hate when people lie to me.” I looked at him. “I really liked him.”
“You like every guy you date, Rachel,” he said. “You’re so in love with the idea of being in love, that you’ll fall for damn near anyone.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “What do you know about dating anyway? Every girl you’ve ever dated is the product of a drunken one-night stand or you wanting someone to sleep with for the summer.”
“We’re not talking about me right now.”
“We should be,” I said. “Who are you to give me any type of advice on my love life?”
“You’d have to have a love life for me to help you with it.” He rolled his eyes, slowing at a stop sign. “I’m just pointing out the fucking obvious.”
“Can we stop talking now?” I asked. “I think we’ve used up all our cordial conversation points for the week, and I just want to get back to my room.”
He clenched his jaw, but he didn’t say anything else.
I spent the rest of the ride staring out the window, more upset with him than Jordan Hampton. Even after we’d spent years apart, he was still so damn arrogant, and he honestly thought he knew me.
* * *
Later that night …
Even though I was borderline drunk, I decided not to spend the rest of my night holed up in my room. I took a campus shuttle to the student center and stepped aboard one of Salt Beach’s Midnight Freshmen Bus Tours. A university tradition, they ran every hour on the hour, and they were supposed to be the best way to meet and make new friends.
I’d seen the glossy pictures of the decked-out busses in the university’s brochures, heard amazing things about the “first ride” from all my former shipmates, so I figured I might as well try it, since it was my first and last year on campus.
As blue and red fireworks lit up the dark sky, I leaned back in my seat and quickly realized that I would not be meeting or making any new friends tonight. I also realized that there was such a thing as “a stupid question,” and freshmen girls had plenty of them.
“Since this is a ‘wet campus’ that means that we can drink, right?” someone asked.
“Only if you’re twenty-one.” The tour guide, a redheaded senior, smiled as she stood at the front of the bus.
“Well, why not just make it a ‘dry campus’ so nobody can drink and all can be fair? Oh, and speaking of fairness, why is it that only the students who are twenty-one are given the opportunity for the university-sponsored trips over vacation breaks?”
“I’ll answer that in just a minute,” she said. “Ladies, if you look to your left, you’ll see the newest addition to our campus, The Beach Wave Complex & Study Center. This state of the art building houses two connected libraries, four media rooms with theater seating, three cafes, and an extended balcony of desks that face the beach.”
Everyone “Oohed” and “Ahhed” as the bus slowly drove by the massive white building. I held out my phone and snapped pictures.
“We’re now about to make a U-turn and re-discuss any of the places you may want extra information about on the way back,” the tour guide said. “Does anyone have any questions for me?”
“Are there any hot guys at this school?” A girl at the front of the bus asked. “I haven’t seen too many yet, and I’m trying to get married by graduation.”
“There are plenty of hot guys here. Since our football team hasn’t won a game in three years, you’ll find most of the cute players at the after-parties. Our basketball team is just as terrible and a lot of those players are just as available as the fraternity guys you’ll see this weekend. Oh, and our homecoming king for the past three years in a row is the sexiest guy you’ll ever see in your life. Trust me. Any other questions?”
I raised my hand. “Can you tell me the hours that The Beach Wave Complex & Study Center will be open?”
“No, wait.” The girl next to me interrupted. “Is the homecoming king you mentioned on the football team?”
“Ha! No, but I’m sure he could be if he wanted to. He’s pretty athletic.”
“What’s his name?” The girl in front of me waved her hand. “I want to look him up on Facebook right now.”
“Ethan Wyatt,” the guide said. “His last name is spelled W-Y-A-T-T.”
What?
I leaned back and rolled my eyes. Then I pinched myself to make sure that this was really happening.
Ethan was the most braggadocious person I knew and I couldn’t believe that 1) He never told me that he won Homecoming King at our college three times in a row. 2) He still had a Facebook page, since he often complained about the random “pokes” and messages he received on a daily basis. And 3) Women were swooning over him like he was some type of Sex God.
“Jesus …” “Oh my god …” “Wow …” Every single girl on the bus made sounds as his profile lit up their screens. I waited for the tour to resume, but even the bus driver played along and looked at the tour guide’s phone.
She sat there and missed a green light for this?
I leaned over and looked at the picture
my seatmate was intensely gawking at. In it, Ethan was standing in front of a huge pool, sporting nothing but white swim trunks and a smile. His perfectly carved abs were dripping wet, and some of the droplets were sitting on his well-tanned skin. A light trail of hair was leading down to his “V,” and the black and blue tattoo on the right side of his chest looked even sexier in person than it did in his photo. The look in his ocean blue eyes was playful and tempting, and he was giving the photographer one of his “I know you’re attracted to me” smiles.
Seeing him like this, without his mouth moving, made me (halfway) understand why so many women fawned over him. Only halfway, though.
The girl next to me zoomed in on the picture, at the crotch area of his shorts. Then she took a screenshot.
Ugh!
“So, about those library hours …” I stood up at my seat. “Can you tell me what those are since the website still hasn’t updated them?”
My words might as well have been tossed into the wind.
“Is Ethan a senior?” “Do you have any classes with him?” “Where does he usually hang out?”
The rest of the informational tour came to an abrupt end, and for the rest of the ride, I sat and listened as they all went on and on about Ethan.
By the time I took the campus shuttle back to the beach house, it was two in the morning, and Ethan’s powder blue convertible was nowhere in sight.
Smiling at that fact, I walked inside, wanting to spend an hour in the hot tub before bed. But instead of steaming waters on the deck, I saw towering flames.
What the …
I rushed outside and saw Greg fanning the fire with a T-shirt. For a second, I thought he was trying to make the flames bigger. It wasn’t until he screamed, “Holy shit! They’re not stopping!” that I realized the T-shirt was his attempt to put it out.
Shaking my head, I walked over to the fire extinguisher that was hanging right behind him and pulled the pin—spraying the flames to ashes within seconds.
“I could’ve sworn that Ethan said no bonfires, Greg,” I said.
“He did.” He kicked at the metal container that had held the flames. “That’s why I bought a fire pit. Completely different thing and way safer. I just forgot to put a cover on it before lighting it, so the flames caught me off-guard.” He held out his pinky like a five-year-old. “As new friends, this will be our first secret. We will not tell Ethan a goddamn thing and I won’t light any more fires.”
“Promise?” I laughed and held out my pinky.
“I fucking promise.”
Track 7. Getaway Car (4:16)
Ethan
One week later …
“Ladies and gentlemen!” My Econ IV professor stood at the front of the classroom. “I want to personally welcome you to a special class called Hell on Earth.”
Everyone in class laughed as he hit the lights.
“I’m not joking,” he said, his voice terse. The laughter dissolved into silence, and everyone opened their notebooks, as he wrote a few words on the whiteboard.
“Hey.” The girl on my left cleared her throat, making me look at her.
“Yeah?” I whispered.
She smiled and just stared at me. Then she snapped a picture and left the room.
I held back a laugh.
Definitely a freshman …
“My name is Professor Hughes,” my instructor continued. “For the next semester, you need to be prepared to be pushed like never before. My job is to weed out the people who won’t make it in business school, from the people who might survive a week or two in business school.”
He began passing out his syllabus as the screen behind him lit up. The words on the screen read You have until next week to drop my class without penalty. When he reached my desk, he raised his eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything.
“If you want to pass this class, you will need to eat, breathe, and sleep economics. You will have a test every other Thursday, an analysis paper due every Tuesday, and you’re responsible for presenting a fifteen-page thesis paper on a topic that I must approve by the fifth of next month. Are there any questions?”
A few people raised their hands.
“None at all?”
More hands flew into the air.
“Very well, then.” He smiled and hit the lights. “Class dismissed.”
A few students tried to approach him with questions, but he only said, “Class dismissed.” repeatedly until they walked away.
I shut my notebook and stood to my feet.
“Mr. Wyatt?” He said looking at me. “Can you join me down at the podium for a few minutes?”
“Sure.” I made my way down, and he waited until no one else was left in the classroom.
“Mr. Wyatt, why are you taking my class this semester?”
“Because I need it to graduate.”
“You took the more advanced Econ V last year, and it pained me to give you my first A in six years,” he said, smiling. “You’ll more than likely breeze through Econ IV, and I’ll be forced to give you another one.” He tapped his chin. “That might affect my reputation around here as the ‘C-plus & B-minus professor’, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
I blinked. I could never tell if he was joking or being serious.
“Aren’t you double majoring in Creative Writing? Can’t you take one of those classes instead of this one for the semester?”
“I’ve already completed all the required courses for that major,” I said, somewhat upset that the rest of my classes for my senior year would be devoid of any writing.
“Tell you what, Mr. Wyatt,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I’m going to give you an S-grade for this course, which means you don’t have to show up, but it comes with two conditions.”
“I’d really prefer an A.”
“Let me finish. Condition number one: I’m always in charge of overseeing the final logistics of the annual senior lodge trip, and I’ve never once worried about the students who were voted to be in charge of it. This year is the first year that I’m concerned.”
“What do you mean?”
“The mayor’s son, Greg Charleston III, is the committee president. Yesterday he came into my office and asked if there was any extra money in the budget for a TF-fund. He said he wanted to make sure that everyone has a good time.”
“What’s a TF-fund?”
“I had to ask him that same question.” He rolled his eyes. “It stands for The Fucking Fund. He wants to purchase three packs of premium condoms for every person on the trip.”
I held back a smile.
“He’s already spent ten percent of the budget on alcohol and S’more ingredients, and yesterday I saw a charge for some type of specialty fire lighter.” He shook his head. “I’m too old for this shit, so you’re officially responsible for handling the oversight on this trip as of today.”
“Noted. What’s the second condition?”
“The one that might actually help you put your business skills to use,” he said. “My wife owns a floral store on Main Street that only makes a profit during the summer season,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to have some students complete a semester-long research project on it, so I can get some answers on how we can make it profitable year-round, but–” He paused. “I don’t trust any of them. There. I said it. So, in exchange for a recommendation letter and an S-grade—”
“A recommendation and an A-grade.”
“I’ll still have to take a super hard look at the work you turn in if you want a real grade, Mr. Wyatt,” he said tersely, as if giving me another A would kill him. “Anyway, I’d like for you to do a thorough analysis of my wife’s shop for the semester instead of showing up to class and wasting my time. What do you say?”
I hesitated to answer, not wanting to give away the fact that his offer was perfect.
“I accept your offer, Professor Hughes.” I extended my hand, and he shook it. “What’s the name of the store?”
“Oh, right.”
He opened a briefcase and handed me a business card. “It’s called The Silk Stem, and it’s right across from The Ripped Bodice. It’s that bookstore that only sells romance books.” He laughed. “I’m sure you have no idea where that is.”
I know exactly where that is …
* * *
An hour later, I stood across the street from a pink and white building–looking up at the glittering silver Ripped Bodice letters.
I came here every few weeks out of habit, armed with a list of Rachel’s favorite authors. Since she made it a point to beg for a shipment of new books whenever we were on good terms, I always checked for new releases.
Sure enough, Rachel was already inside the store—staring at the New Releases shelf. She was dressed in bleach white shorts with a bright yellow tank top, and her hair was tossed to one side in loose curls.
All last night, while I was at a bar, I’d listened to all of my friends talk about “the new Semester at Sea girl.”
“Sexiest girl on campus. Hands down.” “Where the hell has she been, and who the hell is she dating?” “What do you mean she’s your roommate?”
Before I could make my way over, my phone sounded in my pocket. A call from my father.
Groaning, I debated whether I should answer it.
“Hello?” I caved before it went to voicemail.“Hey there, son.” My dad’s voice sounded less condescending than usual. “How are you doing today?”
“Good. What’s up?”
“I’m wondering why you’ve canceled all your work hours at the site for the next few months. I logged into the system, and I can’t figure out why the hell you would ever think that this is okay.”
Spoke too soon about you not being condescending today …
“I have a new assignment that’s going to take up a lot of my time this semester. I need to get an A.”
“Son, in case you’ve forgotten, you’re on track to take over this business the moment you get your MBA. If you think for one second that anyone here gives a damn about whether you make a C or an A in your college classes, you’re sadly mistaken.”