The Learning Hours

by Sara Ney

  Jamming my cell into the back pocket of my jeans, I watch as the beautiful girl from the party props her elbow against the white pillar, one ankle hooked around the other casually as she stands there with a cup in her hand.

  She tries again. “Not having any fun?”

  I let my eyes study the length of her hips and long legs, wondering if they’re as silky as they look. I examine those legs and the black cork wedges buckled at the ankle.

  “I, uh, was waitin’ for someone who didn’t bother showing up.”

  “Bummer.” She stares down, out into the dark yard. “Didn’t feel like getting dressed up in a toga?”

  “No. Didn’t you?”

  “Nope—that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Those red, shiny lips curve in the moonlight. “A guy.”

  Obviously. Girls like her always have a guy.

  She seems to be taking my measure; even in the dark, I can feel her eyes roaming my body. “What about you?” she asks. “Here for a hookup or just to get drunk?”

  “Neither.”

  “Oh?”

  I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans, the ones I washed and laid flat to dry, just for tonight. For Alex.

  “Are you here for a girl then?”

  My head shakes. “I shouldn’t have come out tonight anyway, so I’m going home.”

  “Why shouldn’t you have come out? Was she not worth it?”

  “I thought she might be, but I was wrong.”

  Why the hell am I telling her all this? Like she gives a shit.

  “So where is she?”

  “Didn’t bother comin’.”

  The redhead snorts, undignified. “If she couldn’t bother coming, then she’s probably not worth it.”

  “It still pisses me off though, because I wasted my time and could have gotten in trouble.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Athletic code.”

  “Do you always follow the rules? Because there are athletes crawling all over the place in there.” She flips her thumb in the general direction of the house behind her.

  “I do when it could cost me my scholarship.”

  “Ahh, I see.” She pauses, rich, glossy hair gleaming under the dim porch light. It’s like a sheet of thick satin and looks twice as touchable.

  “Are you lost or somethin’? I mean, did you follow me out here for a reason?”

  Again, she regards me. “Just curious, I suppose. One second you were staring at me”—she snaps her fingers—“and the next you were gone.”

  I have nothing to say to that.

  “Don’t worry, I was staring at you, too.” Her soft voice carries in the dark. “Won’t your friends inside miss you?”

  Not likely, but her statement gives me pause. “Why the fuck were you watchin’ me?”

  Yes, it’s rude, but come on, both of us know it makes no fucking sense.

  A soft little laugh. “Why on Earth would that surprise you?”

  Noise and laughter and loud music from inside the house save me from replying. Someone begins chanting, “Chug, chug, chug,” and it’s quickly followed by raucous cheering. The crowd goes wild.

  The front door opens, regurgitating drunk students by the half dozen. Some of them stumble down the wooden steps on unsteady feet, others to the edge of the porch to smoke or talk, make out.

  The girl rises to her full height, runs those pale hands along her hips. I watch as her long legs descend the stairs, colt-like in their lithe movements. Her hand slides down the railing, index finger trailing the wood slowly, a catlike smile pulling at her lips.

  She stops in front of me when she reaches the ground, our faces inches apart.

  It’s too dark to make out the color of her eyes, but her black lashes flutter in my direction, long and stark, a contradiction to her light skin.

  She’s more beautiful up close up than she is from a distance, the smell of fresh air, lemons, and spilled beer hitting my nostrils all at once.

  A long finger taps her chin. “I feel like I know you.”

  “Trust me, you don’t.”

  “Oh, but I think I do.” She says it in a lazy drawl, red mouth forming each syllable.

  “I would remember.” I would definitely remember a girl like this.

  I take a step backward before doing something stupid, like trying to smell her again.

  Her mouth downturns into a pretty pout. “You’re not leaving yet, are you?”

  “I assumed we were done talkin’.”

  “You don’t want me to keep you company?”

  I swear, if my jaw wasn’t locked down from my scowl, it would fall open from shock. Is this chick for real? She cannot possibly want to stand here in the dark and keep talking to me.

  Me.

  Not when there are fifty better-looking guys inside the house. Better-looking. Hot. The football quarterback. The forward for the hockey team. Preppy fraternity brothers.

  What the hell could she possibly want with me?

  She sighs. “You’re not very chatty, are you?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what’s goin’ on here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you want?” She’s way too pretty, way too far out of my league, rank, and status to be talking to me, and we both know it.

  “I just wanted to see…” She swallows, her narrow shoulders moving up and down with a shrug. Every perfect line in her beautiful face is illuminated by the porch lights. The porcelain skin. The pert bow of her expertly outlined lips. “It’s hard to explain.”

  I watch as she takes several steps backward to the banister rail at the foot of the stairs, rear end leaning against the wooden pole for support. Watching me, a strange expression crosses her face.

  “I don’t feel…familiar to you at all?”

  “Uh, no.”

  She frowns. “You don’t recognize my voice or anything?”

  “Should I?”

  “No, I guess not.” Her sigh is long and wistful. “Aren’t you going to ask my name?”

  I raise my brows and tilt my head. “Sure.”

  “It’s Laurel.”

  Laurel. She looks like a Laurel, delicate and beautiful and romantic. The name suits her.

  I venture forward a few hesitant steps. She obviously wants to talk, so what would be the harm?

  “What year are you?”

  “Junior. You?”

  “Same. Are you from Iowa?”

  She smiles at my reply. “No. Illinois.”

  “I uh, have a…friend from Illinois that goes here.” I slouch, shuffling my weight from one leg to another. “I’m a transfer student on the wrestling team. I was recruited from Louisiana.”

  “Recruited?”

  “For wrestling. I’m a wrestler,” I repeat dumbly, wondering abruptly if she’s seen the fucking posters with my face and cell phone number hanging around campus.

  Maybe she recognized me and followed me out here.

  Morbid curiosity—wanted to meet the guy who needs to get laid, live and in person. She recognizes my face; I’d bet money on it.

  “You can get recruited your junior year?”

  “Apparently.”

  She doesn’t respond to that, instead taking a dainty sip of beer out of the red plastic cup that clashes with her hair. “How is Iowa treating you?”

  I shrug. “It’s fine.”

  “Just fine?”

  “They didn’t exactly roll out the ol’ welcome mat.” I shift my weight, uncomfortable with the subject.

  “Do you have siblings?”

  “Yes, two brothers.”

  “Ahh,” she says, relaxing against the newel post. “You look a little rough and tumble, like you’ve gotten into a few brawls.”

  Actually, besides with my brothers, I’ve never been in a single fight my entire life. Never decked anyone or been in a scuffle, not even close. I stay away from trouble, and with the exception of these random nights out with m
y teammates, I’ve never been a big drinker either.

  That probably makes me the least exciting athlete I know, but I’ve got standards, and partying isn’t at the top of my priority list.

  “I might be big, but I’m not a brute.”

  Her eyes flicker up and down my body. “I can see that.”

  Laurel’s concentrated scrutiny makes me feel awkward, like I’m ignorant and unsophisticated.

  “You don’t look like the kind of guy who gets off on fraternity parties.”

  “I’m not.”

  “So this girl you came to meet—you like her?”

  “I was tryin’ to figure that out.”

  “So you haven’t met?”

  “Not in person.” Fuck this is humiliating. “I thought I’d…go outside my comfort zone for once.”

  “That’s sweet.” Her voice makes me shiver. “Really sweet.”

  “Is it?” Shit, do I sound too hopeful? I hope not.

  “Yeah, it is. Really nice.” She releases her hold on the newel post, taking a few hesitant steps toward me. “Guys just don’t care anymore.”

  “About courtin’ you mean?”

  “Courtin’.” She repeats it almost breathlessly, mimicking my accent, eyes sparkling.

  “Shit, sorry, I forgot that’s a southern thing. I meant datin’—you know.”

  “I know what you meant.” Laurel tilts her head, studying my face. The lines around her eyes soften, red lips curve. “I like talking to you.”

  My only reply? Shoving my hands deeper into the pockets of my jeans and shifting on the balls of my feet.

  “Can I say something else?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “I like your voice. It’s…” Her sweet voice trails off, pauses. “It’s charming.”

  Charming?

  I must look fucking confused, because she laughs, holding her flat belly. “The look on your face right now. Oh! It’s so cute. You look so confused.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I just meant your voice is…perfect. I love your accent. I could listen to you talk all night.”

  She shivers, a queer expression on her face that I’m unable to decipher. It’s disconcerting.

  “It’s kind of cold. Sure you don’t want to go back inside?”

  “I was thinking I’d head home if you’re heading in my direction. Are you walking?”

  “I came with friends, but yeah, I’m walkin’ home.”

  “Walkin’,” she repeats with my twang. “Would you mind the company?”

  “Which way do you need to—”

  Just then, there’s a commotion on the porch. The heavy door flies open and two girls fall out. Laughing and loud, they giggle their way across the porch, stumbling.

  Spot us in the yard, talking.

  “Laurel, Laurel, there you are!” She hiccups. “What are you doing out here?” The girl is short with long black hair, and I study her. Cute. “We’ve been looking everywhere and every over for you!”

  The girl is drunk, so drunk.

  Laurel’s eyes slide closed with a loud groan. “Talking to someone—I’m going to head home. You can go back inside; it’s getting cold out.”

  The blonde girl holds a hand over her eyes, searching the yard like she’s scanning the horizon. “Who are you out here with? I can’t see.” She huffs. “What did we tell you about going off alone? Are you trying to get roofied?”

  “Or raped?” the girl with the black hair practically shouts into the yard. “No going off alone, jeez! Do you think I want to play babysitter at a dumb frat party?”

  “I’m just making new friends.” Laurel holds both her hands up, still facing me. She gives me a wink and a smile, like we’re sharing a secret. “I’m fine, see?”

  That doesn’t stop her black-haired friend from trying to make out my form in the dark. She takes a few steps closer, down the steps to get a better look, squinting through heavily made-up eyes.

  “Hey…do I know him?” She points an unsteady finger my direction. “Do I know you?”

  “Ugh, let’s just go back inside, Alex,” the blonde says impatiently, obviously desperate to get back to the party. “She’s fine. She’s alive. You can tell your moms to chill out now.”

  Black hair.

  Alex.

  “Alex?” I ask. “You’re Alex?” Wow. I don’t know why, but she’s much prettier than I was expecting. “You said you weren’t coming.”

  She lied.

  “Alex, can you please go back inside.” Laurel steps in front of me, blocking my view.

  Alex ignores us both. “Wait, I do know him. I mean, I don’t know him know him, but I recognize him.”

  I don’t know what the fuck is going on right now but the wheels are starting to spin real fuckin’ fast.

  “Alex, please,” Laurel begs. “Go inside.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I put my hand up to stave her off. “She’s who I came here to see.”

  Alex snaps her fingers, doing a weird little hop and clapping her hands while chanting, “Oh my God oh my God, you’re him!”

  Her abrupt movements send the beer in her hand dumping over the side of her red plastic cup. “You’re the guy! Get Rett Laid! Oh my God, Laurel, that’s the guy! Did you tell him it was you? Sexting? Were. Was.” She bends at the waist, laughing hysterically. “Where is Dylan? I want sex.”

  “Oh my God, Alex, please just go away!” Laurel shouts, stomping her foot and pointing at the front door. “Go back inside!”

  But drunk Alex only laughs, laughs and laughs and snorts, spilling beer onto the porch. The little blonde beside her gives up holding her cup too, tossing it into the yard with a hundred others.

  It lands near my feet.

  “Laurel,” Alex screeches, drunk. “Dude, has she told you how she tricked you? That was very bad of you to tell her to fuck off, Mister Get Laid. Bad bad bad.” She’s shaking her finger like she’s reprimanding a child.

  Face flaming hot, I look back and forth between them.

  Alex on the porch. Laurel alongside me.

  Laurel is Alex.

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  I’m not an idiot, so it only takes me an instant to figure out what the fuck is actually going on here, and no way in hell am I standing around to find out the rest. Starting across the lawn, balled up fists jammed into my pockets, I stalk to the sidewalk, step onto the road to cross it as the sound of my name carries in the breeze behind me.

  “Rhett, wait!”

  Of course she knows my fucking name.

  She calls it with such familiarity my gut clenches; all those questions she stood there asking me, she already knew the damn answers to.

  Mon Dieu je suis bête. God I’m an idiot.

  I keep walking. Stalking toward campus, back toward my house.

  The telltale sound of her heels clicking against the asphalt urges me forward, quickens my pace to get as far away from that girl as possible.

  That fucking liar.

  That beautiful fucking liar—I hate her already.

  God she’s gorgeous.

  “Rhett, wait. Please!” She begs as the sound of her shoes slows, unable to keep up. “Please! Please stop, just let me…ouch! Dammit! Ow. Wait!”

  I hear her trip on the sidewalk and gradually slow my gait, stand on the pavement without turning around. I give her a chance to catch up, arms crossed defensively, waiting.

  Because I’m a nice fucking guy with a conscience and can’t leave her alone in the dark now that we’ve walked this far, not when it sounds like she’s gone and sprained her damned ankle.

  I hear the hard breathing, the huffs and puffs as she approaches from behind, the telltale sound of limping.

  Laurel stops a meager distance behind, close enough that I can see the steam rising from her mouth as she breathes in and out, warm exhalations mingling with the cold.

  We’re standing in silence as she stares holes into my chest, and I can see her deciding what to say, staring at
the same broad shoulders that have already carried the weight of so many burdens this year.

  She tries again. “I’m sorry I lied.” When I don’t respond, she babbles on. “We thought it was funny.”

  My body stiffens. “Funny.”

  “I saw you and your teammates at the Pancake House the day they stuck you with the entire bill. I was there with my roommate Donovan, watching.” She continues, talking a mile a minute, “Then my cousin brought one of those horrible posters to this lunch date we have every week and basically dared me to message you.”

  “A dare,” I deadpan.

  “Yes, but it sounds worse than it actually is because once you and I started talking and I realized you’re actually a really nice guy, I felt terrible.”

  “Because I’m nice? What if I had actually been an asshole? Would you have justified it differently?”

  “That’s not at all what I meant.”

  I stare down the street, past her, into the dark. “Well, I’m glad everyone was able to have a laugh. Ha ha.”

  “You don’t always have to be so nice to girls, you know, Rhett? Some of us don’t deserve it.”

  “That’s the dumbest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard come out of anyone’s mouth.”

  She tries again, shifting on her heels and shaking from the cold. “Some girls like assholes.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then maybe you should walk back to the Sig house to find one and let me walk away without making me feel like I’m the douche here and not you.”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to do! Why won’t you just accept my apology?”

  “Because you say so?” My snort comes out more obnoxious than I intended. “Because you’re pretty?”

  “No, because I’m sorry!”

  “I don’t want to accept your fucking apology, okay? It doesn’t mean shit to me.”

  “I don’t think you’d be standing here if it didn’t mean anything, Rhett.”

  “You know nothin’ about me,” I mutter the words low and quiet.

  “Maybe I want to. Has that occurred to you?”

  I have nothing to say to that because I don’t believe her. She’s just a beautiful, spoiled girl who wants to have her way, and I can’t believe I’m still standing here listening to her whine. I’m surprised she hasn’t brought on the waterworks.

  She seems like the type.