The Learning Hours

by Sara Ney

  Rhett’s arms are crossed and my brain automatically does that thing it naturally wants to do: checks out his muscles. His dense, smooth biceps and strong arms are overlapping, thumbs tucked under his pits.

  He’s huge.

  My mouth goes dry, the urge to lick my lips strong. I reach for my glass and take a drink of water instead, swallowing down the first real stirring of lust.

  Jeez he has a great body.

  I snuck peeks at it our entire walk to Luigi’s. Rhett’s height has him standing over me by a good six inches, and there’s no doubt he’s packing a serious physique under all those clothes. Hat twisted, brim to the back, his brown hair sticks out from beneath the cap in wispy curls. Broad shoulders, each straining muscle visible under that stretched purple shirt.

  Rhett’s neck cords with each swallow of hot, gooey pizza.

  His dark brown eyes regard me, not a single flash of desire reflected there, although they do keep flickering to the mop of flaming red hair piled atop my head, to my lips.

  I toy with a piece of cheese dangling from my next slice. “You’re probably right. I think it would be smart to take a class. It’s something I’ve wanted to do forever.”

  I can’t help letting my mind wander to what it would be like if he gave me a lesson or two—that big, strapping body flipping me to the ground, hovering over me, panting.

  I shiver.

  Guh.

  Down hormones. Down girls.

  Yes, I’ve dated insanely attractive guys, guys that are hotter than even I am, with amazing bodies and better stamina. Athletes with pedigree, gorgeous faces, and…no personality.

  Those guys didn’t give a shit about my safety, and they certainly weren’t trying to talk me into taking self-defense classes with my girlfriends.

  Now, I’m sitting here with Rhett, a nice guy who hasn’t objectified me once—not even when we were sexting the other night, no matter how hard I tried to make him take the bait.

  I wonder about his track record with women. When’s the last time he had sex? What turns him on? Physically, what’s his type?

  I stifle the thoughts when the bill comes, pull some cash out of my back pocket, slip a ten onto the table.

  “I’ve got it.” Rhett shakes his head, pushing the money back toward me in protest. I’ve gawt it.

  My chest swells.

  He’s so polite.

  “Rhett, you just had to charge four hundred dollars on your credit card. You don’t have to pay for the pizza,” I argue feebly. Something about the set of his jaw has me hesitating to push the issue.

  He shakes his head. “It’ll be fine; my parents will understand the reasons behind it.”

  “When are you going to tell them?”

  “I plan to do it after I win at Penn. They’ll watch it on TV, and then I’ll call while my old man is high off my victory.”

  I return the money to my pocket. Stand. Shrug into my jacket.

  Rhett waits by the door, holding it open for me like a gentleman so I can step out into the dark night. We walk in silence for the first block while I wrack my brain for something to say, growing more aware of his body heat the farther into the dark we stroll.

  “Sorry you have to go jogging tonight.”

  “Don’t worry about it—I’m used to it.”

  “Want me to come with you?”

  He stops in his tracks. “You’re a runner?”

  I’m thankful for the dim streetlights when my face heats up. “Well…no.”

  “Oh.” He starts walking again, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. “I keep a brisk pace that would probably kill you.” He shoots me a sidelong glance. “Do you play any sports?”

  “I do. I played volleyball here freshman and sophomore year.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  Shrugging, I kick at the pavement beneath my feet. “I hate to call it quitting—I’d rather call it burnout. I had no life and got sick of it. Plus, the drama from my teammates and practicing non-stop was exhausting. So one day I just…”

  I risk a glance in his direction, wondering if I’ll see disappointment etched across his expression.

  Athletes don’t usually identify with quitters, and if I’m being honest, I fall into that category.

  “What did your parents say?” he asks into the night.

  “They were relieved. I think they were sick of getting crying phone calls from me every week. Plus, I was a walk-on, not a scholarship athlete, so there was no free ride for tuition. My grades were suffering, and I can’t afford to be here five years.”

  Unlike Rhett, who was courted and recruited by not one, but multiple top-tier universities. I wonder how good he actually is, making a mental note to Google his stats when I get home.

  We walk the remaining three blocks, hands brushing a few times in the dark, neither of us choosing to break the distance by stepping away.

  We arrive at his Jeep.

  “Need a lift home?” His deep voice is a rumble in the night.

  My eyes flicker briefly to my SUV parked three spaces down. I clamp my lips shut.

  “Sure. That would be great.”

  Rhett hits his key fob, unlocking the doors. Pulls the passenger side open and holds it. “Hop in.”

  I get all melty at his chivalry, brush against him when I scoot past to scramble inside, settling into the cab of his Jeep with a sigh. Setting my backpack in my lap, I glance around curiously while he jogs around the front.

  He waves to someone coming down the sidewalk from the library. Throws them a smile.

  Yanks open his door and climbs up.

  “Which way we headed?”

  “I’m three blocks in the other direction, over near Kinsey. Know where that is?”

  “Huh,” he says, putting the Jeep in reverse. “That’s where I’m at.”

  “On Kinsey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m one over—technically I’m at the crossroad, McClintock, but everyone knows Kinsey so I just say that.”

  “Got it.”

  I study his profile, the bump in his nose. The strong set of his jaw. The stubble on his neck and chin. The reflection from the rearview mirror like a mask across his dark brown eyes.

  Surprisingly, the cab of the Jeep smells clean but masculine. Musky, like cologne, and not old gym socks.

  I’m tempted to scoot closer for a covert whiff of him but think better of it because, Jesus, I must be losing my damn mind. I can’t be attracted to him.

  Can I?

  Shit, what if I am?

  It takes a measly three minutes to reach my street, the glowing windows of our little college rental a small beacon at the end of the road, ramshackle but quaint.

  “I’m that one.” I point to the tiny white house on the corner, the one with dilapidated siding and a broken screen door. Our landlord hasn’t cut the grass or fixed the cracked window above our kitchen sink, but you can’t see any of those imperfections in the dark.

  Donovan and Lana’s cars are both gone.

  They must be at work.

  Still, the little light above our stove glows, dim but warm.

  “This one?” Rhett slows to a stop in front of my house, shifting the Jeep into park. His arm goes across the seat back, body arching to look out the windshield behind us. “See that house over there? The blue one?”

  I crane my neck, cheek brushing his hand. “Where?”

  I’m such a damn liar—I can totally see which house is his, the blue one with black trim. When his hand inadvertently brushes against the back of my neck, tickling the loose hairs…

  I shiver.

  “That one there. It’s…” He counts the houses between his house and mine. “Nine houses over.” He tips his chin down so he’s looking into my eyes. “What are the odds?”

  “What are the odds?” I repeat, whispering into the dark, staring at his profile when he glances out the driver-side window. I stare at his full lips.

  Rhett pulls away. “Where’s your car?”


  “Uh…my roommate has it. She must be working.”

  “You goin’ to be okay by yourself?”

  “I’m here alone all the time,” I remind him, in no rush to climb out.

  “Duh. Right.” He nods. Clears his throat. “Right.”

  Rhyt.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No problem.” When he smiles, jeez, it changes his whole face. His straight white teeth shining in the dim light, the small cleft visible in the center of his chin. I want to press my finger there just to see his reaction.

  “Good night, Rhett.”

  “À la prochaine, Laurel,” his mouth whispers, and holy mother my ovaries can’t take it. My crotch actually tingles.

  “Um, maybe don’t do that.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Speak French. Around me, specifically.”

  One brow rises. “All right…I won’t?”

  “Good.” My hand reaches reluctantly for the door handle. Grips it. “Okay. I should go inside, I guess.”

  “Night.”

  “See you around.”

  “Au revoir.”

  I narrow my eyes; he did that on purpose. “Bye.”

  “Laurel, do you need help getting out?”

  “No, I’m good.” I heft my backpack. “On second thought, this backpack is really heavy.”

  The poor boy looks so confused. “You need me to carry it?”

  “Would you?”

  “Uh…sure.”

  I wait for him to come around to the passenger side, open the door, remove the backpack from my very capable hands.

  Then I stand next to the Jeep, imagination getting the best of me, wanting him to try to kiss me against the cold, steel door of his car. Wanting him to put his hands on my body, slide them under my jacket. Drop my bag and press his lean hips into mine. Run his giant wrestler hands up my ribcage, under my shirt.

  I imagine all this while he stands waiting for me, imagine what it would be like if he touched me.

  He doesn’t.

  Of course he wouldn’t—why would he?

  He’s a freaking gentleman.

  I sigh, following him to my door.

  I’m quickly learning that Rhett Rabideaux isn’t most guys.

  Tres inconvenient.

  Rhett

  Laurel: I know I already mentioned it, but thank you for dinner tonight

  Me: You’re welcome.

  Laurel: And thanks for bringing me home. It wasn’t necessary.

  Me: No problem.

  Laurel: You’re a really nice guy, do you know that?

  Me: So I’ve been told.

  Laurel: What do you have going on this weekend?

  Me: Meet Friday. Back Saturday.

  Laurel: Oh that’s right, Ohio State. Do you think you’ll go out this weekend when you get back?

  Me: Probably not. I usually spend the weekend after a meet icing my body.

  Laurel: Do tell.

  Me: Ha ha.

  Laurel: Sigh. You are a tough crowd, Rhett Rabideaux.

  Me: Hey, can I ask you something?

  Laurel: Sure!

  Me: I was telling my roommates I drove you home tonight, and after I mentioned where you live and pointed out your house, one of them said they always see three cars parked in front of your house?

  Laurel: Ummmm.

  Me: Did your roommate borrow your car, or did something happen to it? Or…

  Laurel: No.

  Me: You can tell me if something happened to it, Laurel.

  Laurel: Promise you won’t get mad?

  Me: Sure?

  Laurel: My car is… God, I don’t know how to tell you this without sounding like a horrible person.

  Me: Jeez, just tell me where your car is. Did it get towed?

  Laurel: My car is parked in front of the library.

  Me: What do you mean?

  Laurel: I mean, my car was three spots down from your Jeep. It’s still sitting on campus—is that what you want me to say?

  Me: I don’t get it.

  Laurel: What don’t you get?

  Me: Why would you accept a ride home when your car was literally RIGHT there? Now you have to go back and get it.

  Laurel: Why don’t I let you figure that one out for yourself? Or if you really can’t figure it out, ask one of your more experienced roommates.

  The last text comes through and I shake my head, baffled. Why would she have had me take her home if her car was parked right there?

  It makes no goddamn sense.

  Fresh from the shower, I toss the towel I used to dry my hair onto the bathroom floor then walk into the front room. My roommates are both spread out on the couch, watching some dude on a home improvement show saw a piece of wood in half and nail it to a wall.

  I clear my throat. “Hey. Question.”

  “Shoot.” Neither takes their eyes off the giant screen.

  “So, remember how I told y’all I drove Laurel home, and then you said you always see three cars in her driveway? I messaged her about it.”

  “Yeah?” Gunderson’s ears perk up at the mention of a girl’s name, his eyes fastened to the TV.

  “She had her car at the library.”

  Eric points the remote at the TV, hits pause. “Your cars were both at the library?”

  “Right.”

  “But she had you give her a ride home.”

  “Yeah.”

  He points the remote, hits play. “Uh, yeah—she wants to bone you.”

  I laugh, crossing my arms.

  Johnson shakes his head, disgusted, and sneers. “The chick obviously wanted you to give her a ride home, fuckwit, and there’s only one reason why. How goddamn dumb are you?”

  “Fuck you, Johnson.”

  “No, fuck you, Rabideaux. That chick wants you to fuck her.”

  I stand there, holding my towel closed.

  “Honestly New Guy, if you can’t figure out what it means when a chick tries to be alone with you, your chances of getting laid at this point are slim to none.”

  “Agreed,” Gunderson chimes in. “She either has horribly bad taste in guys or is mentally unstable. Are you sure she’s hot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I interject again?” Eric interjects. “Members of the jury, I’d like to point out that this chick has been dicking you around for days, and you’re letting her lead you around by the balls. You need to either fuck her already or tell her to stop messaging you.”

  “Yes! Thank you!” Gunderson shouts, banging on the coffee table. “Exhibit A: first she lies to you about who she is. Exhibit B: she lied about her car and faked needing a ride.”

  My roommates are on a roll now. “New Guy, I don’t give a shit how hot this chick is, you need to dump her.”

  Gunderson nods enthusiastically “You cannot let bitches treat you that way, dude.”

  I listen to them rambling on and on as if I’m not standing here, wondering what the fuck is wrong with these two? Seriously, they’re so fucking ridiculous. And the way they talk about women? Not cool.

  No wonder they’re both single.

  Not that I have any room to talk, but still…

  “Can you not refer to her that way, please? Laurel isn’t a bitch.”

  “Maybe not, but she sounds calculating.”

  “Well, it’s your fault I’m in this mess to begin with, isn’t it? The whole thing with those damn flyers is the reason she and I are talking in the first place.”

  “But you admit she’s been lying from the beginning.”

  “Are you pre-law and didn’t tell anyone about it?” I ask him, narrowing my eyes at his cross-examination.

  He ignores me, ticking off Laurel’s offenses on his fingers. “And she’s a cock tease.”

  “How is she a cock tease?” These guys really are aggravating. “I’m not trying to sleep with her.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you that one concession—she’s not the cock tease, you are. Look, all we know is that this chick l
ikes you for some ungodly fucking reason—she must to be panting around after you like this.”

  I sigh. Why did I bother asking these two for their opinion?

  “That is not what’s happenin’ here, not at all. We’re friends—she wouldn’t date a guy like me.”

  “That’s probably true—you are pretty ugly.”

  “Fuck you, Gunderson.”

  Laurel

  I’ve been up every night this week.

  Night after night, fitful, lying in bed, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. After hours of restless tossing and turning, I finally gave up and let my mind wander. I could not get that boy out of my head, and for the life of me, couldn’t figure out why.

  Maybe deep down inside, I still harbor guilt over the whole texting thing, the lying, or maybe I feel sorry for the shitty way his friends treat him—they really are dicks. Watching him be the brunt of jokes isn’t funny now that I’ve actually met and spent time with him.

  Rhett Rabideaux might not be Prince Charming, but he’s something else entirely: he’s real. He is who he is, and makes no apologies. He’s polite and sincere and…

  And this morning, I’m paying for the fact that I lay in bed awake until nearly one AM thinking about him.

  His body, his voice, his face.

  What is my problem?

  Yawning, I stride toward campus, long legs stepping over every crack in the sidewalk, the heels of my black boots hitting the concrete with a tap tap tap.

  I look both ways when I approach a curb before stepping down.

  “Laurel, wait up.”

  At the sound of my name and the tread of tennis shoes hitting the pavement in a light jog, I stop dead in my tracks. Whip around to see who’s behind me, my heart skipping a beat.

  Be still, my silly, racing heart.

  Stop it.

  Maybe it’s the cold weather, but my cheeks flush at the sight of Rhett jogging toward me: gray athletic pants hanging low on his hips, dark navy sweatshirt, backward baseball cap, black backpack slung over his broad shoulder.

  His gait is easy as he hits a stride, slowing to a walk once he nears, a crooked smile playing on his friendly mouth.

  “Hey.” He’s not even panting. “Mornin’.”

  Mornin’.

  “Hi.” I bite back a smile at his sweet southern drawl, lowering my head to the sidewalk so he can’t see my stupid grin. “Headed my way?”