The Partnership (Extra Credit Book 1)

by Charlotte Penn Clark

  I hope that’s what she’d call a rhetorical question because I start sweating. This is going too well. When I don’t answer she presses on.

  “What made you decide on a military career? You really want to defend the free world?”

  “My mom’s family’s all military.” I look away, tapping my fingers on the table and shifting in my chair.

  “And?”

  “I like structure.”

  “And? There must be more to it than that.”

  I’m uncomfortable as hell and she’s a pain in the ass. I shrug.

  “It’s a big commitment, Kyle,” she starts.

  “You sound like my dad.” I’m glowering now.

  “What did your dad say?”

  “That I was too young to enlist after high school. But he couldn’t stop me from enrolling in ROTC.” I don’t tell her that he’s still not exactly on board.

  “What’s he like?”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. He’s a tax lawyer.”

  “How fascinating.”

  I raise an eyebrow, tensing.

  “Your mom?”

  I swallow. “Gone.”

  A crease appears on her forehead. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

  “Gone. Passed away. Dead.” I’m losing my shit.

  The frown deepens, then she redirects. “Why do you think you have trouble writing papers? Clearly you have lots to say.”

  I force a grin. “Thanks!”

  “When did it start? Have you always had trouble handing in papers?”

  The grin disappears. “Nah. Ninth grade. You know, more papers—“

  “True. What else happened in ninth grade?”

  “You’re a shrink now?” I scowl but she is remarkably unfazed.

  “Does that mean you’ve been asked this before?”

  My hands smack down on the table. “It means shut the fuck up!”

  Immediately I feel the weight of my assholery. Everyone in the café turns to look at me. Lani blinks, her mouth open in an O. Guilt and frustration and anger and a whole tide of fucked up bad feelings wash over me and I don’t know what to say.

  And I don’t know what to do so I leave.

  4

  Lani

  “Lani! How lovely to hear your voice? Your dad’s out running errands. Everything good?”

  It’s Sunday night and I’m feeling rudderless, out of sorts, mopey. So I phoned home. But now I remember why this won’t help.

  “Yes,” I answer cautiously. I can’t burden my mom with my problems. My parents have enough to handle. They don’t know about the snafu that got me sent to the Extra Credit class and they won’t ever know if I can help it. No waves. In my mind I can underline the words with short stabs of a pencil.

  I don’t ask how things are at home. I never do. I already know and if they told me I’d just feel bad. But sometimes I can’t stop it from coming at me anyway.

  “How nice! We’re good too except the van route changed again and now Scott’s home half an hour earlier and I don’t know what to do. I can’t get home in time and your dad can’t leave work any earlier. Somehow I’ve got to cover that half hour. Scott can’t be left alone….” She trails off. I can picture her standing at the kitchen window, looking out back to our small yard. I close my eyes and imagine home in sense-surround: palm trees swaying, the soft, sweet air.

  “You don’t have any friends still in town who could fill in? Anyone who lives near by?”

  “No, no one!” I say hastily. God, no! That would be soooo embarrassing.

  “I’d pay them and it’s not a lot of trouble—“

  “Mom, no!” This was my number one nightmare when I lived at home: the possibility that my parallel worlds of friends and family might intersect. Another reason never to make waves. “I mean, they’re all at college,” I explain weakly.

  She backs off. “Too bad. Well, we’ll figure it out. We always do. So are you performing soon?”

  My mom has only the vaguest notion of my schedule, but she tries. “Not for a few weeks. I do need a few things though. Is it okay to charge some new clothes to my card?”

  “Sweetie, you hardly ever ask. So of course! Did you even buy winter clothes this year? I don’t remember. And I remember the bills for those coats and boots the first year. What a shock!”

  Yeah, that was something we hadn’t figured into our college budgeting: the costs of winter in terms of clothing and supplies. My family doesn’t have a lot of money, but we do fine if we can plan. A lot of things cost more in Hawai’i, but at least we don’t have to pay for the snowballing expenses of cold weather: insulated boots, gloves, scarves, those hats with pom poms, thermal underlayers (who knew there was such a thing?), cough drops, bulk tissues, chapsticks…. The list seems endless. Not to mention heat and snow tires and things I don’t even have to pay for myself. Another reason to hate the cold: winter is expensive.

  “I’m getting by. I wear a lot of layers.” This reminds me of Kyle and I tense up again.

  “Good! And remind me what you’re doing this summer?”

  We’ve been over this. “I signed up for a yoga-teacher training course in Honolulu. It’s six weeks and I’ll stay at Uncle Jack’s.” My family lives in Kaua’i, but when we need to go to the Big Island or the big city we stay with my mother’s brother Jack, who owns a bunch of beachfront cabins there that he rents out to tourists. He grumbles that he loses money on us, but he never lets us pay. I’m looking forward to the summer because I get to go home without living at home. That’s one good thing about coming to Carlyle: it’s far enough away to get a real break from home, and far enough to discourage family visits. I miss them but I couldn’t handle it if mom and dad brought Scott here.

  “Of course! I’ll remember now. You’ll be home in May, right? What do you want for your birthday? It’s a big one!” The last part comes out sing-song.

  True. I’ll be twenty-one soon. It feels big even if it’s just another number. “I know, Mom. Look, I better go…study. Tell dad to call me back when he can talk, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Lani-love!” she chirps, and hangs up. They won’t call though. I have to call them. I know some students complain about their hovering parents, and some of my friends hear from their parents every day, but that doesn’t sound so bad to me.

  I go to make myself tea because that’s more likely to make me feel better than any conversation with my parents. I feel the familiar rise of guilt: it’s not their fault. They’re doing the best they can. They love me. And it’s all true, but somehow doesn’t help. Or not enough. I make my tea with efficiency and wish I had roommates who were also friends. Instead the three of us tend to disappear into our own rooms, emerging only to cross paths to and from the shared kitchenette, common room, and bathroom. I appreciate the quiet but sometimes it leaves me too much time to think. Like now.

  I’m mulling over my crazy day when I’m startled by the sudden singing of the tea kettle and the simultaneous burst of the door bell. I push up the dangling sleeves of my extra large sweater to pour the tea before shuffling to the door.

  And, crap, it’s Kyle.

  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about him and his tantrum earlier. Despite the things he didn’t say that scene just reinforced what I knew already. We’re complete opposites. So what if he’s a sweetheart, a big, scowling, gorgeous guy who makes me laugh? That doesn’t have to mean anything. I’ve got enough to worry about already, and so does he.

  Still I hesitate at the open door, gaping. It’s been snowing and he stands in my hallway red-cheeked and lightly dusted with white. Even after three years I can’t get used to snow. It seems like a magic trick. And yeah sometimes I still stick my tongue out to catch snowflakes.

  “Can I come in?” he mumbles, stamping the snow off his boots. He’s avoiding my gaze but I stand aside.

  “How’d you know where I live?”

  “I work for campus Emergency Services. We have access to all the directories.” He pauses, s
till uncharacteristically subdued. “Maybe I should just take them off,” he says, gesturing to his boots. He’s leaving a wet puddle at the threshold. I shiver at the blast of cold air he lets in and wrap my arms around myself.

  “Sure. You can leave them there. This couldn’t wait til Wednesday?”

  He shakes his head as drops his boots in a pile at the door, then proceeds to dump his wet coat and scarf on top of them. When he starts pulling off his sweater too I look away, too aware of him for my own comfort. We’re partners, I remind myself firmly.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he says, his blue blue eyes holding my gaze.

  I nod. “Okay.”

  He drops onto the sofa and hangs his head in his hands. He mumbles something I can’t really hear so I move closer and sit next to him. He’s like a surly lion sometimes, but he doesn’t scare me. It just makes me want to pet him.

  “What?” Since he’s not looking at me I’m emboldened to reach out and stroke his head, his short hair rough under my fingertips. When he moves I snatch my hand back.

  He turns his head to look up at me, clearly remorseful. “I said I’m an asshole most of the time but I don’t want to take it out on you. Since we’re partners.”

  “You didn’t really yell at me. You cursed at me.” He groans and I smile. I smack his shoulder. “C’mon, Kyle! You’re not an asshole. And I’m already familiar with your foul mouth.”

  Oh wow, that didn’t come out right at all. His (foul) mouth opens for some smart-ass retort and I can’t help dropping my eyes to his lips. They seem like they’d be soft and firm to the touch—of my finger, or my mouth…. There’s a pause while he inhales and I’m transfixed, then I catch his expression and backpedal as fast as I can. Jumping up, I hurry into the kitchen to retrieve my forgotten tea, then settle on my own chair. I’m breathing too fast but I rush on.

  “No biggie! Look, I’m glad you’re here because I wanted to try something.” I grab my laptop from the table between us and forge ahead. He’s still frozen and staring at me like I’m gibbering.

  “You should talk out your ideas for the paper and I’ll type up what you say. That way we short-circuit the writing process and you can edit what I type later.” I’m pleased with myself and hope he will be too, but he looks dubious.

  “It sounds like a pain in the ass for you.”

  I wave a hand. “I don’t mind! Better your problems than mine!” I grin at him and am relieved to hear him laugh. His laugh is husky and sudden—and I don’t think it gets enough use.

  “Okay.” He gives in reluctantly. And then we’re off and he’s thinking out loud about the charges of domestic violence against NFL players. I was surprised when he chose that controversy because I figured he’d choose something related to the military. But he talks through the basic paradox of a sport that encourages violence on the field and then has to somehow restrain it off the field. How do you channel anger and drive so it doesn’t hurt others? I occasionally interrupt with questions or ask him to slow down or give an example, but mostly he paces around my common room talking this through.

  “So what’s your main point here?” I ask as he slows down. “What do you want someone to understand from all this?”

  He sits again, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head distractingly. “That the league itself has to take responsibility for this problem. There’s no one solution, but it can’t be left to the players themselves or the victims or some charitable foundation. If the league benefits from all these jacked up bullies—and it does—then it has to deal with the fallout from that.” He waits while I type that up.

  “Okay. So how much do you think you just wrote?”

  His forehead furrows. “A page? A page and half?”

  “Two and a half pages.”

  “Really?” He brightens. “Halfway?”

  I shake my head and he slumps a little. “Two and a half single-spaced pages. This is a five-page draft.” I smile as he lights up again.

  “Really?” He asks again, jumping up and leaning over the back of my chair to look at my laptop. My breath hitches. “And you didn’t just write it yourself, did you?” He reads over my shoulder and his smile widens. “You’re a fucking genius, Lani! Damn, sorry about the cursing!” He takes a deep breath and tries again. “I mean, sorry—“

  He looks so happy and sheepish at the same time that I have to laugh. Then he pulls me out of my seat into a tight hug and I suck in a breath at his sheer overwhelmingness. His strong arms and hard chest. Our bodies pressed close. I gasp and he releases me.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles again.

  I blink up at him, a little dazed but not offended. I’m just permanently imprinted with Kyle-ness. “Remember, you can’t hand it in this way. I’ll email it to you and you’ll have to edit it, rearrange stuff, clean it up. These are just notes,“ I warn. Still, I’m pleased for him.

  He nods and flops back onto the sofa so he’s all spread out. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But still it’s a huge relief.” He sighs as if he’s been holding his breath, and I guess he has.

  We sit quietly for a few minutes. I sip more tea and watch him, admiring his long, loose body now that he’s more relaxed. I feel surprisingly content too.

  “Your turn,” he says, meeting my eyes. And there’s something intimate about this. The talking and the silence. The reciprocation. I shiver and blame winter.

  “Crap. You’re going to start me cursing now.” I smile though, still feeling strangely happy.

  “You’re going to have to try harder than that…. So!” He sits up and smacks his hands down on his knees. “You gonna tell me what happened?” The sound and the motion startle me. Crap, I think again. Maybe I have to.

  “You promise not to get mad on my behalf?”

  “Hell no!” His expression is almost comical.

  “Okay, you promise not to do anything about being angry on my behalf?”

  “Okaaaay.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I invoke partner confidentiality. What we do or say in this room remains private between us.” I know what I’m doing and it’s making my heart pound. This feels flirtatious and I shouldn’t be flirting with him. We have to work together. And he’s all wrong for me—too big, too bossy, too…attractive. We’re too different. And I don’t want to be pulled out of the shadows. His eyes gleam.

  “Sounds good,” he says with a wicked grin.

  I take a deep breath. I’m about to wipe that grin off his face. It’s a shame, really. “So! I have a friend.”

  He nods. “Dickhead.”

  I choke on a giggle. “Umm. Okay. This friend likes to smoke pot. In moderation.”

  As predicted, his smile disappears and his expression turns wary. I think about stopping right here. But it’s too late. “This friend has also had a few charges for possession. So one time he showed up here high and asked me to hide his stash.”

  God, this sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. Kyle doesn’t say anything.

  “But it was pretty obvious what he had been doing. We ran around opening all the windows and flapping at the air like chickens, but the R.A. came around and searched my room.”

  Kyle opens his mouth, but I want to forestall this storm. “It wasn’t a legal issue, Kyle! It was well under the threshold for criminal possession but it’s a dorm infraction. Zero tolerance and all that. And I’m squeaky clean so I can afford one misstep whereas my friend—” I trail off.

  “What about this so-called friend?” He’s growling and his jaw is clenched.

  “Oh, he was really sorry! Really! You wouldn’t be mad at him if you knew how bad he felt—”

  “Trust me. I’d still be mad at him.” There’s a long pause while he looks at the ground as if he’s afraid to meet my eyes. I wonder if he’s lost all respect for me. I’m an idiot. I knew it too, like, the next day. But in the thick of it? With Jamie watching me hopefully and the R.A. looking so stern? I just wanted it all to go away. No waves.

  “I know it was stupid,” I
whisper. That’s really why I didn’t want to tell Kyle. If I’m honest with myself it wasn’t about protecting Jamie. I just didn’t want to feel like such a doormat.

  Kyle looks up at me, then he gets up, walks over to me, scoops me off my chair, and returns to the sofa, lying back against the cushions so I’m cuddled against his chest. I nestle in a little closer because he’s so warm and it’s making me feel better.

  “Shut up, Lani.” His voice is gruff.

  “You’re so sympathetic,” I sniff, smiling a little.

  “Just be quiet—“ But I can feel him smiling too. His hand starts stroking my hair. I make a little sound and he sighs, like an earthquake rumbling under my ear.

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “That sounds so mild for you—“

  “Yeah, well, he’s a cock-sucking asshat.”

  I burst out laughing and lift my head to meet his eyes. The warmth and humor and frustration and annoyance I see there ensnare me. I start tracing a pattern with one finger on the tee shirt stretched over his chest.

  “I think curses like pussy and cocksucker demean women and gay men. You shouldn’t use them to put people down,” I announce. Because I like to torment him. And I do think that.

  His eyes widen. “I can’t believe those words just came out of that mouth.” His eyes drop to my mouth and his lips quirk. He makes a scolding sound with his tongue and now I’m staring at his mouth. One arm tightens around me and the other tugs gently at my hair, teasing.

  “I’m not a prude,” I insist, growing warm.

  “Good to know. So I can use those words in other contexts? I can say ‘your pussy tastes good’ or “suck my cock’? Theoretically?” he prompts, clearly enjoying this.

  I gasp and jump off his lap as he smirks at me. My whole face heats up.

  “Hey! If you came here to apologize this is not the way to do it, mister! You don’t get to embarrass me for your own amusement.” I’m shaking a finger at him and he looks suitably chastened.

  “And yes. Of course.” I lift my chin and hold his gaze. Because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of making me blush.