by Audrey Bell
“What out?”
“Myself,” he said. “You know, never figuring out what’ll make me really happy. That kind of thing. What are you most afraid of?”
“Probably dependency.”
“Dependency on what?” he asked curiously. He grinned. "Drugs?"
“People.”
He let out a short bark of laughter. Then he looked at me. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Dependency on people is the thing you’re most afraid of? You realize that dependence on other people is like the way the world spins, don’t you? You didn’t build your own car and write your own textbooks, did you?”
“I didn’t say it was rational. I said I was scared of it.”
“That’s why you won’t go on a date with me?”
“No, I won’t go on a date with you because I don’t want to go on a date with you,” I grumbled. Or anyone else, ever.
“Alright. So, how does this work? Are you moving towards going all Into the Wild post-graduation? Heading out into the woods and living alone?”
“No,” I said. “I meant emotional dependence more than anything else.” I shrugged. “It’s just my answer. I know it doesn’t make sense.”
“You’d rather be alone forever than need anyone?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m good at being alone. I like being alone.”
“Wow,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“That makes you happy? Being alone?”
“Yes, actually,” I said.
“And what about sex?”
I could feel the flush creeping down my neck. “Excuse me?”
“What about sex? People are sexual. They have needs. You have needs.”
“Listen, I’ve had sex. And I wasn’t impressed.”
He shook his head, biting back a grin.
“What? I’m being serious.”
“He wasn’t doing it right then.”
“He did it just fine,” I said, thinking back to how I lost my virginity in high school in Luke’s parents’ guest house, and how it had been mostly awkward and painful and way too bright in that room. It had gotten better, somewhat, but it had never been amazing.
“No, he definitely did it wrong,” he said. “Which is criminal. I could fix that though.”
“Excuse me?”
He looked at me. “I mean, if I were so lucky as to have the chance to sleep with you, you would be, you know, impressed.”
“You’re extremely arrogant.”
“Right back at you.”
“How am I arrogant?
“What kind of person gives sex one chance and decides it’s not for them?”
“This kind.”
He smiled. “But, that’s a little arrogant.” He was teasing, mostly. “I mean, you’re so sure of yourself, you think sex is overrated.”
“I didn’t say it was overrated. I said I wasn’t impressed. I’m just telling you what’s true. I had sex. I wasn’t crazy about it.”
“When?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Tell me when.”
“That’s an extremely personal question.”
He cocked his head. “You don’t have to tell me, then. I just think he was doing it wrong.”
I took a breath. “Junior year.”
“Was the last time you had sex?”
I flushed.
“Damn,” he said. He looked at me.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” he said. He shook his head. “Honestly, I’m not at all.” He met my eyes. “Did you have a bad experience or something?”
I took a breath. “No. The sex was fine. But I broke up with the boy and he told everyone I was easy.” I shrugged. “I didn’t sleep with anyone else after that. I didn’t want anyone to think he had a point.”
“I’m sorry. That’s bullshit,” he said.
“It’s really not a big deal. It’s ancient history,” I said.
“Well, I could see why you might not want to date people after that.”
“It’s got a lot less to do with him than you think,” I said. “I don’t have the time, and monogamy doesn’t exactly run in my family and—”
“You don’t want to depend on anyone?”
“Exactly,” I said.
He nodded seriously. “Yeah, see, the thing about that though, is that people who don’t ever want to depend on anyone, people who don’t ever want to be touched, they don’t jump into a stranger’s arms in the rain. Even on a dare.”
I met his warm, brown eyes. They searched me and I looked away. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but sometimes they do.”
He jerked the wheel and pulled off the road.
“What are you doing?”
He put the car in park wordlessly.
“Excuse me?” I repeated, staring at him. “I barely know you. Pulling over on the side of the road is a serial killer move.”
“I’m not a serial killer.”
“What are you doing?”
He undid his seatbelt and leaned across the seat and kissed me again. Without asking, without anything that seemed like a warning.
He kissed me deeply and instead of pushing him away, I leaned in.
I was surprised at the whimper that escaped my lips as he moved his mouth down my neck. I was surprised at the way my spine arched towards him and the way I wanted him to slide his warm hands farther down my ribs to my hips. When his hand slipped under my shirt, cool against my hip, I put my hand over it. “Wait, stop.”
He pulled his head back and looked into my eyes. “You want me to stop?” He kept his hand there, spread on my hip—not a particularly sexual or private place, but it made me shiver.
I exhaled heavily and didn’t say anything.
“Do you want me to stop?” he repeated, more seriously.
I shook my head slightly, wild-eyed and unsure of everything except for a single fact: I liked being kissed by him. Even when I was sober. Even when I knew he was in a fraternity with a bunch of idiots. Even when I knew how much most relationships messed up your life, I wanted him to kiss me.
He pressed his lips to mine and undid my seatbelt.
“C’mere,” he whispered, pulling my wrist. He coaxed me over to his side of the car, so that I was straddling him. He kissed my neck, and I could feel my pulse racing underneath his lips. He leaned back and stared at me. He slid one hand under my loose, flannel shirt and up my ribs. His other hand rubbed along the side of my leg, through my jeans. The friction was gentle, but it ran up and down my leg.
I pressed my hips more closely to his.
He unhooked my bra strap and kissed me again.
I shivered as he slipped the straps down my arms. He nipped at my lip and at my neck while he unbuttoned my shirt.
“This okay?” he whispered.
I nodded once.
He gently slipped the shirt down my arms.
My bra fell with it and I looked down at him, the light catching in his eyes. He ran both of his hands up my ribs, and cupped one breast gently. His thumb ghosted across my nipple and I bit my lip, and his lips kissed their way from my mouth to my neck. He continued rubbing his thumb softly across my breast. Every brief movement travelled like an electrical current up and down my spine.
I exhaled a shaky breath, pulsating with the electricity of his touch everywhere.
“Christ, Jack…” I whispered. I closed my eyes and dropped my head to his shoulder. He kissed my neck, bitingly.
I hid my face in his neck, and laughed lightly, as his hand stroked my shivering stomach. He kissed me again, softly and then firmly, and then he broke the kiss and smiled.
“You’re something, you know that?”
“You said that,” I said, remembering tailgate.
“It’s true.” He dropped his hot, damp mouth to one breast and I arched my back, pressing myself forward. I could feel his arousal through h
is jeans as he gently manipulated my breast with his tongue.
I grabbed fistfuls of his hair, arching my back.
“Wait,” I whispered.
He stopped, lifting his head, his hair sticking up where I’d grasped it in my hands.
“Wait?” he repeated.
“This is…we’re on the side of a road. And it’s fast. This is fast.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
I suddenly felt embarrassed, sitting back and looking away and holding my shirt in front of my breasts.
He put a hand to my chest, in between my breasts, very close to my heart.
“What?”
“I like you,” he said. He smiled, his eyes twinkling. “You’re the best person I’ve met all year.”
I met his eyes. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He chuckled. He handed me my bra.
My hands shook as I tried to clasp it with one hand. I managed it on my second try, and pulled on my shirt. He groaned as I lifted myself off his lap and scooted back into the passenger’s seat.
We were both quiet. He cleared his throat. “You were saying something about not wanting to kiss me, I think.”
“Actually, I was saying something about you being a serial killer.”
He laughed. “And how you only kissed me because you were drunk.”
“I could be a drunk right now. I could be an alcoholic for all you know.”
He smirked. “Right.”
“Don’t gloat,” I said. “It’s unattractive.”
He pulled the car back onto the road, towards ice cream. While we drove, I went from breathless and turned-on to flat-out annoyed that I let a practical stranger feel me up on the side of the road. “What was that?” I demanded when we reached Ben & Jerry’s.
“What was what?”
“You pulling over like that.”
“I wanted to make sure I was right,” he said.
“About what?”
“About the fact that I really like kissing you. And unless I’m very, very mistaken, you like it, too,” he said. He had caught my gaze and I let myself stare for a second. Then, I looked away.
“That’s not the point.”
“Look, you don’t want to date anyone. That’s fine. But that doesn’t mean we can’t hang out,” he said.
“And do what? Make out?” I demanded.
“There are other things we could do,” he said, with a smile. “Look, I want to buy you dinner. I want to take you on a date.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But—”
“But you’ve got a hang-up. I hear you.” He nodded. “So, why don’t we not date?”
“And do what?”
“Hang out. Get ice cream. I don’t know.” He smiled. “We can have fun without getting engaged, you know? We can have fun without even dating. We can be friends.”
“With benefits?”
He laughed at the suggestion. “I mean, sure. We could be friends, too. Without benefits. Although we do have good chemistry.”
“Chemistry?”
“Sexual chemistry.”
“We haven’t had sex.”
“I know, but if we did…” he shrugged. “It would probably be mind-blowing. Because the way we kiss is insane. Don’t you think?”
“I haven’t kissed enough people to know.”
“Well, I have. And it is,” Jack said matter-of-factly.
I believed him. Not just that we could have mind-blowing sex, but that we could be friends. That maybe I could have a no-commitment fling with a handsome guy who I actually really, really liked.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Let’s be friends with benefits.”
He laughed. “Wait, seriously?”
“Yeah. Wait, were you joking?"
“No. Not at all. Are you?"
We looked at each other. "I asked you first," I said.
"No, I wasn't joking."
"Fine," I said. "We should probably have some rules.”
“Like what?”
“No presents. Definitely no flowers. I’m not doing your laundry, making you cookies, or coming to your formal. Don’t ask me to,” I said. I cocked my head. “No dates. No romantic comedies. No sleepovers. No saying I love you. No buying me drinks. No Valentine’s Day, nicknames, baby talk, chocolate, or Taylor Swift concerts.”
He looked at me closely. “You’re serious?”
“Yes,” I said. “Why?"
“This feels like a trap.”
“Why?”
“Because you just made it against the rules to do any of the things that every guy doesn’t want to do with his girlfriend.”
“It’s not a trap. And either party can terminate benefits without any drama. There will be no drama.”
“This is definitely a trap.”
“Do you have anything to add?” I asked.
“Yeah. Don’t call me babe.”
“I won’t call you babe."
We walked into Ben & Jerry’s and I ordered a vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles. We sat in his car with the heat turned on high while we ate.
He started laughing to himself when he’d finished his.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he smiled. “You are just way more interesting than I could’ve ever predicted.”
“You can say crazy,” I said.
He nodded. "Yeah, I know. But I wouldn't mean it. Interesting."
Chapter Thirteen
David was quiet the first week of classes. And I was sending a boy flirtatious texts.
Neither of these things had happened before, so I probably would’ve been worried about a coming apocalypse if I hadn’t been so fixated on how to survive Robert Riley’s graduate-level combat and conflict journalism class.
I was thrilled about getting into the class. Riley was a legend. He had won two Pulitzer Prizes when he covered the conflict in Bosnia during the '90s.
But I was also afraid I wouldn’t meet his notoriously high expectations. Gruff and tough, he was rumored to fail students with a single grammatical error in their final assignments. And the class was mostly composed of graduate students. Andrew and I were the only two undergraduates who had been given permission to take it this year.
I slept fitfully the night before Riley’s class—although that was partly due to the eight cappuccinos I’d had while excising stylistic errors from the newspaper before it went to press.
Still, I arrived early, like everyone else, and I sat with Andrew while we waited for Riley to walk in.
He appeared in a half-zip sweater, with a limp from the shrapnel that had been embedded in his leg when he was caught in a roadside bombing early in his career.
He tossed a folded copy of the New York Times onto his desk. “First of all, welcome. Second of all, you should know that I don’t tolerate lateness or unexcused absences. You don’t show up, you better have a doctor’s note, because you’re lucky to have a seat in my class. You’re lucky to be studying journalism at all. And as soon as you forget that reporting is a privilege that should be afforded only to the most committed and well-disciplined individuals, you are going to fuck up. And if you fuck up in journalism, people get hurt. When you print lies in a newspaper, you make them true. And if you get lazy, you will end up printing lies, whether or not you’re aware of it. That is why, in this class, I won’t stand for anyone cutting corners, no matter how insignificant they may seem.”
I exchanged glances with Andrew. Riley was hardcore.
The door swung open and everyone turned to look at the pour soul foolish enough to show up five minutes late to Riley’s class. And then my heart jumped into my throat, because it was none other than Jack Diamond, lanky, lean, and impossibly handsome, with a slow Cheshire cat’s smile that seemed to be just for me.
Professor Riley cleared his throat. “Jack! What a nice surprise.”
I closed my dropped jaw and stared at him.
Jack nodded. “What’s up?” He wav
ed at me—he waved—and then he looked back at Riley.
“So, did you decide to audit?” Riley asked him.
Jack shrugged and flashed him a smile. “Still on the fence about that one, Bobby.”
Bobby? Bobby. Did he just say that?
I waited for Robert Riley—Pulitzer laureate, famous journalist, extraordinarily grumpy professor—to vault over the dais and claw Jack Diamond’s eyes out. But that didn’t happen.
“You’re welcome anytime, Jack,” Riley said paternally.
Jack climbed to the very back row, where nobody else was seated. It took me a moment to tear my eyes away from him and look instead at Riley.
“Some of the most crucial moments in history are recorded by combat journalists,” Riley was saying. “And it takes more than damned good writing for those moments to be recorded accurately. It takes discipline and patience and extraordinarily difficult and dangerous work…”
I tried to focus on Professor Robert Riley. I let his voice drown out the questions I wanted to ask Jack, until I’d almost forgotten they had ever been there.
I didn’t notice when Jack slipped out of the class, but he was gone when Riley dismissed us.
Chapter Fourteen
As Jack had promised, Xander emailed Justin to apologize on behalf of the fraternity.
Justin found me after our staff meeting to express his gratitude. “It means a lot,” he said sheepishly. “I mean, just thank you.”
“Hey,” I said readily. “That’s my job. No need to thank me.”
We left the office together after the meeting, and I turned the issue over to Andrew for the night so I could have my phone interview with USA Today.
“How are things otherwise?” I asked.
“Okay,” he said. He rubbed the back of his head. “I mean, Organic Chemistry is killing me slowly, but other than that, I’m good.”
I laughed. “Already?”
“It’s a monster,” he said. “My brain does not understand.”
“You’ll get it.”
“Yeah. I might have to slow down on the paper, though. Sorry. Next year should be easier. I know I haven’t written that much.”
“I totally understand. Not a problem,” I said.
“Thanks, Hadley.”
We’d reached the end of the path where I turned left towards the parking lot and he turned right towards his dorm.