The Hookup Equation: A Loveless Brothers Novel

by Noir, Roxie

“I’m just dating women who don’t live in town,” he says, grabbing more laundry. “And taking time for myself, to do some personal and spiritual growth and shit.”

  “Well, which is it?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer right away, like he’s thinking.

  “Or it’s someone who we don’t know but who you’re not supposed to be with,” he goes on, ignoring everything I just said. “A fellow professor? Your advisor?”

  “Pretty sure Oliver’s parents have been dead for a while now,” I remind him.

  “The Dean? A student? A research assist — Caleb.”

  I’m not moving, my eyes practically boring holes into the page of the manual that say sliding the pole into shaft A, then rotated.

  “You didn’t drive one of your students across the state,” he says, sounding extremely reasonable.

  “Not a student,” I say, still staring down.

  He doesn’t believe me. I can tell from here, without looking, that he doesn’t believe me.

  “Shit,” he whispers, and I can hear him swallow. “Caleb, be fucking careful, you can get fired for —”

  “Thank you,” I say stiffly.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “You just got this job, there’s no way —”

  “I’m not looking for advice from the guy who’s following his ex around like a lost puppy dog, even after she broke his heart and rubbed his nose in it,” I say, angrily snapping two more pieces together. “Thanks, Seth, I’m fully aware of the rules and regulations on this one.”

  “Are you? Also, fuck you,” he says, yanking a towel out of a hamper.

  I flip him off.

  He flips me off.

  I go back to the baby swing, heart pumping like mad even as I try to breathe through it and concentrate on what I’m supposed to be doing, which is helping Daniel and Charlie in their hour of need, not getting into a stupid fight with Seth over our respective woman problems.

  That said, I might kill him if he gets back with his ex. I didn’t go through that with him just for her trashy, lying ass to move back to town and instantly re-bewitch my brother.

  Finally, I’ve got the frame put together. I stand it upright.

  It stays. It even looks sturdy. Carefully, I attach the swing, then plug it in and turn it on.

  It swings, gently, at nowhere near launch velocity, and I look over at my brother.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “No, I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re a grown-ass man, you can handle yourself.”

  The swing creaks slightly as it rocks, and I turn it off, cross the room, and grab a pair of pajama pants.

  “Her mom was in a car accident,” I say, folding them. “She was in surgery in a hospital in Norfolk when Thalia got the call and they weren’t sure if she’d make it.”

  Seth understands. I know he understands.

  “How is she now?” he asks.

  “Much better. They’re expecting a full recovery,” I tell him, grabbing more laundry.

  “Her name’s Thalia?” he asks.

  “Just a friend,” I say.

  Seth doesn’t say anything, but he gives me a look. It’s a big brother look, an I’ve known you all your life and I know your bullshit look.

  “Careful,” he says.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Thalia

  Victoria: Wonderbread Woman

  Victoria: a One Night Stand

  Harper: Chicken Strip! That one gives you an excuse to be sexy.

  Margaret: It’s Halloween, she doesn’t need an excuse.

  Victoria: Fifty Shades of Grey! We’ll go to the hardware store and steal paint swatches.

  Margaret: Or, hear me out, just wear something slutty, it’ll do the trick.

  Margaret: Trust me.

  Harper: Don’t peer pressure her.

  Me: Yeah, Margaret, don’t peer pressure me.

  Margaret: What?

  Margaret: You said last night that you just wanted to find some random guy and make out with his face!

  Margaret: We’re just helping.

  I put my phone face-down on the scarred wooden desk of my carrel and rub my eyes. It’s nearly one-thirty in the morning, and the library closes soon, which means I should leave.

  It’s entirely possible to get locked in here. No one checks all the floors, they just make the announcements and lock the doors. I know more than one person who’s had to call the campus police to let them out.

  My phone buzzes again, but I don’t check it right away, because last night around this time — tired, overworked, and eating cereal around our kitchen table during a study break — I expressed this desire to make out with someone’s face, and my roommates jumped on it.

  Of course they did. I knew they would, because they’ve all been a little bit worried about my whole date-with-my-professor situation, and then they were more worried about the whole got-a-ride-to-Norfolk thing, and now that everything between Caleb and I has been perfectly, one hundred percent platonic and above-board for the last few weeks, they think I’m moping.

  I’m not moping. I’m busy. And, fine, yes, still masturbating to the memory of our single make out session, but I have to think about something, right? A person can’t just not masturbate, and I can’t get off if I’m thinking about writing a paper.

  I probably should just find a random guy and make out with him. Sure, my casual make outs have never been spectacular in the past, but it could help me get my mind off of my calculus professor, and I would welcome the respite.

  Harper: You did say that.

  Margaret: What about two guys?

  Me: Three guys! Four guys!

  Margaret: You’re making fun of me, but it can be arranged.

  I put my phone down again. I look at my laptop screen, where I’m trying to write a paper on the intertextuality of avian themes in García Marquez and Cervantes, and it is not going well.

  I should probably just go home and go to bed so I can tackle this in the morning, but first I stand from the uncomfortable wooden chair. My knees pop like I’m seventy.

  When’s the last time I stood up? I think, and I have no idea.

  I roll my shoulders, flex my hands, bend backwards, and then stroll along the wall, between the book stacks and the other carrels. There’s no one in any of them, but the ones on this floor are reserved for seniors doing their theses.

  I walk all the way to the corner and then stand there, looking out the window.

  At the mathematics building.

  Dammit.

  It’s been a little over three weeks since I showed up at his office hours and gave him a bottle of wine, which means it’s been a little over four weeks since the time I kissed him in the hospital.

  I still haven’t apologized. I’ve been in class with him three times a week and back to his office hours twice, and I still haven’t apologized. At this point I don’t even know if I should apologize any more, or just pretend it never happened. Which is worse? Which makes me more of an asshole?

  Meanwhile, I’ve been so busy that I’ve barely had time to breathe, between making up for the week of school I missed, graduate school applications, taking the bus home every weekend, and now midterms.

  Just survive this week, I tell myself, looking out the tall, skinny window at the math building and the campus beyond, bathed in the orange light of street lamps.

  Just get through this week, and then you can breathe for a minute before the last round of grad school applications and then —

  There’s an office light on in the math building. Just one, on the top floor, and the moment I see it I have a bad, sinking feeling.

  I also have butterflies. It’s a weird combination.

  I should walk back to my carrel, pack my things, and leave before I get locked inside the library. That is what I, a reasonable and rational human woman, should do.

  I don’t. I cup my hands to the glass to block out the light, then look out the window.

  It’s the wrong office, I tell myself. What
are the odds —

  It’s not, of course, and as I look closer I can see a man sitting in an office chair, at a desk, in front of a computer. Doing something or other.

  And I can tell it’s him. I don’t know how but I can, even from here: it’s shaped like him and it’s wearing a shirt that looks like his and he’s running one hand through his hair like Caleb does, pushing his glasses up like Caleb does, turning around like —

  Caleb turns to face the window, and I freeze, hands still around my eyes, so obviously spying that I may as well be wearing binoculars.

  He looks straight at me. Of course he does.

  Slowly, I stand up straight, take my hands away from my eyes.

  After a moment, he waves. I wave back.

  Then, not knowing what else to do, I flash him a double thumbs-up and walk back to my carrel, where I sit, the paper still open on my laptop screen, and stare at it for a long moment.

  The Crown, in its current incarnation, was built in the 1960s, a time that was pretty bad for VSU, architecturally speaking. It’s square and made of concrete, with tall, narrow slit windows that let almost no light in.

  One of those windows is next to my carrel, and slowly, cautiously, I look through it.

  Yup. There he is, though at least now his back is to me again and he’s on his computer, acting like I didn’t just spy on him and then act extremely weird about it.

  Okay, I tell myself. Two more paragraphs and then —

  An email notification pops up at the bottom of my screen with a ding, and even though I should be writing, I open it.

  From: glassesoff@secretemail.com

  To: tylopez4nb@vsu.edu

  Subject: Chivalry

  You’re not walking home alone at this hour, are you?

  I look through the window and there he is, facing the window, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.

  True to his new email address, his glasses are off.

  From: tylopez4nb@vsu.edu

  To: glassesoff@secretemail.com

  Subject: Re: Chivalry

  I usually take the campus shuttle.

  His reply takes all of two seconds.

  From: glassesoff@secretemail.com

  To: tylopez4nb@vsu.edu

  Subject: Re: re: Chivalry

  I’ll meet you on the steps.

  I close my laptop as the PA system crackles, and a bored-sounding woman announces that the library will be closing in fifteen minutes. Suddenly, my heart is pounding, my stomach fluttering, and I am very, very awake.

  * * *

  “Are you usually here this late?” he asks as I walk down the concrete steps, zipping my jacket up to my chin, the chilly autumn breeze bracing at this time of night.

  “Usually I manage to leave around midnight,” I say. “But it’s midterms, plus I missed that week of classes, so I’m behind.”

  Caleb’s standing off to one side of the stairs, wearing a black peacoat and a red plaid scarf, a bicycle leaning against his hip, a helmet hanging from the handlebars.

  “Are you usually in your office this late?” I ask.

  “Midterms,” he says. “I’ve got a lot of students trying to get caught up before the test, plus I’ve been going home weekends.”

  Together, we start walking down the brick path across the quad, buildings looming around us, stars and moon above. It’s a clear night, which is probably why it’s so cold. I shove my hands into my pockets and scrunch into myself, trying to get warmer.

  Tomorrow’s a scarf and gloves day, I think.

  “Cold?” Caleb asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  He’s already pulling at his scarf, unlooping it from his neck.

  “No,” I say.

  “I can’t watch you shiver all the way back to your apartment,” he says, pulling it off.

  “I’ll warm up in a minute, now that we’re walking.”

  Silently, he holds it out to me. I don’t take it, just keep walking.

  “Are you going to freeze just to prove a point?” he teases. “I’m not even sure what point you’re proving.”

  “That I’m independent and self-sufficient and don’t get cold easily?” I say. My fists are clenched in my pockets, but my fingers are going numb anyway. “That I didn’t forget to check the weather report this morning, I chose not to?”

  “It’s just a scarf, not a moral judgement,” he says. “C’mon. It’s wool. From my mom’s friend’s sheep.”

  It does look really, really nice, and I’m still cold.

  “Don’t make me carry it like this all the way back,” Caleb says. “My shoulder’s gonna cramp up.”

  I sigh, then reach out and take the scarf, then pull it tight around my neck.

  It’s still warm from his body heat, still smells like him, like pine and pencil shavings. The tiniest shiver makes its way down my spine despite my best efforts in that arena.

  “Thanks,” I say, tucking the ends under my jacket. “You usually get your way, huh?”

  He looks at me, one hand in his pocket, the other on the seat of his bicycle, guiding it alongside us.

  “It doesn’t feel like I do,” he says.

  “Then it’s just with me?”

  There’s a long pause, and I mentally smack myself on the forehead. He just gave me a scarf. Why am I being a jerk? Why didn’t I just say thank you for lending me this scarf made from some sheep of your acquaintance and leave it at that?

  “I’m fairly sure I’ve never had my way with you,” he finally says, his voice so low it feels like it’s bumping along the path below my feet. “I think I’d remember.”

  Suddenly, this scarf is way too hot and I think again, for the thousandth time at least, of being pushed against the wall at the botanic gardens, his lips on mine, his body pressed against me, the way I felt like my skin was electrified.

  I stop in my tracks.

  We’re right where the brick walkway meets the sidewalk, though the street is empty this time of night, a single stoplight changing endlessly from green to yellow to red even though there are no cars to obey it.

  “Gotten, not had,” I say after he also stops, two paces ahead of me. “Don’t get it twisted. There’s an important semantic difference.”

  “Then tell me how I’ve been getting my way with you, Thalia,” he says.

  “I’m wearing your scarf even though I said I didn’t want it,” I say, pointing at my neck. “You emailed me and informed me that you were taking me home and I didn’t even get to argue.”

  “I’m walking you home,” he points out. “There’s an important semantic difference.”

  Just like that, my temper flares.

  “Right, because walking me home is the sort of completely above-board thing that any nice professor would do but the minute walking becomes taking it’s wildly inappropriate for you to be doing with a student,” I say. “And you would absolutely never be inappropriate.”

  Even in the dark, his eyes flash.

  “Have I been?” he asks, taking a step closer.

  I swallow hard, stand my ground.

  “Because if I recall correctly, you’re the one who came and found me at the Madison Scholars banquet while I was sitting alone and minding my own business,” he says, his voice low, nearly a growl. “You kissed me in the hospital. You wrote Love, Thalia on that email and you gave me a bottle of wine.”

  “The email was an accident,” I snap.

  “Was the kiss?”

  “That was just a mistake,” I say, and I’m frustrated and tired and hurt and stressed and hungry, and on one hand I feel like crying and on the other I feel like shouting at Caleb and on the third, non-existent hand, I want to make another mistake and kiss him again.

  “My mom had just been in a car accident and we’d been driving all night, it was late, I was tired and stressed and emotional and there’s study after study that shows people in heightened emotional states have poor judgement,” I say, my eyes closed.

  I will not cry. I will not cry
.

  “It seemed like a great idea at the time, but obviously, it wasn’t, and I’m sorry. If I could take it back I would, but to the best of my knowledge no one has figured out how to interrupt the time stream yet and if they had I’m sure it wouldn’t be available to private citizens who did something dumb.”

  “Apology accepted,” Caleb says, his face stone.

  “Great,” I say, way, way more sarcastically than he deserves. “I’m walking home. Don’t come with me, I think I’ll make it two blocks without getting mugged or abducted.”

  I turn on my heel and stomp away, down the street. Full-on stomp because if I’m behaving like a child, why not go all the way and really sell the performance?

  “Good night,” he calls after me.

  I feel like shit. More than anything, I suddenly feel like too much, all at once: I feel like I want to march back there and kiss him hard and tell him to take me home and have his way with me. I’m witheringly, incineratingly angry that the one person I’ve felt that way about in my life is a man I absolutely, positively cannot have.

  I’m mad that he keeps flirting with me when he knows the same. I’m mad that he’s so genuinely kind, that he’s sharp and smart and looks hot holding a baby, that he’s not like anyone else I’ve ever met.

  I stomp to my apartment and unlock the building’s front door without looking back at him. Somehow, I know that he stood there and watched me until I got inside, making sure I was safe. Yes, that also makes me mad.

  I’m a wreck, I think, slogging my way up the stairs into my building, an old house that now has an apartment on each floor. Just a damn useless wreck.

  Then I take a deep breath, keep slogging.

  You’re not a wreck, I tell myself. You’re tired and stressed and overworked. Your family circumstances have you emotionally stretched thin.

  And, okay, you’re frustrated because you want someone you can’t have.

  Also, hungry. Don’t forget hungry. When was dinner?