“You know what they say about a taste of your own medicine?” I ask. “Adair MacLaine is long overdue for a dose.”
He doesn’t have time to respond before Adair returns. Jack pours her another drink and she accepts it with an easy laugh as she begins plying him with questions about me and the bar and our history. I don’t miss the concerned look he shoots me when she’s not paying attention. Maybe Adair can fool him, but I know who she really is. Jack thinks I’m going to be the one to hurt her. In the end, she’ll do the damage all by herself.
25
Sterling
The Past
It turns out that one of the perks of being Cyrus Eaton’s roommate is that he’s never here. Apparently, living on campus means spending most of his time in a suite at The Eaton Hotel in Nashville. At least, on the weekends. He checked in by text to let me know the place is mine for the next few days. I guess he found a conscious girl to take home.
Knowing that no one will bother me or drag me off to a party gives me time to catch up on things before midterms, which are only two weeks away. I don’t know how the hell I’ve been here that long. I still feel out of place. Cyrus is okay, but its not like we’re braiding each other’s hair anytime soon. After being up half the night checking on Adair, the last thing I feel like doing is going to the cafeteria to eat. Instead, I use some of my precious meal plan money and order a pizza from some place off-campus. Digging out my books, I stare at them, willing myself to find the motivation to crack one and get started. I’m just so fucking tired that I need to reset, so I grab a worn-out novel from the shelf. I’ve pretty much given up on the idea of studying at all by the time the pizza arrives. I drop the book back on the pile and go to answer it. But it’s not pizza waiting for me. Adair stands there. She holds out a bag of cookies.
“This isn’t what I ordered,” I tell her, but I take the cookies anyway.
“It’s a peace offering,” she says.
“I think we already agreed on terms.” Not that I’m going to turn down free cookies delivered by a pretty girl.
“Can I come in?” Her neck cranes slightly as if she’s trying to peek inside my room. She’s probably looking for Cyrus. They’ve known each other since they were kids.
“I’m alone,” I say. “Cyrus went to The Eaton until Monday.”
“Good.” Her response surprises me. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
In a 24-hour period, we’ve gone from hating each other to hanging out together? I move out of the doorway, wishing I’d changed into something better than a t-shirt and old sweats earlier. I hadn’t bothered to comb my hair or shave. Meanwhile, Adair looks like a page from a magazine. Her copper hair is coiled in a loose bun, wisps escaping to fall around her heart-shaped face. She’s traded this morning’s towel for a sweater that slips off her shoulder, revealing freckles I find myself wanting to count. She clears her throat, and I realize I’m just standing there. Apparently, she wants an engraved invitation. I sweep my arm toward my room. “Sure. Come in. I’m waiting on a pizza. Are you hungry?”
Her head moves into a slight shake before she stops and nods. “Actually, I am. I couldn’t eat anything at dinner tonight.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Yes,” she says, “and no.”
“Well, as long as you’re sure.” I don’t know what to do while she wanders around the small space. I find myself trying to imagine what it looks like to her.
I know Adair didn’t live on campus before she decided to take the semester off. But she’s been here before for a few minutes. Our room is bigger than most dorms on campus, which I assume has something to do with Cyrus. I’m not complaining. It means we have space to keep our beds separate from each other rather than bunking them. In the middle of the room there’s a leather couch, also courtesy of Cyrus. Someone’s managed to mount the TV on the cinderblock walls using what I can only assume is magic. Again, I don’t question my fortune on that count. There’s a rug on the floor that probably cost more than all of my worldly possessions. It’s about as comfortable as you can make what’s usually the equivalent of a summer camp bunker. Still, I always feel a little like I’m staying in someone else’s home.
“It’s nice.” She delivers her verdict with conviction.
“Mostly compliments of Cyrus,” I say with a shrug. Not that she couldn’t have guessed that.
“Not these.” She trails a finger down the stack of novels on my desk. “These are yours.”
“How did you know?”
The joy in her answering laugh twangs an invisible string in my chest. “I’ve never seen Cyrus read a novel in my life.”
“This is your favorite.” she says, picking up the well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby I’d just been reading. She studies it for a moment, her eyes lingering on the call number taped on the spine. She flips it open and reads, “Property of Lincoln High School—is this a library book?”
“You caught me.” I drop onto the couch. If I’m going to be lectured, I might as will be comfortable “I stole a library book.”
“You stole more than one,” she murmurs, scanning the rest of the stack before continuing to page through Gatsby. Her eyebrows ratchet up with each page turned as she takes in the notes I’ve penciled into the margins. “And you wrote in it.”
“Don’t worry. I haven’t stolen any Jane Austen,” I say.
“That’s a mistake,” she murmurs. “Maybe next time?”
“I don’t steal library books anymore,” I assure her.
“Just special ones, huh?”
“Those are my favorite,” I
