Chapter 23
“So where’s…” Benji’s voice trailed off when I glanced at him, and he finished his sentence with a quick head angle toward Lucas’s unoccupied seat and a characteristic eyebrow waggle.
“It’s final review day, so he doesn’t have to be here.”
“Ah.” He smiled, leaning over the arm of his desk and lowering his voice. “So… since you know that bit of inside info, and you two left class together the last couple of days… can I assume that somebody’s getting a little private tutoring now?” When I pinned my lips together, he snorted a laugh, held up a fist and sing-songed, “Nailed it!”
Rolling my eyes, I bumped his knuckles with mine, knowing he’d hold his fist aloft between us until I did. “God, Benji. You’re such a bro-it-all.”
He grinned, eyes wide. “Woman, if I was straight, I would steal you from him so hard.”
We laughed and prepared to take macroeconomics notes for the last time.
“Hey, Jacqueline.” Kennedy slid into the empty seat next to me and Benji gave him a narrow-eyed stare that he didn’t deign to notice. “I wanted to give you a heads up.” He sat sideways in the desk, facing me, keeping his voice low. “The disciplinary committee decided to let him stay on campus for the next week, as long as he abides by the restrictions of the restraining orders—because he’s pled innocent, and because there’s only a week left in the semester. He has to vacate the premises as soon as finals are over, though.”
I already knew Buck was out on bail, and that he’d been served the temporary restraining order on Thursday afternoon—Chaz had called Erin to tell her, and she’d passed the information to me, as well as to Mindi and her parents.
“Awesome. So he’s staying in the house?” We’d all hoped he would be kicked off campus, but administration was embracing an innocent-until-proven-guilty stance.
“Yeah, for the next week, but then he’s gone. The frat doesn’t have to be as impartial as university officials do.” He smiled. “Apparently D.J. saw the light after Katie told him off. Dean finally agreed. Letting Buck stay for finals week was the only compromise they made—and he’s only allowed to go to his scheduled finals and back.” Laying his warm hand over mine, he stared into my eyes. “Is there… is there anything I can do?”
I knew my ex well enough to know what he was actually asking, but there was no second chance for him in my heart. That place was filled, but even if it hadn’t been, I was sure that I’d rather be alone than be with someone who could desert me as he’d done. Twice. I withdrew my hand into my lap. “No, Kennedy. There isn’t. I’m fine.”
He sighed and shifted his gaze from my face to his knees. Nodding, he looked at me one last time, and I was both gratified and saddened to see the full realization of what we’d lost in his familiar green eyes. Standing to go to his seat, he excused himself to edge past my late-arriving neighbor who, for once, had nothing to say about her weekend plans.
***
Freshman year weeded out musicians who’d ruled their high school orchestra, band, or choir without a lot of practice—the ones who came to college believing themselves to be above mundane technical proficiencies like scales and internals, let alone music theory. Most music majors were devoted to perfecting our skills, so we spent hours a week practicing—often hours a day. Nothing was ever perfect enough to risk slacking off.
I’d come to campus a little spoiled. At home, I’d practiced whenever I wanted to; mom and dad had never limited me, though admittedly, I was reasonable in my practice times. Unable to keep my furniture-sized bass in my dorm room, I had to procure a locker for it in the music building and schedule booth times to play. I quickly learned that evening spots went fast; though the building was open nearly 24/7, I didn’t want to trudge across campus at 2 a.m. to practice.
Scheduling jazz ensemble rehearsals was even more of a pain. Beginning freshman year, we met two or three times a week. Recently, it had become obvious why Sunday morning studio reservations were easy to get: Sunday was hangover day for much of the student body, and fine arts majors weren’t immune. By halfway through the fall semester, most of us had skipped Sunday morning rehearsal once or twice. What worked freshman year wouldn’t work at all by the time we were juniors.
Just before the peer recital began on Friday night, I reiterated to one of our horn players why I couldn’t make the hastily assembled last-minute rehearsal on Saturday morning, even though our performance was that evening. “I have a class tomorrow—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Your self-defense class. Fine. If we suck tomorrow night, it’s on you.” Henry was undeniably gifted, as if he’d been born with a saxophone in his long-fingered hands. His pompous attitude backed by genuine skill, he usually intimidated the hell out of all of us. In that moment, though, I was tired of him being an ass.
“That’s bullshit, Henry.” I glowered at him as he slouched smugly on the other side of Kelly, our pianist, who’d opted to stay out of the argument. “I only missed one rehearsal the entire semester.”
He shrugged. “But it’s about to be two, isn’t it?”
Before I could reply, the recital began. I sat back in my seat, gritting my teeth. I was as much of a serious musician as anyone else in our group, but Saturday was the last self-defense class, the culmination of everything we’d learned. It was important.
Erin was stoked about the one-on-one matches Ralph had planned between each of the class members and either Don or Lucas. “I’ll try to get Don,” she’d promised while she got dressed for work and I got ready for the last mandatory peer recital of the semester. Squinting one eye into the mirror while applying a layer of mascara to the other, she’d teased, “I don’t wanna wreck your boy-toy’s vital parts before you’re done playing with him!”
I hadn’t heard from Lucas all day, though we were both so busy that I almost didn’t have time to dwell on the absence of communication and what it meant. Almost.
A year ago, I hadn’t thought I would ever sleep with anyone but Kennedy. He’d been with other girls before me—if nothing else, his experience during my first time made that clear. That fact hadn’t bothered me, much, though we’d never actually spoken about it. Lucas, too, was obviously experienced, though he told me none of those previous girls had been significant. If Kennedy had ever confessed something like that, I’d have been relieved, if not thrilled. Lucas’s encumbered history made his revelation heartbreaking, instead, and I was uncertain what it meant for him, for me, and for us.
***
At the beginning of class, we reviewed every move we’d learned while Ralph circulated the room, giving tips and encouragement. Don and Lucas were absent for the first portion. Ralph wanted us to remain emotionally separated from them, so we wouldn’t feel awkward inflicting violence on them in the last hour. I wondered, though, how many of us wasted precious seconds worrying that we were overreacting—tiny, valuable ticks of time spent not defending ourselves, thinking, but I know this guy.
My heart in my throat, I watched as each of my classmates used their newfound defense techniques on a fully-padded Lucas or Don. As we took our turns on the mats, each of us benefitted from a bloodthirsty eleven-person cheering section, while the guys took turns so they could rest up from being pummeled, kicked, and verbally reviled. Since the padding cushioned our blows, they had to do a bit of acting—adjusting their reactions as though each landed punch or kick had done its job. So when Erin saw an opening and swung a perfect sweep kick to the groin, Don crumpled to the ground as if incapacitated.
Eleven voices screamed, “Run! Run!” But Don’s big, padded body blocked a straight escape to the designated “safe zone” by the door, and Erin hesitated for a split second. He rolled toward her and we screamed even louder. Roused, she leapt onto his chest like it was a springboard and launched herself, turning when she landed and kicking him two more times before running away.
When she reached the far door, she pumped both fists in the air and bounced up and down while everyone cheered. Ralph clapped her on the shoulder as she rejoined us, and I glanced at Lucas. Wearing his ghost smile, he watched her. One more woman, empowered. One more given the ability to defend herself against attack. One more who might not meet his mother’s fate. His eyes found mine, and I wondered if these single, hopeful moments would ever be enough to alleviate the ache that haunted him. The ache about which I was presumably unaware.
Pulling his gaze from me, he went to wait for the next potential victim to walk onto the mats. There were two of us remaining—a very soft-spoken secretary named Gail from the student health center, and me.
Ralph eyed the two of us. “Who’s next?”
Gail stepped forward, trembling visibly. While Ralph murmured subtle tips—something he hadn’t done for anyone else—Lucas went easy on her. Our booklet said that having the confidence to fight back was a critical part of self-defense training, and I knew they were giving her that. The more punches and kicks she landed, the louder we cheered her on, and the harder she fought. When she returned to the group and accepted our emphatic praise, there were tears on her face and she was still wobbly—but she wore a mile-wide smile.
I went last, against Don. My adrenaline spiked the moment I stepped onto the mat, and I wondered if the tiny shockwaves running through me were visible to everyone, like Gail’s unsteady hands had been as she held her small body in defense mode. I knew Lucas and Erin were watching me closely; they were the only ones who knew exactly what had brought me there.
The entire thing was over in a minute, maybe two.
Don circled me once, mumbling hey, baby comments—part of the scenario. I kept my eyes on him, my whole body taut, waiting. Suddenly, he swerved toward me and tried to grab my arm. I did a wrist block, then screwed up a snap kick and ended up in a front bear hug. I wasn’t sure if it was in my head or actually shouted—because everything seemed slow-motion and muted, like we were under water—but I heard Erin’s voice yell, “NUTSACK!”
I brought my knee straight up, tearing from Don’s grasp when he grunted and released me. Running to the door, I heard Erin’s cheerleader-voice rising over everyone else’s. She bounded across the room to hug me when I reached the safety zone, and over her shoulder, I watched Lucas’s expression. He’d removed his headgear and combed his sweaty hair back, so I could clearly see his face, and the familiar barely-there smile.
***
Lucas: You did well this morning.
Me: Yeah?
Lucas: Yeah
Me: Thanks
Lucas: Coffee sunday? Pick you up around 3?
Me: Sure :)
***
Saturday night’s performance demanded my full attention, distracting me until I was in my room. Erin hadn’t returned from yet another sorority gathering, but was due back soon. The entire dorm was wide awake, studying for—or freaking out about—finals, enjoying the last full weekend before break, or well past ready to go home. The voices in the hall alternated between pre-finals tension and pre-holiday excitement.
A deep-toned bass line seeped through the wall opposite my bed, and my fingers moved with it. Occasionally, the fact that I played the bass would come up with strangers, who typically imagined an electric instrument and a garage band. Lucas looked more suited to that part than I did—dark hair falling into his eyes, small silver ring following the full curve of his bottom lip, not to mention the tattoos and lean, defined muscle that would look so hot onstage, peeking from a thin t-shirt. Or no t-shirt.
Oh, God. Never. Getting. To. Sleep.
My phone beeped and displayed a message from Erin.
Erin: Talking to Chaz. May be late. You ok?
Me: I’m good. YOU ok?
Erin: Confused. Maybe I’d feel better if I just kicked him.
Me: NUTSACK!!!!!!!!!
Erin: Exactly.
***
“Those people are crazy.” Knees pulled to my chest, I cuddled close to Lucas as he sketched a couple of kayaks out on the lake. “It’s got to be even colder out there on the water than it is sitting here.”
He smiled and reached behind me to pull my coat’s hood up over the wool and cashmere scarf and hat I was wearing. “You think this is cold?” He crooked an eyebrow at me.
I scowled and touched my gloved fingers to my nose, which had the anesthetized feeling that comes from a shot at the dentist, right before they drill a tooth. “My nose is numb! How dare you scoff at my sensitivity to ice-age temperatures. And I thought you were from the coast. Isn’t it warmer there?”
Chuckling, he stuck his pencil above his ear, under his cap, closed the sketchpad and laid it on the bench. “Yeah, it’s definitely warmer on the coast, but that’s not where I grew up. I’m not sure you could survive a winter in Alexandria if you’re this much of a candy-ass.”
I gasped in pretend outrage, punching him in the shoulder while he feigned being unable to block the blow.
“Ow, jeez—I take it back! You’re tough as nails.” He turned and slid his arm around me, rewarding me with that full smile. “Total badass.”
Between his proximity in the physical sense, and his embrace in the emotional sense, I hummed happily and cuddled closer, closing my eyes. “I throw a mean hammer-fist,” I mumbled into his hoodie. His leather jacket lay folded on the bench next to the sketchbook. He’d insisted it wasn’t cold enough to need it, except on the motorcycle.
He echoed my hum, tipping my head back with an ungloved, curiously unfrozen finger. “You do. I’m actually a little scared of you.”
Our faces were inches apart, his breath mingling with mine in one evaporative cloud between us. “I don’t want you to be scared of me.” The words I couldn’t bring myself to add swirled through my mind: talk to me, talk to me. Barring that, I wanted him to kiss me so I wouldn’t feel the guilt escalate, threatening to spill out in one irrevocable confession. As if I’d made that request aloud, he lowered his head and kissed me softly.