The Deal

“That’s good,” she says softly. “I think it’s important to be doing what you love.”


I’m afraid she might ask more questions about my father, so I clear my throat and change the subject. “So which philosopher should we start with—Hobbes or Locke?”

“You pick. They’re both incredibly boring.”

I chuckle. “Way to make me enthusiastic about it, Wellsy.”

But she’s right. The next hour is brutal, and not just because of the mind-numbingly dull theories. I’m absolutely starving because I slept through lunch, but I refuse to end the session until I’ve mastered the material. When I studied for the midterm before, I focused only on the major points, but Hannah makes me examine every last detail. She also forces me to rephrase each theory, which I have to admit, gives me a better handle on the convoluted crap we’re studying.

After we’d muddled through it all, Hannah quizzes me on everything we’ve read these past few days, and when she’s satisfied I know my stuff, she closes the binder and nods.

“Tomorrow we’ll start applying the theories to actual ethical dilemmas.”

“Sounds good.” My stomach grumbles so loudly it practically shakes the walls, and I wince.

She snorts. “Hungry?”

“Famished. Tuck does all the cooking in the house, but he’s not home tonight so I was going to order a pizza.” I hesitate. “Do you want to stick around? Have a couple slices and maybe watch something?”

She looks surprised by the invitation. It surprises me too, but honestly, I wouldn’t mind the company. Logan and the others went out to hit up a party, but I wasn’t in the mood to tag along. And I’ve managed to get ahead on all my course readings, so I’ve got shit all to do tonight.

“What do you want to watch?” she asks warily.

I gesture to the stack of Blu-Rays next to my TV. “Dean just got every season of Breaking Bad. I keep meaning to watch it but I never have time.”

“Is that the show about the heroine dealer?”

“Meth cooker. I hear it’s fucking awesome.”

Hannah runs her fingers through her hair. She seems reluctant to stay, but equally reluctant to go.

“What else do you have to do tonight?” I prompt.

“Nothing,” she says glumly. “My roommate is spending the night at her boyfriend’s, so I was just going to watch TV anyway.”

“So do it here.” I grab my cell phone. “What do you like on your pizza?”

“Um…mushrooms. And onions. And green peppers.”

“So pretty much all the boring toppings?” I shake my head. “We’re getting bacon and sausage and extra cheese.”

“Why bother asking me what I like if you’re not going to order any of it?”

“Because I was hoping you’d have better taste than that.”

“I’m sorry you find vegetables boring, Garrett. Why don’t you give me a call when you get scurvy?”

“Scurvy is a deficiency of Vitamin C. You don’t put sunshine or oranges on pizza, sweetheart.”

In the end, I compromise by ordering two pizzas, one with Hannah’s boring-ass toppings, the other loaded with meat and cheese. I cover the mouthpiece and glance at her. “Diet Coke?”

“What do I look like, a pansy? Regular Coke, thank you very much.”

Chuckling, I place our order, then put in the first disc of Breaking Bad. We’re twenty minutes in when the doorbell rings.

“Wow. Fastest pizza delivery guy ever,” Hannah remarks.

My stomach is not complaining in the slightest. I head downstairs and grab our food, then pop into the kitchen to grab paper towels and a bottle of Bud Light from the fridge. At the last second, I grab an extra bottle in case Hannah wants one.

But when I offer it to her upstairs, she vehemently shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

“What, you’re too much of a prude to have one beer?”

Discomfort flickers in her eyes. “I’m not a big drinker, okay?”

I shrug and crack open my beer, taking a deep swig as Hannah rips a piece of paper towel off the roll and pries a gooey vegetable-covered slice out of the box.

We settle on the bed to eat, neither of us speaking as I turn the show back on. The pilot episode is amazing, and Hannah doesn’t object when I click on the next one.

There’s a female in my bedroom and neither of us is naked. It’s strange. But kinda nice. We don’t talk much during the show—we’re too engrossed by what’s happening on the screen—but once the second episode ends, Hannah turns to me and gapes.

“Oh my God, imagine not knowing that your husband is cooking meth? Poor Skylar.”

“She’s definitely going to find out.”

Hannah gasps. “Hey. No spoilers!”

“That’s not a spoiler,” I protest. “It’s a prediction.”

She relaxes. “Okay, good.”

She picks up her Coke can and takes a deep swig. I’ve already demolished my pizza, but Hannah’s is only half done, so I steal a piece and take a big bite.

“Ohhhh, look who’s eating my boring pizza. Can anyone say hypocrite?”

“It’s not my fault you eat like a bird, Wellsy. I can’t let food go to waste.”