14. Maggie

CHAPTER 14

MAGGIE

Two seconds after I send the text, my phone starts ringing in my hand.

Dammit .

I’m not surprised. I’m just…annoyed? That seems wrong. After all, Uncle Hudson has opened his home to me and won’t hear of taking money for rent. I know he pulled some strings to get my schedule squared away at the last minute. Transferring is never easy, I’m sure, but the fact that I switched schools a few weeks before the start of my senior year made things a little more complicated. I figured I’d have to do an extra semester or at least a class next summer, but someone in the scheduling office worked a little magic and got me all the courses I need, so I’ll be graduating on time.

Uncle Hudson’s been great. And Jules has too, when she’s around. I owe them a lot for doing me this favor, so if that means that I have to actually answer my phone because my Millennial uncle hates texting, then so be it.

I roll my eyes, then plaster on a smile as I hit the green button.

“Hey, did you see my text?” I ask, sending a futile hope into the universe that he’ll hang up the phone and just read the freaking text like a normal person.

“I’m fine, Margo, thanks for asking. How are you?”

Taking a deep breath, think of all the rent money I’m saving. “Hi, Uncle Hudson. My day’s been pretty good. How about yours?”

He chuckles on the other end of the line. “All good here. And yes, I saw that you texted me. Is everything okay? I checked your oil when I gassed up your car last night, and it looked good. It’s not giving you any trouble, is it?”

“My car is fine, and thanks again for filling my tank. That really wasn’t necessary,” I say, before quickly adding, “It really was sweet of you. I had time for an extra cup of coffee this morning since I didn’t have to stop at the gas station, so thanks.”

“It was no trouble. I was with Dad when he bought that car, and I know he kept it in good condition. I just wanted to make sure it’s treating you right.”

I nod, which is ridiculous. We’re talking on the phone, not video-chatting like it’s the twenty-first century or something.

“I’m glad you had a little extra time this morning, but take it easy on the caffeine. Studies show it can stunt your growth.”

I hold back a groan. Hudson and Jules never had any kids, so maybe that’s why it feels like I’m getting years of parenting advice all in one phone call. My uncle is a good guy— a great guy, even. But he is a micro-manager of the highest order. I guess it’s a natural consequence of his job. It’s his duty to tell a fleet of guys exactly what to do in a given situation.

But I’m not one of Uncle Hudson’s hockey players.

I don’t need him to oversee every little detail of my life.

Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been on my own for a few years now, or maybe it’s because I spent my childhood being bossed around by Gam. Or maybe I’m more like my mother than I’d ever want to acknowledge.

All I know is that my gut reaction to his overbearing tendencies is to rebel. I want to miss curfew—and yes, I have a curfew—on purpose. I want to blast my music during quiet hours—and yes, there are quiet hours. I want to use a glass without a coaster, and drink three cups of coffee because I’m a flipping adult.

But mostly, I want to scream.

I don’t, though.

I play along, biding my time until May thirteenth, the day I graduate from college and will finally— finally — be out on my own.

He laughs again and it reminds me of Pops. “Ignore me, Mar—Maggie. Jules would never let me hear the end of it if she knew I was lecturing you about your caffeine intake. And maybe all that stunted growth stuff is nonsense. Jules downs half a pot a day, I swear, and she’s taller than some of my hockey players.”

I laugh in return. “I think that’s what they call genetics, Uncle Hudson. And in case you’ve forgotten, Gam was just as short as I am.”

So was my mom, but I leave that part out.

“Fair enough. So, I’m guessing you didn’t message me to hear all about the dangers of caffeinated beverages.”

“That wasn’t in my plan, no,” I tease. He’s trying, so I will, too. “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out late tonight. I have a study group at the library at nine, and our first test is coming up, so I’m not sure how long we’ll be. I was thinking I might crash at Viv’s if it gets too late, but I didn’t want you to worry.”

I’m proud of the words I choose and the fact that my tone is so even. What I want to say is, I’m calling you to let you know I’ll be out until eleven or so and I don’t want you to flip your shit with panic if I pull in the drive at 11:04. You know, like you did last night .

I know he worries, and I even know why. But it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut during his meltdown. I was late for curfew by four minutes. And I texted. What on earth did he think I was doing? Shooting up in a bathroom stall while giving some stranger a blowjob?

Well, yeah. That’s probably exactly what he thought I was doing.

I’m five feet, three inches tall.

My eyes are blue, and my hair is blonde. It’s not curly and it’s not straight. It’s some hybrid of the two which means it either looks fantastic or like absolute shit. Each day is a surprise.

My bottom lip is fuller than my top lip, and I can roll my tongue.

I am my mother’s daughter, her carbon copy, in so many ways.

But not that one.

I’ve done dumb shit, sure.

But never dangerous shit.

Never life-altering substances, or life-threatening ones.

I’m not Kirsten Baylor. Her mistakes are not mine to atone for.

I know this.

I just wish other people did, too.

“That’s fine,” my uncle says, pulling me back to the conversation. “But thanks for checking in. Will you get some dinner on campus? I could meet you, if you like.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But maybe another night? I have class in half an hour, then I’m going to a resume-building seminar at the union. I think they’re serving food there.”

“Good, that’s good. I’m heading to Virginia tomorrow afternoon to do some scouting, but Jules will be home. That’s the plan, anyway. ”

“Great. Have a good trip,” I say. The words are bland, but at least they’re sincere. That has to count for something, right?

I hang up and send a silent prayer that my uncle’s players can make a texter out of him yet. Does it drive them crazy that the man is allergic to messages?

Pushing open the door to the bookstore, I step inside and scan the signs, hoping I can find what I need without too much trouble.

The textbooks for my Risk Management class were on backorder, so when I got the email that they had arrived, I carved out a few extra minutes to swing by and pick up my copy. Between hanging with Viv and staying at Uncle Hudson’s, I’ve seen more than enough Bainbridge University merch. I bypass the rounders filled with burgundy and silver clothing and make my way to the back corner of the store, which is where they keep the math textbooks. I’d like to think that’s just the way the store is laid out, and not some subversive comment on how math should be forced to sit in the corner because no one likes it anyway.

I do. I like math a lot.

It just makes sense. And it’s a good thing I like it so much, because Calc III is a bitch. If I didn’t love her so much, it’d be torture.

My eyes scan the shelves for the new book, but I don’t see it anywhere. Momentarily, I wonder if maybe they’re holding it up front? Just as I’m about to hoof it to the check-out counter, I catch a glimpse of purple that matches the cover I spotted online. Bending down to the lowest shelf, I pluck a copy, check the title and author, and hold it up triumphantly. “Yay!” I can’t hold back the cheer that escapes my lips as I do a little happy dance in the aisle. I have an assignment due two days from now, and everything I need for it is in this book.

“Is that a cry for help?”

Looking up from my reverie, I spot JT. JT, whose last name I do not know. JT, of bathtub sex fame. JT, the man once known as Gym Shorts Hottie.

“What are you doing here?” The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

Leaning back against one of the metal bookshelves, he holds up a book. “Stats. It’s a necessary evil, and the books just came in.”

“Stats is not a necessary evil,” I say, possibly with more heat than is strictly necessary. “Stats is…useful. It’s vital to analysis. It’s fun.”

He shoots me one of his killer smiles. “You sure you’re ok? Maybe you hit your head when you tumbled down that hill?”

“Haha,” I retort, rolling my eyes. “I forgot. Math is a terrible, horrible thing and since none of us understand it, we must make fun of it, and act like it’s the educational version of the plague.”

He shakes his head, and splays his hand out, touching each fingertip as he rattles off a list. “Hot as fuck, funny as hell, pretty damn flexible, germ-averse, and a mathematical genius. Damn, Maggie, you are quite the package.”

To my credit, I don’t say anything about his package. I just nod and smile. “Math isn’t as terrifying as people make it out to be, especially Stats.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, still propped against the bookshelf looking like a model. “You don’t happen to tutor in your spare time, do you?”

I know he’s just teasing me, but for a second, I see something hopeful in his gaze.

“Nope,” I answer. “There’s just no time. I graduate in May and have two exams to pass before then, which means all my free time will be spent studying.”

“Are you an education major?” he asks, following me down the aisle as I make my way to the front of the store.

I shake my head. “No way. I have a hard enough time dealing with the general population’s hatred for math. There’s no universe where I’d sign up to make it make sense to other people.

He cracks a smile. “That’s fair. Ok, next guess…accounting?”

“Wrong again. It’s fine, but I need a little more excitement, you know?”

His hazel eyes flash with awareness, and I realize what I just said. Before I can stammer out a clarification, he stops in front of a display of fuzzy socks. “ Forensic accounting?” he asks, unable to hide his smile. “That’s like, the sexy version, right?”

Once again, I shake my head. “I definitely wouldn’t call it sexy, but it is a little more thrilling than plain old accounting. Now my major is the sexy level, hands down.”

JT lets his gaze sweep over me. “Makes sense.”

I have no doubt my cheeks are on fire right now. I did not come to the student bookstore for sexy banter, or to run into the guy I hooked up with. It’s confusing, and that must be why I blurt out my next words. “You’re not acting like a one-night stand. Aren’t you supposed to avoid eye contact? Or give me a tip of your chin and keep moving? I’m not well-versed in these things, but I really don’t think you’re following protocol.”

My words catch him off guard. I can tell by the way he laughs, then thinks better of it, and chews at the corner of his lip. He’s weighing his next words, calculating the myriad ways in which they might land. I don’t point out how helpful statistics can be in situations like this.

“Truthfully, and with full recognition that you have no reason to believe me, I’m not all that well-versed in these things, either. But maybe it’s not just that, Maggie.”

He says my name like it’s a warm blanket I want to cuddle up into.

That absolutely would not follow protocol .

“Maybe,” he says, his eyes locked on mine, “I don’t think of you as a one-night stand.”

There’s no veneer of charm in his words, no smooth delivery. He’s standing before me, his stance open and relaxed, like he has nothing to hide. He sounds genuine.

And I find that more terrifying than any math problem could ever possibly be.

My consternation shows in the furrow of my brow. “But it was literally one-night. Granted, we weren’t standing, but I think that’s a metaphor, or something? Don’t ask me, I’m no English major.”

“Actuarial Science,” he says with authority, a smile gracing his handsome face.

I’m momentarily confused. “How did you?—”

His index finger traces the spine of the book I’m holding. Risk Management: An Exploration of Actuarial Science .

“That’s, like, math on steroids, right?” he asks.

Now I’m the one smiling. “More or less.”

“Maybe you can answer this, then. What’s the statistical probability that we’re?—”

“Going to have another night together?” I ask, cutting him off. “That’s easy. Zero.”

He winces. “Ouch. How about friends? Can we be friends?”

“I have friends,” I say, sidestepping around him and striding toward the checkout counter. It’s not crowded or anything, but there is one person ahead of me in line. And one person behind me: JT.

“I’m not the best at math,” he says, “but I don’t think I ever learned anything about a ceiling on the number of friends it was possible to have.”

I glance in his direction, letting my eyes do a quick sweep. Objectively, he’s good looking as hell with his dark hair and lightly tanned skin. There’s a day’s worth of stubble on his face, which only serves to make him look hotter. His eyes are a mix of brown and green and I do my best to avoid getting lost in them again. He’s taller than most guys, and I’m guessing he has a solid foot on my short stature. His body is lean and sculpted, which makes me wonder if he’s a runner, or maybe a swimmer. Anyone in this bookstore, or even on this campus, would be a fool to turn down his flirtation. So maybe I’m a fool. I can make peace with that. I’ve certainly done worse.

“They cover that in Stats,” I say, stepping up to the counter and placing my book down. The clerk scans it, and I tap my card, waiving the offer of a bag. Slipping my receipt between the pages like a bookmark, I turn toward JT. “Lunch-time companions, maybe? There’s no cap on that.”

I don’t look back to see if he’s smiling. I just walk through the doors, out of the store, and onto the main path that winds through campus. I’m pretty sure I don’t even blink until I reach Cauller Hall. It’s a good thing I have class in a few minutes, or I’d be tempted to retrace my steps to the bookstore and recant my stance on the idea of Night Number Two with JT.

The idea is intoxicating, but it’s also off-limits.

I can just picture my uncle’s face if I told him I’d be missing curfew to hang out with a guy I just met, a guy whose full name I still don’t know. A guy who gave me what was arguably the best night of my life.

Ascending the stairway, I laugh at the thought. Uncle Hudson would surely lose his mind.