Page 39

S hock horror. I’m not a risk taker. Not once have I had the urge to go bungee jumping. Never had the desire to jump from a plane or spit off an overpass. Skipped the whole experimentation with drugs. The biggest gamble in my life is buying meat the day before its best by date.

Until now.

Balanced on my knees as I soak up the final hours of a glorious pink sunset, is my crappy old laptop. On its screen the USF website, the address typed in by shaking hands caused by sheer, unadulterated excitement, or shit my pants terror. It could be hypothermia, too. It’s utterly freezing out here, but Quinn is baking/ burning cookies, while singing along to aMariahCarey Christmas album. It’s frostbite or Frosty the Snowman in a pitch no ear drum should ever have to hear and even with my teeth chattering; I stand by my decision.

Either way, wheels are in motion. I had a meeting with student services today and they’ve told me if I stay at BC, I can switch back to Psych. The only issue is I’d need to wait for Spring half to make the change, and it would add another year to my study time. Graduating late means nothing to me. Not if I’m back where I want to be. Besides, if I do head south, I’ll be pretty much starting over anyway.

Something else that means nothing to me is Professor Carole. I didn’t mention the harassment, or the possible DNA similarities between us at the meeting, because I’ve decided it’s a non-issue. I don’t need a father. I certainly don’t want him as a father, and I’m fairly certain should he become aware, he would be of the same opinion. So, I’m going to pretend that part of the conversation with Dr Hotty didn’t happen.

The identity of my father remains a mystery.

Simple.

I’m perusing the student services page when a dull thud catches my attention. I begin to worry Quinn has eaten one of her cookies and hit the deck, but then the front slams shut and I hear Noah’s dulcet tones harmonizing withMariah, Queen of Carols.

“All I want for Christmas is boobs-ooohhhh-oh-ohhh-Lo-ttes.” I wasn’t expecting him tonight, he messaged me earlier saying he was heading out with the team to O’Reilly’s, but I guess he changed his mind.

The glass screen slides open and there he is, cheeks rosy from the cold, chuckling to himself.

“You look pretty happy with yourself, babe.” His expression morphs from pleased to euphoric and a second later I know why.

Babe.

Not totally sure, cause my memory sucks, but I think it’s the first time I’ve dropped it. My cheeks burn as I expect him to make a fuss, and then I’ll be embarrassed and never say it again, but he stops. Sighs. Swallows down the joy I can see written all over his face and sits on the freezing concrete beside me.

And that, I think to myself, is why I am coco-bananas in love with Noah Petterson.

“Did you hear my song, little one?” He smiles. “I’m thinking of recording it. Look out, Bieber, here I come.”

“Hmm. I am so glad you have hockey to fall back on because, sorry my dear, I don’t think you’ll make it as a singer.”

Noah clutches his heart and drops his head to my shoulder, his warmth and locker room soap scent instantly appreciated. “Way to crush my soul, Lotte. Wanna tell me Santa isn’t real next?”

“Duh. Of course not, because he is.” Ignoring the throbbing lust at the apex of my thighs, I snuggle closer. “Why didn’t you go to O’Reilly’s?”

“Wanted to touch you.” A lingering, tender kiss is placed on my check. “Fuck you smell so good, Lotte.” Noah groans, before moving his greedy lips to mine. A pounding heartbeat later, they’re snaking their way down my neck, each kiss a punctuation to his praise. “Always. Smell. So. Good. You in your sleep the other night and it smelled kinda nice. What’s your secret?”

“Picking weirdos to be my boyfriend.”

Against my pulse point, I feel his smile bloom. “Babe. Boyfriend. Weirdo. You say the kindest things.” Before I can respond, his strong hand is gripping my chin and twisting my face to meet his. My lips part, wanting nothing more than to feel his tongue slide over mine. “So fucking sexy.”

Seconds later I’m flat on my back, legs spread with Noah, hard and grinding between them, every inch of my skin tingling with phantom kisses. “I really wish Quinn wasn’t inside baking what could be the death of us,” he grumbles.

“But she is.”

On cue, there’s a sharp tap on the glass above. “Hey, no baby- making when the roommate is within earshot.” Quinn hovers, her face covered in flour and Gran’s favorite wooden spoon clutched in her hand. “Now, come inside and try my Taylor SwiftChaiCookies. They’re fall in a sweet treat.” A burnt relic of something Taylor Swift should not be held responsible for is pulled from her apron pocket.

On a gruff, displeased grunt, Noah rises and effortlessly pulls me to my feet, eyeing Quinn and the ‘food’. “What a coincidence. I think we’ll fall if we eat them.”

“Hey! I heard that!”

With Claire now in on our little secret, Noah slept over last night then slipped off to practice around six am. Predictably, very little sleep took place - God bless the stamina of a twenty-year-old athlete. Between spells of fundraiser planning, being completely ruined in the bath, the bed, then again in the shower this before he left means I’m late … as usual. But as luck would have it, not only were Quinn’s cookies non-fatality causing, but they’re also delicious, and make an ideal grab and go breakfast.

Caffeine andchai, vanilla buttery goodness fills my belly as we wander to class, the sugar high preferable to the wave of nausea I’m usually riding before an Economics lecture. Watching me from the corner of her eye and peeling the paper of her now empty takeout coffee cup, Quinn’s disarmingly quiet. At first, I think she’s pissed at me for keeping her awake with all the sexy commotions, but she clears that up before we enter the lecture, by grabbing my arm and pulling me into an almost vicious hug.

“Are you sure you don’t want to confront Carole?” she asks, her pointy shin digging into my shoulder. “Even if you don’t want a relationship with him, him knowing may make your remaining class time bearable.”

“Or a hundred times worse … and don’t roll your eyes at me. I know I can’t see them, but I know you did.”

Quinn freezes, then giggles and squeezes me harder. “I swear you have better Mom senses than my actual Mom.” That’s when the giggles stop, and shoulders drop.

A few months ago, I’d rather have palmed Quinn in the face away and run screaming than ask her what’s wrong. So it’s a surprise when, “Have you spoken to her?” unconsciously slips from my tongue.

“No. Two plus one equals Mom in the middle, and I don’t want that for her, so it’s easier if I just remove myself from the equation altogether.”

Now I do put space between us, but it’s a gentle press not a shove and only so I can see Quinn’s eyes. “That’s very noble of you, but have you asked your mom if that’s what she wants? Shouldn’t she have a say in whether she has a relationship with her daughter?”

“Maybe. But if that’s the case, shouldn’t Carole?”

I’m about to argue that one is not remotely comparable to the other, but her phone rings and it’s Troye’s ringtone, Troye Sivan’s My, My, My. Any chance of rebuttal is gone.

“Troyeby!” she squeals, mood skyrocketing in a heartbeat, she leaves me for dead and resumes walking to class. Faithfully I follow, wishing my brain could flitter so rapidly between miserableness and lustful joy, and contemplating if Quinn has a point.

Does Professor Carole, chief asshole of all assholes, have the right to know?

Paying little attention to whatever he’s waffling on about, I sit in my back row, far corner hidey-hole and watch. I study how he moves. How he speaks. How he huffs impatiently and stomps his foot petulantly. It’s the first Economics class I’ve attended in person since I’ve learned of our possible relationship, and I can’t help but notice so many of Professor Carole’s mannerisms are like mine.

Or are mine like his?

Either way it’s a sickening thought. Nothing slightly redeemable has happened in the forty-five minutes Quinn and I have been here. He’s humiliated a student who stammered while reading text aloud, launched a vicious diatribe against the college’s athletics department while staring down Quinn, and announced the names and scores of two students who failed to make the grade on their last assignment to the entire class.

The man is a complete … Ugh, I don’t even know the descriptor. Does a word even exist to describe such a man?

Dad.

Pushing the dreaded thought away, I allow my heavy eyes to fall closed and time slows, becoming a dull thud in my chest that makes me wonder if I’ve slipped into a coma. The fact I’m conscious of that thought means probably not, but still. It’s concerning.

“MISS WEST.” A hand slaps on my desk, and I blink, my eyes struggling to adjust to the light and to make out the silhouetted form before me. “Are we disrupting your nap time?”

“No, Professor Carole. Not at all. I was up late studying and working on a fundraiser.” And boning my jock boyfriend. “Please, I do apologize.”

“And what ‘woke’ nonsense are we raising these funds for? The national preservation of useless students’ society?”

“No.” I snap, slapping my laptop closed in preparation of being thrown out. “A local ice rink was vandalized and—”

Cutting me off, Carole slaps his palm to the table again and leans in my face. “Green Line Ice? You’re wasting my time on that putz Marty’s rink?”

“I’m not wasting class time.” I argue, unable to hold my temper. “My friends and I have been working on it at home, and … Wait. You know Marty?”

Carole balks, rears back, his reddening face a dictionary worthy description of, Oh shit what did I say. “He’s a renown liar and troublemaker, other than that I don’t know what you’re talking about.” With humph, he wipes the blond tufts of his comb-over from his eyes, turns and plods back to his podium. Beyond confused, I turn to Quinn. She shrugs, I huff and rest my suddenly aching head on her shoulder.

“That was weird, right?”

“Definitely weird.”

“I mean, I know they’re both local, but Marty’s life revolves around hockey. His people are hockey people. His wife’s people are hockey people. How would an academia snob like Carole even enter his sphere?”

“Who the fuck knows. But I’m thinking your decision to keep your little secret a secret is a good one.”

In what should be a blessing, Carole’s attention doesn’t turn my way the rest of the lecture, but his odd reaction sits in my stomach, mixing as well in oil does in water.