Page 6 of Matthias’s Protective Embrace (Cardinal Falls #3)

Neither sounds like fun, but I guess I’ll have to choose. At least if I want to survive the semester.

As soon as class is over, I make my way to my car and head home.

I already did the math—ha-ha—and if I study an extra thirty minutes tonight, I’ll still get almost seven hours of sleep.

It’s not a lot, but it adds up to three and a half extra hours a week of book time.

Over the next two months until the end of the semester, that’s… well, it’s a lot.

So, get home, get downstairs as quickly as possible, and dive into studying.

It’s a solid plan. Except when I get to my street, I drive past my house.

My head is swirling from the day, and my body’s tired and sore from the labor I’ve done.

If I go inside right now, there’ll be a fight.

I’m sure of it. They’ll demand to know where I’ve been, then complain that I’m wasting my life hanging out with friends.

I could put a stop to that discussion and tell them that I’m enrolled in classes.

I don’t have the mental fortitude for that discussion, either.

To argue with them that a real job would be a better use of time and resources, how college isn’t for people like me—whatever that means—and that I should cut my losses while I still can.

It’s the same refrain I’ve heard my entire life.

I can’t hear it tonight.

So, I drive. Not going anywhere in particular.

Simply getting as far away as I can for now.

Eventually, I stop at a twenty-four-hour diner on the outskirts of town.

I found it when we did a construction job out here a few months back.

The guys would meet here before our shift started—at the ass crack of dawn—for coffee and eggs.

They’ve got a menu full of things I can eat and a long bar top perfect for finding a spot alone and ignoring everyone else.

When I take a seat at the counter, the waitress nods and hands me a menu. “What can I getcha?”

“Coffee?” Yeah, I know better than to drink caffeine this late, but if I’m going to be up anyway, might as well.

“Cream and sugar?”

“Just the sugar. Thanks.” She grabs the carafe off the hot plate and pours me a cup.

I try not to think about how long it’s been sitting there.

Once she steps away, I doctor my cup with a few packets of sugar.

They only have regular milk, so I’m stuck with black coffee.

I’m not hungry, but I should order something if I’m going to sit here for a little while.

When she returns, I order a classic breakfast with toast, scrambled eggs, and some veggie sausage. At least this place is cheap. It’s not in my budget to go out for dinner, but at least I can use the quiet to focus for a little while. Maybe psych myself up to go home.

While I wait for my food, I scroll through my phone, checking my socials, reading marketing emails for things I can’t afford, and checking the time repeatedly. It’s at least two hours until my parents go to bed.

Tomorrow, there’ll be hell to pay for this. I’ll get a lecture about being out with my friends so late. On a weeknight. I haven’t told them I’ve gone back to school. First because I needed to prove to myself that I could do it. That I could show up, do the work, and not be a complete fuck up.

During my first semester, I managed to work my way through the introductory composition class the counselor suggested. It wasn’t amazing, but I got a B. Better than I ever did before. Probably because I did the assignments. Crazy, right?

Even after that, I’m still not convinced it wasn’t a fluke, a one-off success meant to hype me up before I came crashing back to Earth.

Even if it isn’t, it’s gratifying to have one thing that’s mine, something I don’t have to share or defend to anyone.

It was enough to convince me to try taking two classes this term, which is how I’ve ended up carting around both math and history textbooks in the back of Squeezy for the last month.

But I had to tell my parents something. I couldn’t disappear for a few nights a week without an explanation.

So, I made up friends, which is by far the most pathetic thing I’ve ever done.

They’re a nice cover for the fact that I’m out of the house until late Monday through Thursday.

The downside is that my parents think even less of me since they believe I’m out playing video games and drinking instead of desperately trying to shove a bunch of American history and calculus into my head.

And tonight, I’m sure they’ll assume I’m partying, being even more irresponsible with my life than I actually am. I created this problem, so I’m sure I can figure out how to get out of it. Maybe if the semester ends well, I’ll feel like I can finally tell them.

My plate slides in front of me, and the waitress gives me a halfhearted smile as she walks off to help another customer. I stare at the eggs on my plate. There’s nothing wrong with them, but they look… sad?

Obviously, I’m projecting. And pouting. Not a good look for a full-grown man.

Instead of pulling out my history textbook to work on my assignment for my study group, I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook and start making a to-do list. As good as those sandwiches Matthias made are, I’d like to avoid getting myself into any more embarrassing situations.

It would do my ego a world of good. Having Matthias play witness to my breakdown over forgetting my lunch last week was enough.

Considering how little I actually interact with him, it shouldn’t be that hard.

Yeah, he’s always staring out his window when I arrive in the morning, but that doesn’t usually include any discussion.

Sometimes, he waves and I wave back at him, trying not to grin too hard.

A tough task when a gorgeous man is staring at me.

He’s probably checking up on me for Sam. Other than being a sexy morning watchman, he’s gone all day and doesn’t get home until after we’ve cleaned up and headed out for the day.

Everyone’s always screaming that these lists help them get everything done. That’s never been my experience, but, like most things, it’s probably user error. Not trying hard enough. This time, I’m going to put in the effort.

To-Do List

Read Chapter 8

Read Chapter 9

Review notes

Laundry

Pack water bottle for work

As soon as I finish writing that last one, I cross it off. Am I a lost puppy dog enjoying my sexy man leaving me water? Absolutely. If I start bringing my own, he might not leave it for me anymore.

It’s a tiny thing, and I know it doesn’t mean anything, but it lets me hold on to the possibility that something might happen. Some day. In a fantasy world. The same one where I hope he brings me lunch again tomorrow. And the day after that.

I snort at the thought, loud enough that a few people turn and look at me. Yeah, I know. Never going to happen. A guy can dream, though. Right?