Page 34 of The Play Maker

Me:

it’s a date.

Maisie:

It’s tutoring.

Me:

why can’t it be both?

She doesn’t reply, and I set my phone down, still smiling.

8

MAISIE

The library’s mostly empty when I get there.

I head straight for the back table. It’s tucked in the corner, quiet, with a good overhead light and two outlets. I drop my bag onto the chair beside me and start unpacking. Textbook, lecture slides, flashcards, notebook, pens. Everything’s already organized, but I double-check anyway. Color-coded notes. Diagrams. Flashcards grouped by chapter.

I don’t half-ass tutoring sessions. Especially not when the guy I’m helping is already hanging on by a thread in this class.

Five minutes go by.

Then ten.

I tap my pen against the side of my notebook, flipping to the next page even though I’m not reading. The library’s so quiet I can hear the hum of the overhead lights and the faint tick of the old clock by the front desk.

Still no sign of him.

I check my phone. No texts. No missed calls.

Where the hell is he?

I very clearly said 4 p.m. Not ‘around four’, not ‘sometime tonight’. Four.

I let out a breath and sit back in my chair, crossing my arms. Maybe I should just leave. I’ve got an exam of my own next week. I didn’t clear my schedule so he could flake.

I’m reaching for my pencil case when I hear footsteps echoing across the floor.

I glance up just in time to see Austin Rhodes walking in like he’s got all the time in the world. His hoodie is unzipped over a tight gray shirt, his backpack dangling from one shoulder.

He spots me and heads over. He doesn’t rush, even though he’s ten minutes late. Just strolls right up, drops into the chair across from me, and slouches down so low he might slide off entirely.

His backpack hits the table with a loud thud.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. He pulls a crumpled bag of chips from his hoodie pocket and holds it up. “Vending machine robbed me. I retaliated.” He flashes me a lazy grin, then reaches into the bag and pops a Cheeto into his mouth.

I blink at him. Is this guy for real?

“Congrats on your win,” I say dryly. “Can we get started now? We’re already behind.”

I pick up my highlighter and go back to marking the notes in front of me.

He’s quiet for a beat. I can feel him watching me, but I keep my eyes down, even when his chair creaks as he shifts forward.

“Want one?” he asks, holding the bag of chips in my face.