Bookish Boyfriends Read online

  Fielding wasn’t even walking toward me. I mean, he was headed my direction, but not on the same path. So unless he went on a rule-breaking jog across the lawn, we weren’t going to have to interact.

  Didn’t matter. I went full sweaty and dry mouth. My pulse soared. Like the butterflies from my stomach had launched an invasion on my veins, stampeding and leaving me breathless and reckless. And while my brain screamed adrenaline-laced messages to run! and hide! my defiant feet dragged to nearly a stop. My rebel eyes stayed glued to him. And my heart . . . it squished. Or maybe it squashed? Regardless, it beat in ways that made my chest feel too tight.

  True to pattern, since I was a five-ish feet of pure panic, Fielding noticed me. His humiliation-seeking radar locked on me and didn’t let go. His brown gaze meshed with my gray-blue, and even from across the lawn, I was caught like burrs tangling up in a golden retriever’s coat. His eyebrows drew in, and his shoulders shifted from their perfect posture—creeping up toward his ears.

  Maybe I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know how to handle it now that too much honesty and vulnerability clogged the air between us. Though it was lopsided vulnerability: all the confessions—all the declarations—had come in one direction, from him to me. And maybe he needed reassurance, needed to hear me say I wouldn’t use that arsenal of emotions and secrets against him.

  I offered him a thumbs-up—and immediately regretted it. Completely uncool. There was a good reason that the last time I’d done a non-emoji version of the thumbs-up was when I was eight and posing next to a birthday cake. But this realization came a few seconds too late—because his eyes had dipped from mine to my hand before pulling back up.

  Then again, maybe me in goober form was what he needed? Because the left corner of his mouth lifted in response. Not a smile. Not really. But it was in the smile family—a second cousin twice removed or something. And the drum inside my chest didn’t care about the difference. It squished. This was definitely a squish. One so powerful it made me stumble over my feet, or a sidewalk tile, or the idea that I’d been a shortsighted idiot when it came to him.

  Curtis caught my arm. “Whoa, short stack. Steady there.”

  I didn’t feel steady at all. My worldview was going through seismic shifts—it felt only right that the ground beneath my feet should be tilting as well. I felt like Lizzy must have when she took a walk after reading Darcy’s letter and realized how wrong she’d been about so much. How wrong she’d been about Darcy and his feelings. It took me an extra second or two to find my balance and the courage to look back over to where Fielding had been standing. By the time I did, the moment had passed. He had continued on his way.

  I’d just come from English class, where Ms. Gregoire had handed out copies of the letters we’d written about Romeo and Juliet on the first day of class. “Now that we’ve finished reading the play,” she’d said, “I’d like you all to reread and write a response to your reflections from our first day together.”

  Instead of handing me a letter, she’d paused at my desk. “Since you and I have already discussed the evolution of your feelings about the play, Merri, I know this assignment will be more personally meaningful if you focus on Pride and Prejudice instead. Even if you’re not quite finished yet.”

  Since the very thought of anything Romeo-related made me want to run for the closest paper shredder, I was game. I’d wanted to write about Lizzy’s initial bias against Darcy, or about the chapters I’d read last night, where Lizzy returns home and fills Jane in on everything that had gone down with her and Darcy while she was at Hunsford. How I still hadn’t found the words or time to tell my sisters or Eliza about Fielding’s Darcy-style declaration and email. Lilly, because she’d been spending the night at Trent’s lately. Rory, because our relationship wasn’t really the secret-sharing type. And Eliza . . . honestly, because I thought she’d take my side. And I didn’t think I deserved it. I wanted a Jane-like reaction. Jane had worried about Darcy’s hurt feelings and disappointment. The good news, I’d reassured myself as I wrote page-filling nonsense about the trip to Derbyshire that Lizzy had been invited to take with her aunt and uncle, was that Fielding barely knew me. It’s not like he could really care that much about my rejection. As he’d written, I was “a mistake.” He’d probably already moved on to Ava.

  I may have even shot her a glare across the classroom as I thought this; if so, she’d definitely smirked in return.

  The whole time I’d been pretending to do the assignment, I’d had a sinking feeling in my stomach. It was the type of plunge that occurred when I was standing on the end of our diving board and Rory or Toby snuck up behind me and bounced. Like gravity was no longer something I understood—like it was too late to slow down, go back, or change the crash-splash outcome. It felt a lot like the moment I’d just experienced on the path with Fielding—one I was still experiencing, as I scanned the yard for any glimpse of his back.

  32

  I hoped Lilly’s future mother-in-law would never run for president, because I would not wish Secret Service coverage on my worst enemy. My friends meant well—but from the moment Toby overhead Eliza asking me, “Wait . . . why are you skulking and skulduggering?” he knew.

  “She doesn’t want to see Monroe. He’s back in school now, isn’t he?” Toby put a hand on my elbow and pulled me to the side of the path. “That’s why you’re so skittish today. You practically jumped out of your skin when Curtis knocked over that book in English. And you went white when I surprised you at your locker this morning. What’s going on?”

  “I—I . . .” My voice came out as a squeak and I held out my phone, cued to Monroe’s text messages. “I’ve just said everything I want to say . . . and I don’t think he’s heard any of it.”

  “Block his number,” said Toby.

  “And we’ve got your back,” added Lance. “Okay?”

  I agreed. And then it—all privacy and breathing room—was over.

  Twenty-four hours later, I was still marveling at the speed at which they’d organized themselves into teams to walk me to and from every class. When I got up to get some salad dressing at lunch on Thursday, Hannah came with me. Lance shadowed me to the water cooler when I needed to refill my bottle. Toby decided it would just be easier to keep his books in my locker, since he was accompanying me on all trips to spin its dial.

  But when I reached for the girls’ bathroom pass in math and Curtis grabbed the guys’, I’d had enough. “Seriously? I’ve been potty-trained for thirteen years—I’ve got this,” I told him. “Honest.”

  Which of course meant that Monroe was waiting in the hall when I shouldered the door open, still drying my hands on my shirt in avoidance of the world’s slowest hand dryer.

  “Merrilee, love, we need to talk.” He was still dark curls and Siberian husky eyes—but today he looked more like an under-groomed Pekingese than an artfully styled emo-stud. Clearly there had been some frustrated hair tugging going on. And clearly I was over him, since I felt less than zero empathy and didn’t hesitate before answering.

  “No. Nope. Not even a little.” Damp or not, I used one of my hands to push him out of my way. He didn’t move.

  “Please,” Monroe begged. “I’ve been out of my mind this last week. I need you—”

  “You really don’t. And I really don’t need or want you.” He was tall; I wasn’t. This wasn’t news to me. But I hadn’t realized he was the type of guy who would use that size difference to his advantage. That he’d think it was acceptable or even remotely okay to cage me in the corner behind the bathroom door with his wide shoulders, kicking one of his feet between mine and looming over me with angry eyes and a furrowed brow. This stance and expression were every bit as dramatic as all his declarations of feelings and his theatrics during our breakup.

  I couldn’t believe I’d really found the pretty words and big, flashy, rash deeds romantic. In that moment, I found it threatening. And I was more than a little sad that I’d given my first kiss to a guy who didn’
t know me well enough to know I’d hate my size being used against me.

  Or if he did know—he didn’t care.

  “I wasn’t done,” he said, leaning down so his fetid breath hit my forehead. “I need you to talk to the director. Take the blame. Tell him you made me do it. Say whatever you need to to get my part back. I have to be Romeo. I was born for that role.”

  Maybe he was—because this was all tragically pathetic. And what was Romeo and Juliet about, if not reckless actions and failure to take responsibility? Qualities I’d also ascribed to Wickham in my last reaction journal—clearly the literary world was lousy with this stupid species of men. The real world too, since Monroe was an A-plus expert in both.

  “No.” I kicked at his foot. “And move!”

  “Yes,” he continued. “It’ll be like when Juliet goes to—”

  “Oh, wrong answer.” Because anything Juliet did, I would do the opposite. I’d outlined my paper on the play last night—my topic was the lack of strong, supportive female influences in Juliet’s life. Maybe if she’d had a mother who paid attention—like mine, who’d brought me cocoa the night before and then held my copy of Pride and Prejudice hostage until breakfast because “You haven’t been sleeping well lately, and I know you, you’ll stay up all night reading”—or an example of a healthy relationship like Lilly and Trent, or a friend like an Eliza, a Hannah, a Sera, heck, even a Rory—or a Jane Bennet. Maybe if Juliet had had anyone in her life who listened or told her she could be more and deserved more than a boy who climbed in through her window and gave her lots of poetry and empty promises . . . maybe then she would’ve found or fought her way to a happily ever after.

  I scowled up at Monroe—wondering if he realized that sometimes the littlest dogs had the sharpest bites. “I’m not playing this game anymore. Let me go.”

  He stepped closer. His knee brushed the inside of my leg and I shivered—but not a good, anticipatory shiver, like when stomach butterflies flapped in giddy spirals. This was the shiver of them all dropping dead.

  Monroe placed a hand on the wall on either side of my head. “I don’t think you’re listening. You will do this.”

  “Merrilee.”

  Only one person in the world said my name like that. Would I always be so aware of him? Would the sound of his voice always make my pulse fast-forward?

  Monroe and I both turned to see Fielding standing in the hall, looking like an advertisement for prep school perfection. One that would make so many students promise every penny in their bank accounts plus their souls for a chance to be his classmate. At least, until he raised his eyebrows expectantly like he was doing now—as though he were waiting for me to salute or curtsy.

  “Yes?” I wondered how this looked from his vantage point—like a threat . . . or like we were about to make out. This mattered in a way that made the corners of my eyes smart.

  “You’re wanted in the office,” he said.

  “I am?” I ducked under Monroe’s arm. He was too busy scowling at Fielding to try to stop me. Once I was safely on the other side of his armpit, I exhaled in relief, then inhaled in anticipatory anxiety. “Gah, what does Headmaster Williams want to lecture me on now?”

  Fielding shrugged. “I’m just the messenger. Here’s the note.” He handed me a folded piece of white paper.

  I frowned down at it. Hopefully it gave some sort of explanation for whatever wrong Headmaster Williams had decided I’d committed this time—but I wasn’t going to read it in front of an audience—especially not an audience of an ex-boyfriend with reality and boundary problems and . . . well, Fielding.

  I crumpled the note as I closed it in my fist. Fielding winced, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. I bet he’d have a panic attack if he saw how I curled and folded and fidgeted with the church program each Sunday, so that by the end of service, it looked like remedial origami.

  “Forget you, Merri,” said Monroe. “I don’t need you—there are other Capulets.”

  I whirled back toward him. “What does that even mean?” I asked. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

  He grinned. “Wait and see—I will be Romeo.”

  “Good-bye, Monroe,” I said, spinning on my heel and heading down the hallway toward the headmaster’s office. I shuddered, trying to ignore the ominous tone in his parting words.

  Fielding followed, but he didn’t crowd me. He was far enough behind that when I unfolded the paper, I had to turn around and wait for him to catch up before I could wave it at him and ask, “What is this?”

  “My calculus homework, actually. So if I could have it back before you rumple it any further, that would be much appreciated.”

  I tucked the pages by my side, out of the reach of his grasping fingers. Both because I wanted to avoid the frissons that always seemed to be exchanged when we touched, and because I was still in pre-punishment panic mode. “I don’t understand. Why am I taking your homework to the office?”

  “You’re not. You don’t actually have to go—” He exhaled loudly. “You looked like you wanted to get away from him. It was the best excuse I could think of. My homework was the only thing I had on me to use as an office note.” He held out a hand again, but I was too busy catching up to respond. And my body was still in post-Monroe defensive mode. When Fielding stepped forward, I stepped back.

  As I watched his mouth fold down with hurt, comprehension clicked into place, leaving me embarrassingly breathless when I said, “Wait. So, you—you saved me.”

  He looked at the floor. “That’s a slight overstatement.”

  “Fine—but you were nice. Don’t try to deny it!” I pointed at him with the rolled-up paper in my hand.

  He snorted; it was a delightfully undignified noise. “Turns out I’m only a—What was it you called me, ‘lower-caliber human’?—on Mondays. It’s Thursday, so you’re safe.”

  I giggled, then paused. “That was a joke, right?”

  “Yes.” The corners of his mouth flickered. Gah, so, so close to a smile. “But not a good one if you have to check.”

  “Keep practicing.” I uncurled his homework—whoops—and smoothed it out against my stomach before handing it back. Just like I’d expected, frissons when our hands brushed. Ones that made us flinch away even as our eyes remained fixed on each other. Finally a door opened down the hall, breaking the spell.

  “I should get back to class,” I told him. “But thank you.”

  “Any time,” he answered. There was nothing casual or throwaway about the word. Its sincerity practically echoed off the tile floor. “Any time, Merrilee.”

  33

  “You live on campus? For serious?”

  “Well, not in the media lab.” Sera blushed and giggled. Both were adorable. It made me want to study her, analyze how she could have so many of the same facial features as her brother, but how they could be so much softer and more welcoming on her. There was that same nose that so often pointed skyward on him. And those same rich brown eyes that I’d want to sink into . . . if his weren’t always filled with icy judgment. “My house is on the far side of campus,” she continued. “Behind the theater, near the health center.”

  “So there’s literally no escaping school for you.” I grimaced and drummed my fingers against the tablet we were supposed to be using to program something or other. It beeped in protest, and the screen turned red. Not good.

  “Except for dance.”

  “True.” And maybe that was why she spent so much time dancing—to get away from home. Except . . . Fielding had never been anything but kind to her. I mean, I’m sure he was still as obnoxious as siblings should be, but when he’d brought her shoe to Convocation that day and the way he talked about her in his email—he got bonus points for those.

  Not that I was keeping score. He didn’t need points. Bonus or not. I wasn’t thinking about him. I definitely wasn’t thinking about him after our run-in in the hall yesterday or my conversations three days ago with Ms. Gregoire and Eliza.

  If I w
as a mistake, then any continuation of that line of thought would definitely be one.

  “At least it’s a short commute,” I added. Though that meant those days Fielding drove me, he’d left campus to bring me back to it. Why would he . . . oh, right. That was back before he’d realized feelings for me were a mistake. I wanted to literally head-desk; instead I forced myself to pay attention to Sera.

  “It’s actually a pain when it’s raining or snowing. It’s a much longer walk from the house than the student lot. But I get to sleep later and never have to worry about a parking spot, so there’s that.”

  I’d spent my first two periods yawning discreetly and pinching my legs to keep myself awake. Sleeping in sounded marvelous. “Those are pretty sweet perks.”

  “Do you want to come over after school? I mean, after practice? Cross-country and my Friday dance class get out around the same time. We could hang out?”

  “Um, I—” I hadn’t seen Fielding yet that day. Not even a glimpse of him between classes. And I knew just how impressive that feat was, because avoiding Monroe on campus still felt like a full-time job. One I was pretty darn good at, thank you very much. The only glimpses I’d seen of Monroe that day were near the art building and at the freshmen lockers as he chatted with a group of girls. Fielding? I hadn’t even seen his shadow. Not that I was searching for him or anything.

  “You don’t have to.” Sera looked down. The tips of her ears were as red as the screen of our still beeping tablet, and her shoulders were curled in like a poked pill bug. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that.”

  “No—it’s not that. I want to. It’s just . . . it’s not you?” It was an excuse that was probably a bit too clearly aimed at the other members of her family, but I’d rather be honest and insult them than offend her.

  “Oh!” Her chin popped up. “Fielding won’t be home. My father too—he won’t be there. No one else will be home.”