The Primes Reckoning

WHAT WOULD I SAY TO SOMEONE LIKE DRAKE WHITLOCK

Vera

I set the alarm for 6:30, but I woke up at 5:47.

Another nightmare. Ever since I saw the wolf-like dog outside my lecture room window, I haven’t had a good night's sleep. I knew Jenna was still asleep because her breathing had a particular rhythm. I envy how easily she could slip into sleep whenever she will.

I got up quietly, the floorboards near the bathroom creaked if you stepped on the third one from the door, so I stepped over it. I moved through my room like a thief, careful not to wake Jenna.

The campus was still half-asleep when I left the dorm. A few early risers jogged past, their breath visible in the morning air. I bought coffee from the cart outside the library and held the paper cup between my hands as I walked. The financial aid office wouldn't open until eight, but I needed to be first in line.

***

The fluorescent lights in the financial aid office hum like trapped wasps. I’ve been standing at this counter for twelve minutes. I know this because I’ve been watching the clock above Mrs. Henderson’s head, watching the second hand drag itself around the face like it’s moving through molasses.

“Miss Benson.” Mrs. Henderson finally looks up from her computer, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose like a disapproving bird. “I’m afraid there’s been a... complication.”

Of course there has.

The system shows that the processing of your scholarship stipend is complete, but the funds have not been cleared yet. It could be another three to five business days.

Oh no. I have forty-seven dollars in my bank account and a textbook I need by Friday that costs a hundred and twelve.

“Is there any way to expedite it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Mrs. Henderson’s smile is the kind that’s reserved for charity cases. “I’m afraid not, dear. These things take time. You understand.”

I understand that these things only seem to take time when you’re poor.

“Okay,” I say instead. “Thank you for checking.”

“You know,” Mrs. Henderson leans forward slightly, lowering her voice. She said, “There are emergency funds available for students in financial hardship. I could put in an application for you.”

“I’m fine,” I interrupted, too sharply. Then, softly: “Thank you. I’ll manage.”

I turned away from the counter before she could offer me anything else. I don’t want her pity or a payment plan that comes with a side of judgment about my life choices.

That’s when I saw him.

Drake Whitlock is standing by the notice board, his gaze focused on a flyer about work-study opportunities. I wondered why, because Drake Whitlock doesn’t need work-study. He doesn’t need anything except maybe a bigger closet for his collection of cashmere sweaters.

He’s wearing one now, charcoal gray, perfectly fitted. Expensive clothes that only look casual if you don’t know what things cost. His dark hair intentionally shows slight disarray. Even from across the room, I can see his jawline and the aristocratic slope of his nose.

He’s beautiful, his face like Gothic architecture, all clean lines and deliberate angles, designed to make you feel small.

He looks up and our eyes meet, and then he smiles, causing me to look away quickly, heat crawling up my neck. This is mortifying. He definitely saw me staring. Now he probably thinks I’m one of those girls, the ones who follow him around campus with their phones out, trying to get a picture, a moment of his carefully rationed attention.

I hear footsteps approaching.

“Excuse me.”

His voice is exactly what I expected. I turn because not turning would be ruder than whatever awkwardness is about to happen.

Up close, he’s worse. Beautiful people should be required to maintain a minimum distance of ten feet. It’s only fair.

“Yes?” I say, and I’m proud that my voice comes out mostly normal.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the counter, where Mrs. Henderson is now studiously ignoring us. “You’re having issues with your scholarship payment?”

He heard all of that. Feeling mortified, I blurted out sharply. “It’s fine, just a processing delay.”

“Right.” He nods, but his pale gray eyes, like winter light through clouds, are studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “I’m actually here about a payment issue myself. The system can be difficult to navigate.”

This is a lie.

I don’t know how I know, but I do. Maybe it’s the way he says it, or it’s the fact that Drake Whitlock’s family probably has a direct line to the university president. Maybe it’s just that I’ve gotten good at recognizing bullshit, and this is bullshit.

But I don’t call him on it. What would be the point?

“Yeah,” I say instead. “It’s a nightmare.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Most people complain more.”

“Would complaining help?”

“Probably not.”

“Then why bother?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close. “That’s refreshingly pragmatic.”

I shrug. This conversation has already gone on longer than I am comfortable with. I can feel Mrs. Henderson’s eyes on us and guess the gossip forming in her head.

“I should go,” I say, taking a step toward the door.

“Wait.” He moves slightly, not blocking my path entirely, but creating an obstacle that would be rude to walk around. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Vera Benson.”

“Drake Whitlock.” He extends his hand.

I hesitated for half a second before taking it. His palm is warm, his grip firm. The handshake somehow felt longer than it was.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, pulling my hand back.

“The bursary process,” he says suddenly. “You seem to know how it works. Would you mind if I got your number? In case I have questions.”

I stared at him, reading his face for any sign that he was joking because this was insane. None of this makes sense. Drake Whitlock doesn’t need my help with anything. And yet here he is, looking at me with those pale gray eyes, waiting for my answer like it matters.

Truth is, there’s a part of me that wants to believe this is real. That someone like him might actually want to talk to me.

“Sure,” I hear myself say.

He pulls out his phone and hands it to me. I typed in my number, my fingers clumsy on the unfamiliar interface. I hand it back. He looks at the screen, then immediately calls the number.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

“There,” he says. “Now you have mine too.”

This is when I should say something flirty or clever. Just like other girls would flip their hair or bite their lip or do any of the thousand small things that signal interest. But I’ve never been good at that kind of performance, and besides, he’s so far out of my league. There’s no point pretending.

“Thanks,” I say instead.

“Thank you.” He slips his phone back into his pocket, that almost-smile playing at his lips again. “I’ll let you go. I’m sure you have better things to do than stand around the financial aid office.”

“Don’t we all.”

He laughs, making me want to tell a joke, so I hear more of it. “I suppose we do.”

I leave before this can get any weirder, before I can say something desperate. The autumn air hits me as I step outside, clearing my head.

My phone buzzes again.

It's a text from Drake:

It was nice to meet you, Vera.

I stare at the message for a long moment, then shove my phone back in my pocket without responding. Because what would I even say to someone like Drake Whitlock?

The question follows me through the rest of the day, through my lecture where I can’t focus, through the dining hall where I eat alone, through the long walk back to my dorm as the sun sets and the campus lights flicker on. Thoughts of him filled my mind so much that I forgot about the creature haunting my dreams.

Yet, I don’t have an answer.

But I have his number saved in my phone, and his message saved in my texts, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice whispering that I should delete both.

I don’t listen to it.