Chapter 9: Library Sessions
1165 Words
Angel’s pov
I went to class determined to avoid him.
It should've been easy. The campus was huge. Thousands of students. I could blend into the crowd, keep my head down, focus on my coursework like a normal person.
Except I couldn't stop scanning every hallway for golden hair and blue eyes.
By late afternoon, I'd almost convinced myself I was doing fine. I was sitting on the quad with two girls from my Econ class; Sarah and Morgan, pretending to care about our homework while they debated the finer points of supply and demand curves.
"—and that's why the marginal cost intersects at—Angel, are you even listening?"
"Hmm?" I looked up from my textbook, which I'd been staring at without reading for the past ten minutes.
Stella rolled her eyes. "Never mind. You've been weird all day."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You look like someone kicked your puppy."
I opened my mouth to argue, but then I heard it.
Loud, boisterous laughter.
Male voices, rowdy and energized.
The hockey team.
My entire body went rigid.
"Oh God, here they come," Morgan muttered, but there was a grin in her voice. "Looking good, boys!"
I didn't want to look. Told myself not to look.
Looked anyway.
They came around the corner in a pack still half in their gear, uniforms dirty from practice, sticks slung over shoulders. That particular brand of arrogant confidence that came from being young and athletic and knowing everyone was watching.
And right in the center of them, throwing his head back in laughter at something a redhead had said, was Jason.
The sunset caught in his hair, turning it molten gold. His practice jersey clung to his shoulders, damp with sweat. His face was flushed, alive, beautiful in a way that made my chest physically hurt.
He looked fine.
Better than fine.
Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't been dragged out of Silk & Skin by Konstantin enforcers. Like we hadn't—
A brunette materialized at his side.
I knew her. Gianna. Business major. Like me, she was a scholarship student, taking advantage of the TA programme that offered 70% off of tuition. She stuck out like a sore thumb lacking the expensive designer and that air of privilege and entitlement you’d expect from the usual girls that hung around the hockey team. There was a nasty rumour going about her last year. About a married professor and his angry wife.
I'd noticed her hanging around Jason all day—between classes, at lunch, always right there with a smile and a laugh and a perfectly manicured hand on his arm.
She did it now. Placed her hand flat on his chest, leaning into him.
And he didn't move it.
Instead, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, his attention still on whatever Reid was saying, guffawing at some joke I couldn't hear.
Something hot and vicious twisted in my gut.
Jealousy.
Raw, ugly, consuming jealousy.
I hated it. Hated myself for feeling it.
We weren't together. I'd turned off my phone. I'd promised Sasha I'd stay away.
Jason could do whatever, no, whoever he wanted.
So why did it feel like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed?
"Earth to Angel," Stella waved a hand in front of my face. "You're staring."
I tore my eyes away. "I'm not."
"You totally are. Wait…" Her eyes widened with delight. "Do you have a thing for one of them?"
"No."
"Oh my God, you do! Which one? Is it Reid? He's hot in that dangerous kind of way—"
"I have to go." I shoved my textbook into my bag so fast I nearly ripped the pages.
"What? We're not done with—"
"Sorry. Forgot I have a thing. See you tomorrow."
I stood and headed for the nearest building, walking fast, not looking back.
Not checking to see if he'd noticed me.
Definitely not hoping he had.
Hours later, I found myself in the library.
I didn't remember deciding to come here. One minute I'd been walking aimlessly through campus, trying not to think about Jason's arm around Gianna's waist, and the next I was sitting at a computer terminal on the third floor.
The library was nearly empty at this hour—just a few stragglers packing up their things, the soft sounds of zippers and rustling papers echoing in the quiet.
I stared at the login screen, my mind blank.
Then, almost on autopilot, I logged into my email. The one I'd created for job hunting.
Between my TA position and the club—former club work, I reminded myself—I barely had time to study, let alone take on another job. But Sasha had given me a week off, and my rent was still due, and my mother's next payment was looming, and if I could just make a little more money...
Just a little more, and maybe I could breathe.
The inbox loaded. Mostly spam and automated rejections.
But then I saw it.
Subject: Re: Application - Quindeck
My heart jumped.
Quindeck was this hybrid bookstore-coffee-shop-flower-shop that had just opened downtown. Quirky, artsy, the kind of place I'd actually want to work even if I didn't need the money.
I clicked the email, holding my breath.
Dear Ms. Steele,
Thank you for your application. We were impressed by your qualifications and would like to invite you for an in-person interview...
A grin split my face.
I immediately hit reply, fingers flying over the keyboard as I confirmed my availability, trying to sound professional and enthusiastic without seeming desperate.
Thank you so much for this opportunity. I'm available any day this week...
Sent.
I logged out, feeling lighter than I had all day.
Maybe things were looking up. Maybe—
"Angel."
I nearly fell out of my chair.
My head whipped around, heart in my throat.
Jason stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, hair still damp from what must've been a post-practice shower. He'd changed into jeans and a dark henley that made his eyes look impossibly blue even in the fluorescent library lighting.
He looked... tired. Worried.
Beautiful.
"What the f**k are you doing here?" The words came out harsher than I intended, fueled by hours of suppressed emotion.
"I saw you on the quad earlier. You left before I could—"
"I don't want to talk to you." I stood abruptly, grabbing my bag.
"Angel, please—"
"No." I moved past him, heading for the stacks. I had books to return. A perfectly good excuse to leave.
"Just five minutes. Let me explain—"
"There's nothing to explain." I kept walking, weaving between the shelves, not looking back. "You made everything perfectly clear."
"I didn't—Angel, stop."
But I didn't stop. I couldn't. Because if I stopped, if I looked at him, I might do something stupid like cry or yell or kiss him.
- Writer
