Page 55 of Mud, Love, and Chemistry

“Yeah,” I whisper.

“Maybe we can do this one again, but tweak it so it’s not exactly the same.”

I only nod.

“Feel free to jump in with ideas at any time.” His annoyance shines through in his tone.

Irritation bubbles in me as I glance at him, but pull my attention back to the floor. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

“I know that was a long session, but you could at least feign interest.” He huffs.

Right before we reach the exit doors, I stop walking and turn my frown on him. “Interest? I’m sorry, who’s the one supplying all the questions and answers? Oh, right, that would be me.”

Sam folds his arms. “And who has been putting all those questions and answers into engaging presentations? Not to mention, teaching a certain stubborn someone how to create said presentations?” His eyebrows arch in challenge.

“What do you want? A thank you?”

“No, you’ve already said that, but it would be nice if you’d contribute to the conversation. Some sort of feedback would be helpful.”

An offended laugh escapes me. “Okay, how’s this for feedback?” I lick my lips. “Your presentations are great, but they wouldn’t be shit without my knowledge on the subject.”

Sam’s mouth falls agape. “Oh, yeah? Well, if it weren’t for me, the entire class would still be failing due to your titillating lecture delivery.”

“Screw you,” I bite out, and spin to shove the exit door open. It isn’t until I get across the parking lot that I let my frustration out. “What a fucking prick!” I practically growl to myself.

How could he possibly think he’s doing so much more work than me? I’m the one scouring the textbook for adequate information. I’m the one forming that info into questions and answers to align with the units we’re covering. All he has to do is input it into the computer. He’s acting like he’s the golden child. Well, he’s sorely mistaken if he thinks I’m going to let him have this one.

Chapter 17

My feet pound against the pavement. With every stride, I feel endorphins shoving out my shitty mood. Ever since my blowout with Sam last night, I’ve been itching to get outside. I need to get this frustration out. I would have gone for a run afterward, but it was dark, and I didn’t want to chance being run over by a car.

Now, it’s mid-morning. The sun is out, the breeze is not, and the brisk forty-five-degree temperature is keeping me perfectly comfortable. I’ve been running for thirty minutes already, and I have no intention of stopping any time soon.

Not when Sam’s egotistical expression from last night keeps popping into my mind, fueling the anger coursing through me.

Who does he think he is? I’m the one toiling over these presentations. Sure, he’s the one putting them together, but after watching him do them, it makes his contribution seem like a cake-walk. I, on the other hand, have to study the textbook for information that would make good questions. I’m not pulling stuff out of my ass. I have to think it all through.

He has no idea how exhausting that is.

A stoplight turns red, so I opt for a break. I fold my arms behind my head and pace as cars turn the corner in front of me.

And he knows technology isn’t my thing. Yes, I’ve made presentations before, but I told him I only did basic ones. These fancy games aren’t easy for me. So, not only am I providing the material, but I’m also learning too. It’s mentally taxing, and I don’t need him teasing me on top of it.

When I get the green light, I’m all worked up again. I need to leave this foul mood behind. Taking off at full speed, I blaze down the street, turning into a neighborhood to get away from the busy traffic of 8th Ave.

I’m so glad we’re not meeting today. With midterms next week, we don’t have a study group, so we don’t have a presentation to make. It’s a good thing, too. I don’t think I could stand being in the same room with him.

Judging from the irritation in his tone last night, I’m sure Sam feels the same way.

Maybe we jumped the gun on even being frenemies. I mean, things have been going well for a few weeks. Our arguments are down a ton compared to where we were at the beginning of the semester, but obviously that doesn’t matter. All it takes is one dumb comment from him, and we’re right back where we started.

Is that my fault, though? Am I the one who’s over-reacting?

I shake my head, balling my fists. No. I’m not blowing things out of proportion. He says some really stupid shit sometimes. And maybe I’m a little emotional about it, but he’s the one who started all this with his lies. So, no, I’m not taking blame for this.

Why is the guilt eating away at me, then?

“Ugh.” I tighten my fist, pressing my nails into my palm.

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