Page 50 of Easy Out

“What is your greatest fear?” Hart lets out a slow breath.

“Pick another one.” He stares down at his hands which are closed fists. What is he hiding?

I stare at him until he lifts his eyes to mine. “You can tell me anything too.” I start scrolling my phone again, looking for a new question. Hart takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair ruffling all his black curls.

“Speaking.” Hart’s eyes search the room to see if anyone is listening to us. They aren’t. Everyone is busy with their partners asking questions and taking notes. “Talking is my greatest fear.” I put down my phone. Taking his hand in mine, I give it a reassuring squeeze.

“Growing up, I had a stutter. I was bullied severely. It made me mute. I stopped talking to everyone except my closest friends. I was put in speech therapy and eventually learned how to talk without it, but the damage was done.” Hart takes a breath. “I’m afraid I’ll start talking to someone, and I’ll stutter.”

“It means a lot that you trust me enough to tell me. Thank you.” It explains so much about Hart. He isn’t brooding when he’s quiet. He’s debating the risk-to-reward ratio of opening his mouth and finding the courage to speak. “And for talking to me. I guess I’m not that intimidating. No need to impress me.”

“No.” He crushes my hand in his. “You are the one person I want to impress. Everyone else…they aren’t important.” Does that mean I am important to him? “Sí, cariño. You are.”

“I asked that out loud, didn’t I?“ He nods with a smirk. I smile back at him with rosy cheeks.

“Your turn. What is your greatest fear?” I was going to tell him spiders, snakes, or some other cliché fear. However, he was open and honest with me. He deserves the same treatment.

“Being left behind,” I admit with a heavy breath. “I’m afraid everyone I care about won’t care enough to stick around for me. I’m afraid once people get to know me, they will realize I’m not worth it.” Hart looks bewildered, as if he suddenly doesn’t understand the English language and the meaning of the words I’m saying.

“Why?” He asks with a concerned brow.

I'm about to answer him when Professor Morelli approaches our desks to check in with us. I pull my hands away from Hart’s and place them in my lap.

Morelli is holding a clipboard with a list of names printed on white computer paper. There are tiny tabs marking each page. He takes a long look at me. Then glances at Hart before flipping through a few pages until he finds what I assume is the one with our names printed on it.

“Alright, James Hart,” he smiles at Hart. “And…,” Morelli drops his eyes to his clipboard. “Lauren Hickman,” he says, his eyes snag on me. “Lauren Hickman?” Morelli asks again. With over one hundred students in this class alone, I wouldn’t expect him to remember each of us by name.

“Yes, I’m Lauren.” He marks something on the paper.

“How is it going so far? What story are you covering?” I look at Hart hoping he wants to answer. I don’t feel like telling my professor we are investigating the hidden make-out spots in the library. Why did I ever think this would be a good idea?

“We are writing a story about the library. The history behind the building and what students do when they think no one is watching,” Hart answers cryptically.

“Interesting. And you will conduct interviews?” We both nod. We’ve already interviewed a dozen students of different ages, backgrounds, sex, etc... Everyone so far has been forthcoming with information. Sometimes too much. I think some people have elaborated their PDA experience to impress Hart. Insert eye roll here.

“How are your personal investigations going? Have you learned anything interesting about each other yet? Hart?”

“A few things,” Hart replies, keeping his eyes on me.

“Care to share anything? Maybe her favorite color, food, or where she grew up?”

“I’m not sure about her favorite color. But thanks to Enzo, I know where Lauren grew up.” Professor Morelli’s eyebrows furrow together.

“She’s met Enzo?”

“And Marco,” Hart confirms.

“Do you two know each other?” I wave a finger between the two of them.

“I worked with Hart’s father right out of college. We’ve been friends for a long time. I’ve known Hart his whole life.” Morelli holds up a hand. “Don’t worry about ethics. My TA will be grading all your papers. I’ll only read them and give feedback.”

“I wasn’t worried. Enzo and Marco are your sons?” I ask. It makes sense. Enzo looks exactly like Morelli now that I’ve seen him up close and studied his face.

“Yes. Hopefully, they behaved themselves.”

“Enzo was giving Lauren the third degree.”

“He gets it honest. Sorry about that, Lauren. My son takes after me when it comes to getting to the truth of things.”

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