Page 45 of The Penalty

When I look back at him, he’s staring at the wall behind me as if it’s going to spill my secrets.

“Didn’t think you were taking an art elective.”

“I’m not. It’s for my psych elective.”

“Oh, gotcha.” The lines on his face smooth out and it’s painful how easily he believed the lie.

Because he trusts me. I’m supposed to be his best friend, and instead I’m fouling him behind the ref’s back.

Chapter 15

Haunted Closets

Cece

I’ve never been soaware of the students hustling down the halls between classes as I have been over these last two weeks. It was lurking in the back of my mind that there’s was a chance I might run into Devlin around here, or maybe he’d even be in one of my classes. We are both business majors, after all. That was me being overly optimistic. He’s majoring in accounting, while I’m on the marketing side of things. Given the limited options laid out for me before I started college, marketing was the most creative. I can even slip in some graphic design courses that will still advance my career. Not that I’m planning on spending my life in the marketing department of some soulless corporation, especially not my father’s. But I may need a stable income to pay the bills while I pursue my dream of publishing my own comics and graphic novels.

In our senior year, things have gotten way more specific, so we haven’t crossed paths since our last encounter two weeks ago.

My ringtone cuts through the reverie, wrinkling my nose when I glance down at the number. I am so not in the mood for one of my father’s lectures. But if I don’t deal with it now, he’ll be all over me, so I accept the call with a sigh, bringing it up to my ear.

“Hi.”

“Cecelia. How are your classes going?”

I’m doing great. Thanks for asking. Is what I want to say. “Good.” Is what I actually say, wondering where this is headed. I’ve been doing fine. I’m actually acing my digital marketing class, and I’ve got no economics on the docket this semester.

“I heard you turned in a B paper for your strategic marketing class.” He gets right to the point of his call. No fucking around with small talk. Even with your daughter. Probably especially with your daughter. I’m pretty sure he could make small talk about golf or some new restaurant with his cronies all night at a cocktail party.

“Where did you hear that?”

“I’ve worked with some of the faculty before.”

Isn’t there such a thing as student professor confidentiality? I’m quite certain they’re not supposed to be sharing your grades, even on the golf course. And also, who cares? I’m getting the degree he wants me to.

“I’m doing my best, Dad.”

“If you need any help to pull that up, talk to your brother. He’s still at the top of his class. I’m sure he’d be happy to help you.”

“He’s pretty busy with hockey already, but I’ll talk to him if I need to.” I absolutely won’t.

“Excellent. I’ve got a meeting in ten, so I’ll be talking to you soon. You will be home for Thanksgiving, right?”

It’s not a request, and there’s only one correct answer. “Of course.”

“Excellent, see you then.”

My sign off lands on a dead line, and I lean back against the wall, but seek comfort in my messages.

The string of texts I’ve shared with Dev has grown into the hundreds over the last couple of weeks since our encounter after the game. Last night, he sent me a text to wish me a good night, and he asked me what I was wearing. So, I sent him a pic of my head on the body of some model in sexy lingerie.

He sent me back a WTH meme and told me he’d rather see a pic of me wearing a paper bag if it was the real me. I responded with a real selfie, flannel pants in a glorious bright yellow with lemons all over them, and a Marvel tee with a small tear below my right boob. My hair was tangled, and I’d already taken my makeup off, so I went all in, making a derpy face with my eyes crossed and tongue sticking out. That’s trust. Not a picture I would ever want getting out into the world.

I’m still smiling at the gif he sent back of a cartoon dog with its tongue rolling out when I glance up, and a shock ripples through me.

There he is, walking toward me. The man himself. He looks as hot as usual in a pair of black track pants. The matching hoodie is pulled down over his forehead, casting deep shadows over the sculpted lines of his face. A shiver runs through me at the sight and my lips curve up in a smile.

“Dev,” I call out, walking toward him.

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