Page 89 of A Favor Owed

I hit return and get the blinking cursor.

Snore. I’m bored, McDaniels. Don’t you have some outrageous and vaguely sexist commentary about my outfit today?

More blinking. I rub my eyes. God, this sucks.

I miss you, you infuriating pain in the ass. I miss being in class with you. I miss your cooking. I miss having sex with you. I miss you unbraiding my hair. I miss your stupid jokes just as much as I miss the ones that are actually funny. I miss having to repeat myself multiple times when you’re watching football. I miss feeling safe, Brady. I miss loving you.

I close my eyes. I can’t cry in class. Surely the karma gods are pointing Camacho in my direction at this very moment. I press my fingers to my eyes and will myself to get a grip. When the feeling of imminent waterworks subsides, I look down at my screen.

You miss having sex with me?

I startle so violently I knock my water bottle over. The metal carafe makes a loud clanging sound as it hits the desk before tumbling onto the floor. Everyone turns to look at me.

“Sorry,” I choke out as I dive under the desk and grab the bottle before it rolls down to the bottom of the classroom. I scramble back into my seat, face flaming and hands shaking. I scroll back up to the beginning of the message train, certain I’ve accidentally messaged someone else. Another message pops up.

Smooth, Pines. What are you going to do for your next trick?

I swing my head around, looking for him in the dim, cavernous classroom.

Back row, left corner.I crane my neck, but all I can see is the girl who always sits back there.

Your other left.I choke back a hysterical laugh and cover my mouth, but not before several people turn to look at me. I take a deep breath and turn my head to the other side of the classroom. And there he is, sprawled out in his chair, Yankees cap pulled down low, face lit by his laptop, smile on his face. He shakes his head slowly, then looks down at his laptop and types something.

Looking good, Pines. Disappointed not to see you in a halter top, though. If that’s sexist, I’ll make it up to you by cooking you dinner and telling you stupid jokes. But back to that sex thing…

I shut my laptop. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My heart is bursting and my eyes are flooded with tears. I have no idea what to do. I have to get out of here.

I slide my laptop into my bag and grab my water bottle. Without looking back at him, I steal out of the classroom through the back door on the opposite side of the room. I know he’ll follow me. I know I can’t outrun him. But I try anyway, speed walking through the hallways toward the ladies’ room. I push open the door and lean against the counter with relief as it swishes shut behind me. Two second-year girls I know through Brady (of course) say hi to me and go back to chatting and applying makeup.

And then the door flies open. I meet Brady’s eyes in the mirror before turning around to face him. The two girls stop dead and stare at Brady.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he says with his boy-next-door smile. “I need to have a word with Ms. Pines here.”

I shake my head in annoyance as the girls giggle and run out. Jesus, and they’re going to be lawyers in a year?

“Do all women revert to giggling teeny-boppers when you’re around?” I ask.

“What the hell were you thinking, Angela?” he demands. The smile is gone.

I blink at him, surprised by the sudden seismic shift in attitude. “What are you talking about?”

“My dad. Your dad. The FBI. Ring any bells?”

I swallow. “What about it?”

“What about it? How about I told you not to do it? I believe my exact words were ‘No way in hell.’”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Look, Brady, you’re cute and all when you put your foot down, but let’s face it. It wasn’t your call.”

“It wasn’t my call.”

Wow. He actually looks and sounds pissed off. That pisses me off. “No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t. It’s my life, my dad, and my decision. And it’s over now. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you,” he says, his eyes softening. He takes off his Yankees cap and runs his fingers through his hair before replacing the cap backward. “I mean it. Thank you.”

“What are you worried about anyway?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“You, Angela. I’m worried about you.” His eyes are luminous. Big, moss green, and looking at me with bemused wonderment, like I’m one of those images of the Virgin Mary that someone sees on their waffle.

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