Page 84 of The Jack*ss in Class

As the doors opened, Tempest’s grip on my arm tightened. Inside was the special exhibition room, and across its entrance was a banner that read, “First Folio: The Book That Gave Us Shakespeare.”

“Oh my god,” she breathed, stopping in her tracks. “Is that…?”

“The First Folio,” I confirmed. “On loan from the Folger Shakespeare Library. One of the original 1623 editions.”

She turned to me, astonishment written across her face. “How did you…?”

“Coach’s wife sits on the museum board. I asked for a favor.” I shrugged, trying to downplay how many strings I’d pulled to get this spot on the list before the exhibition even opened. “I may have mentioned that I know a brilliant literature scholar who would appreciate a private viewing.”

A woman approached us, extending her hand. “Ms. Navarro? I’m Dr. Sharma, the curator of this exhibition. I hear you’re quite the Shakespeare enthusiast.”

“I am,” Tempest managed, still looking stunned. “This is incredible.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat.” Dr. Sharma smiled warmly. “We’re going to do something very special tonight—something we don’t offer to the public.”

She led us through the exhibition, where glass casesdisplayed various historical documents and artifacts related to Shakespeare and his work. Tempest moved from display to display with reverence, occasionally glancing back at me with an expression of pure wonder.

Finally, we reached the central exhibit, a glass case containing the First Folio itself, open to Hamlet’s famous soliloquy.

“Now,” Dr. Sharma said, pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves, “how would you like to see it up close?”

Tempest’s eyes grew impossibly wider. “You mean...?”

“With proper precautions, of course.” The curator handed each of us a pair of gloves. “Flynn mentioned you’re writing about Shakespeare. I thought you might appreciate examining some of the typographical features firsthand.”

Tempest’s brow furrowed and she looked at me like she was about to say something, but she turned to Dr. Sharma instead and nodded. “I’d like that a lot. Thank you.”

Once Dr. Sharma finished letting us see as much as we wanted, Tempest turned to me, eyes shining. “Flynn, I can’t believe you did this. This is—” She shook her head, seemingly at a loss for words. “Thank you doesn’t seem adequate.”

“Your face right now is all the thanks I need.” I stepped closer, careful not to touch the precious book even with my gloved hands. “I wanted to do something that was just for you.”

“Mission accomplished.” She laughed softly, looking back at the Folio.

After the Folio was safely back in its case, I ledTempest to an elevator at the back of the exhibition hall. It took us to the museum’s upper level, where a glassed-in balcony overlooked the city and the mountains.

A small table had been set for dinner, complete with candles and a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. The Denver skyline sparkled against the night sky, the mountains a dark silhouette in the distance.

“Flynn,” she whispered, “this is too much.”

“Not for you,” I said simply, pulling out her chair.

A waiter appeared, uncorking the champagne and presenting the first course, a selection of small plates featuring foods from Shakespeare’s era, each with a small card explaining its historical context.

Tempest ran her fingers over the menu card, which had been designed to look like a playbill. “You planned all of this. Why?” she asked, her dark eyes searching mine across the table.

“Because I wanted to show you that I see you,” I said honestly. “The real you. Not just the Tempest who aces Shakespeare classes or rescues donkeys, but the one who lights up when she talks about literature. The one who notices details others miss. The one I can’t stop thinking about.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, I thought I’d said too much. Then she reached across the table, taking my hand in hers.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

“You deserve to be spoiled,” I countered, enjoying the way her eyes sparkled at my response.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” I replied, meaning it.

She hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “What’s your two-week rule about?”

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