Page 77 of Endless Anger
They’re all staring. Glaring, really.
Especially Beckett.
“Your entourage misses you,” I huff under my breath.
Asher doesn’t comment.
I shift in my seat, then pull one leg up, folding it beneath me. “Sitting here was a mistake. Campus will probably be talking about you for a week.”
Still, he’s silent. He picks up his pencil and starts writing in the margins of his notebook, between sketches of faceless characters and monstrous creatures. Anxiety compresses my lungs as I trace the outlines of the drawings, so I quickly look away.
“They’re practicallyleering, you know.”
“I don’t fucking care.” He taps his pencil on the desk. “I’m trying to learn.”
Putting both feet back on the floor, I squint at the front of the auditorium, attempting to get roped into the lecture once more. But there’s a restlessness skittering through my bones, something scratching at the edges of my focus, and I can’t stop my gaze from bouncing around the room.
I feel confined, like I’m stuck in a box rather than a folding chair, and there’s no way out.
My hand swipes against the desk, brushing off debris from erasers. I repeat the motion idly as I search for something else in the room to pay attention to.
Sweeping turns to tapping, and I don’t even realize I’m doing it until a larger hand comes over mine, warm and gentle as it halts me.
His knuckles are bruised and a little scabbed over. I peer at the mangled skin, wondering what the fuck he spends his free time doing.If he was involved in what happened to Celeste that night—if I should be worried about his sudden reappearance into my life.
When I glance back up, class has been dismissed. Time has passed again without me realizing.
Students exit the room, some slinging backpacks over their shoulders, others cradling textbooks to their chests. Onstage below, Professor Dupont stands with three people in Curator blazers, listening intently as the one in the middle speaks with animated hand gestures.
Asher pulls away, and my fingers are immediately enveloped by the chilly auditorium air. He stuffs his notebook into his backpack, zipping slowly, and doesn’t look at me once.
The sharp angles of his face make him look angry. Angrier than he usually is.
“What are you even doing in a theater class?” he asks suddenly, his voice gruff and annoyed. Like he has any right to be.
“It’s an elective.”
“You’re an ecology major. I imagine there were probably a dozen more appropriate courses you could have taken.”
My molars grind together. “Who asked for your opinion?”
“Not an opinion. Merely an observation. What benefit do you get from staring at that guy for an hour and a half twice a week?”
I start to retort again but pause instead, considering his words. My gaze shifts to the front where Professor Dupont bids the student goodbye and crouches down, sifting through his messenger bag. A couple of girls off to the side keep stealing looks at him and giggling, admiring from afar.
It’s true that the professor is an attractive man and not much older than most of us students. He was hired on right out of grad school and looks like he just stepped off the set of a movie.
Slowly, my eyes swivel back to the man I’ve known my entire life.
Asher is jealous.
A snort tumbles out of me. “Noelle spent a lot of time helping me perfect an audition for this class last semester. Iwantedto step out of mycomfort zone. That was the whole reason I chose to come here in the first place, but I guess I wouldn’t expect you to remember any of that. Or to care.”
He grabs my forearm as I get to my feet and try to push past him, but he’s still not looking at me. “Iremember.”
My blood hums, but I shake the feeling off, refusing to let his words affect me. Scoffing, I ignore his claim. “So should I expect you in my Environmental Justice class in a few hours?”
“Would be a safe bet.”
