In Ruins (6 page)

Present Day

As the October air grows cooler and the trees change to vibrant coppers and fiery reds, I fall into a routine. Classes and studying, and a reasonable amount of socializing. Devin and I have befriended a few girls from our dorm and we've formed a kind of group. Of course, they all want to go to the hottest parties, the most popular bars, and that means running into Tucker more than my heart appreciates. Or maybe my heart appreciates it more than I care to admit.

We seemed to have developed a nonverbal truce, where the only indication that there's any history between us is his practiced obliviousness to my presence, only rarely interrupted by his contemptuous stare.

Seeing him twice a week in creative digital marketing doesn't help either. I try to focus in class, participating twice as much as I normally would just to distract myself from his presence, but Tucker takes up the entire room. Our past is a living, breathing entity, a constant reminder of what I've lost, and his hostility is tangible.

The sad part is the class should have been my favorite. Even though I landed there by default, and despite the harsh grading system, I actually find the subject matter interesting—useful for the future. And the professor is pretty cool, too. It's nice to have a professor that remembers what it's like to be a student, and I honestly don't mind that he expects a lot from us. I like being challenged. But Tucker doesn't seem to agree. I hate that I'm so acutely aware of him, but I can't help but notice that he seems to dislike our professor nearly as much as he does me.

Mondays aren't especially known for partying or going out, but some people are just incapable of enjoying a relaxing night in, and I'm starting to discover that Devin is one of those people. She suffers from an obvious case of FOMO—fear of missing out—and seems irritated with me when I tell her I'm just going to study and go to bed early. I win her back over when I offer to do her makeup, and she and Julia head out to the bars looking like they'd fit in better at a Hollywood club.

The following morning begins like any other Tuesday, with equal parts anticipation and dread, and neither is particularly helpful. It's hard enough to get over the love of your life when you're not sentenced to spend an hour sitting across the room from him twice a week.

Class starts out normally enough. I get there about five minutes early and take my usual seat. Julia sits beside me and complains about her hangover, though it doesn't stop her from talking my ear off. Not a minute before class is scheduled to begin, Tucker strolls right past me without even a hint of a glance my way. It still stings, but it also gives me the opportunity to watch him, and I note that I'm not the only one. Most of the girls in the class sneak a peek at Tuck, and I can't really blame them. But I suspect I
am
the only one to notice the subtle clench of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, and I can't help but wonder at it.

Zayne asks the two students nearest his desk to pass out some memos to the class, and draws a blush from both of them. I have to suppress an eye roll. He's good-looking, but he's our freaking
professor
.

Before I can even glance at the sheets of paper that have just been handed to me, Zayne starts speaking. “For your final project this semester, you will be creating a social marketing campaign for one of the organizations on the list I have provided.” Zayne holds up one of the sheets of paper.

“Every semester I choose a different theme, and yours will be nonprofits. The campaign will not focus on selling anything or raising money, but rather on the organization's core values.”

Zayne goes on to reference points from his last lecture as well as our textbook, and I'm glad I've kept up. Basically he wants us to create a viral video that will positively and effectively represent the nonprofit's values or messages.

I swallow anxiously.
Well, I wanted to be challenged.

“For your final, you will create a presentation to showcase your campaign to the class,” Zayne continues. “You will be graded on the following: concept, writing, design, execution, editing, presentation, and last but not least, professionalism.”

Some guy whose name I don't remember raises his hand and Zayne gestures to him. “Uh, what do you mean by professionalism? Like, how professional it, like,
is
?”

A few people snicker, but I hold mine in. It's not a stupid question, even if it was phrased less than articulately.

Zayne just looks at the guy for a moment. “How professional, like,
what
is?”

The poor kid turns redder than the blushing girls before him. “Like…the project?” His inflection is so unsure it comes out like a question; even more people laugh, and I can't help cracking a smile.

Fortunately Zayne takes pity on him. “Professionalism refers to the way you conduct yourselves during all of the stages of your project. After all, college is supposed to help prepare you for the workforce—for life—so you will be judged and graded very much the way an employee is reviewed in a professional setting.”

I glance around the room, trying to figure out if I'm the only one who doesn't know how one reviews your
professionalism
on a project that won't be presented until the end of the semester.

“The second sheet you've been handed is the list of your groups.”

Groups?

“I've divided you into six groups of four. You will be responsible for meeting on your own time, assigning roles, delegating work, etcetera. You'll work together through the semester, and in the final weeks, you will all submit anonymous reviews of your group members.”

Oh.

“Now, I'm always happy to act as a sounding board or provide feedback for anyone who wants to take advantage of my office hours, but the onus will be on you. I won't be checking in, or micromanaging any of you. It's all up to you. You're adults. It's your project, and your grade on the line.

“And speaking of grades, I should also mention that this project is a competition.”

There's a chorus of surprise and anxiety, and I silently echo it. I'm as competitive as the next girl, but aren't we all here to
learn
?

Zayne goes on to explain that our projects will be graded on a curve. We'll start with a specific grade based on our team's place in the competition, which, of course, he will judge. The winning team starts with A's, the losing team with D's, and the four middle teams will start anywhere from a B+ to a D+ depending on Zayne's assessment of the campaigns and presentations. Everyone in a group will earn the same starting grade, but not necessarily the same final grade. Apparently that's where our “professionalism” comes in. Once Zayne evaluates our peer reviews, they, and his own “observations,” will either raise or lower our individual grades, “some considerably,” and that will determine the grade for our final project. He reminds us it will account for half our grade for the class itself.
No pressure.

“I expect you all to work together
professionally
; however, you'd be surprised at some of the behavior that has led to a failing grade in previous semesters.”

Silence.

But Zayne isn't finished. “There's more on the line than your grades, as well. After all, what's a competition without a prize?”

And here I thought the A's were the prize.

“The winning team will be presenting their campaign to the executives at Steepman and Boyle, my former employer and one of the largest advertising firms in the country.”

I'll say
. Even I've heard of S&B. They've been famously behind some of the most creative ad campaigns and successful social media promotions in the past decade.

“All of the organizations on the list I've provided are their clients, and if they're impressed, they could potentially use your video in one of their campaigns, and each of the winning team members would be credited. And paid.”

This announcement has the intended effect, and cheers erupt around the room along with excited chatter, before Zayne quiets us again.

“There's more.” He smiles at our collective eager anticipation. “From the winning team, the student or students who earn the highest grade on the project will interview with my former bosses, and one will be awarded a paid summer internship in the department of his or her choice.”

Wow.

“Now, this is a big deal,” Zayne states the obvious. “Thousands of students apply for even the unpaid internships at S&B every year, and whoever is selected will be getting a valuable foot in the door—one that, if you play your cards right, could lead to a job offer and a successful career.”

I sit up straighter in my chair. An internship at S&B is beyond anything I ever pictured for myself, at least in the foreseeable future, but I'm sure as hell picturing it now. I imagine what I could learn there—how much it could help me when it's time to get my own businesses off the ground. Suddenly my distant dreams feel tangible, within my grasp, and my competitive spirit awakens and flexes its muscles.

A survey of the room indicates that I'm not the only one suddenly motivated, but I rally to find the confidence that once came so naturally to me, and tell myself I've got this.

I'm smiling to myself when I finally take a look at the group list in my hand, and my smile vanishes instantly.

I stop breathing entirely, the black photocopy ink blurring as I stare right through the paper, but Julia taps my shoulder excitedly, and I try to suck in air and focus as she gushes over our being in the same group.

And then she's whispering in my ear, “And that super hot lacrosse player is with us, too! The one always staring at you—Tucker Green.”

My eyes shoot to his icy green gaze to find it locked on mine, completely inscrutable. He works to unclench his jaw, his mouth a thin line of displeasure.

Zayne claps once to get our attention. “Okay. So like I said, you can make your own schedules to work on your campaigns, and in the next couple of weeks I'd like you all to have an idea of what organization your group will choose.”

He dismisses us. As always, everyone rushes out the door to get to their next class, except Tucker, who always sits there waiting for me to be long gone before he heads out. But I make my way up to Zayne's desk, all too aware of hostile green eyes on me, and vaguely I wonder why he doesn't take the opportunity to get out of here.

“Hey, Carleigh.” Zayne's boyish smile makes him seem younger, more like one of us. I would find it disarming if Tucker's presence didn't make me feel like I need a full military detail.

“Do you have a minute?” I ask him tentatively. I need him to change my group. There's no way Tucker and I can work together—there's too much riding on this project—and he shouldn't have to be the one to switch. But as I stand here chewing on my bottom lip, I still don't know what excuse I'm going to give Zayne for wanting a new group.

His smile falters and his brow furrows. “Is everything okay with you?” Something about the way he asks seems like it's coming more from a friend than my professor, and when he places his hand on my arm in concern, I wonder how obvious my distress actually is. I'm usually so much better at hiding my emotions.

Suddenly Tucker's chair scrapes noisily against the floor as he stands up. But I refuse to turn, trying desperately not to show how acutely aware I am of him.

“Yeah,” I assure Zayne. “I'm okay. I just need to talk to you about something. About the campaign,” I clarify.

Zayne nods, but he doesn't remove his hand from my arm. “I have office hours in a few minutes, but I do have a couple of students coming. Why don't you drop by my office between four and five this afternoon? That way I can give you my focus.”

I nod and thank him, relieved that I'll have time to think of some reason for wanting a new group, and that he seems so reasonable and understanding.

“No problem, Carleigh. I'm always here if you need to talk. About class, or whatever else, okay?” His eyes shine with empathy, and idly I wonder if he really identifies that well with his students, or if I'm actually just that desperate to feel understood by a guy.

I turn to find Tucker glaring at us—or at me, anyway. I swallow thickly and hurry out of the room.

A massive hand closes around my elbow and I'm so startled I almost scream before Tucker spins me to face him. “What was that about?” he demands gruffly. He holds me so firmly it almost hurts, and if it were anyone else, I'd wrench from their grip. But as much as his touch burns me, I crave it. Like a stupid mosquito flying into one of those electric bug zappers, attracted to the very thing that means to destroy me. “
Carl
.” His impatient growl reminds me that I'm just standing here gaping at him.

“I—I'm going to change groups,” I tell him.

He releases me from his grip, and I expect his relief, but it doesn't come. He continues to glare down at me, and I wish fervently that I could read his thoughts. “Don't do that,” he says, his voice deceptively soft and low.

I blink up at him, confused.

“Don't go to his office.” He exhales harshly. “Okay?” he adds, amending his order to a request, and it obviously grates on him to do it.

“What? Why?” I ask, bewildered.

“Just don't.”

I bite my lip so hard it stings, and I soothe the indented flesh with my tongue. Tucker looks away, and I look down at my sandals, studying my chipped pedicure. “You don't have to work with me, Tuck,” I whisper.

Tucker shrugs. “It's not a big deal.”

I look up at him.

“I'm working with a group of strangers, what's one more?”

Huh?

He shakes his head. “You're not the girl I thought I knew,
Carleigh
. That girl—she never existed. You and me? We have no history. We're nothing. We never were. The girl I thought I loved…she's not real. She was
never
real. You're just another stranger and I can work on the damn project with you and whoever the fuck else.” He takes a step back.