Unmistakable (17 page)

“That aligns with all of the previous results. You were expecting a literary salon, perhaps? Stimulating conversation about the merits of Goethe versus Kant?”

“I’m so glad that this amuses you.” I reach for the little stress ball he keeps on his desk and squeeze it with all of my strength. “I am not entertained.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t have to put up with it any longer. It’s your last day, remember?”

I was hoping he would forget about that.

I paste a cheerful smile on my face, but my stomach sinks. “Sweet, sweet freedom. I don’t think I could take another second of pondering the end of human civilization as we know it.”

“Thank god almighty, you’re free at last.”

“If I never see another cell phone again, it will be too soon,” I proclaim.

Of course, my cell phone chooses that exact moment to emit Izzy’s wailing ringtone. Holden releases a long belly laugh that echoes throughout the room. I glare at him and press the glowing green button.

I’m totally going to catch hell for that.

He mouths, “Hypocrite.”

I flip my finger at him and pick up the phone. “Hey, Iz.”

“You better have a really good excuse this time. Before this semester, I don’t think you had ever been late in your life. Now, it’s twenty minutes here, thirty minutes there. ‘Research is so important, Izzy,’” she says, mocking my voice.

She’s ostensibly pissed; however, I detect a hint of a smirk behind her words.

“I do. I promise.”

“Let me guess. You needed to have a chat with Holden,” she says, extending the syllables in his name. “Stella and Holden, kissing in a tree, making out after a hot day of data collection.”

“Iz,” I warn.

“Are you going to make it back in time for me to give you a ride to the airport, or should I assume you chickened out?”

“I didn’t chicken out.” I glance at Holden. He’s typing away on his computer, seemingly lost in his work, but I know better. He’s heard every word. “I am going to the airport. I’ll just grab a cab, though. Don’t wait on me.”

“I’m going to call you every five minutes until I know that you’re actually getting on that plane.”

“Don’t do that. I’m really going this time, I promise, unless you badger me changing my mind.”

She sighs. “Fine. Call me when you land?”

“Promise. Tell Barb and Dave that I love them, and tell Evie that I’m sure nothing on my mother’s table could ever compete with her sweet potato casserole.”

It’s true. My mother doesn’t have a culinary bone in her body, and Iz’s sister makes gastronomic masterpieces. During my first Thanksgiving with her family, I managed to put away so much sweet potato casserole that Iz’s sister has made me my own personal version the past two years.

“I’ll tell her,” Izzy says, softly. “Love you, Stella bella.”

“Love you too. Happy Thanksgiving.”

Holden gives me a curious glance as I hang up the phone, but he quickly busies himself with his computer when he deduces, correctly, that I’m not planning on providing any further information.

I’m sorely tempted to call Izzy back to tell her that I do need a ride—to her parents’ house in Alabama. However, I promised my own parents, who’ve been torturing me with twice-daily phone calls for the past three months, that I would make it home for Thanksgiving this year. I’ve caused them enough grief. I owe them this small thing, and therefore, the trek to San Francisco is all but unavoidable.

“Everything okay?” Holden asks.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just Izzy being her usual annoying self.”

“It’s good that you have someone who annoys you. It gives you a taste of your own medicine.”

I narrow my eyes. “Believe me when I tell you that there’s more than one person who annoys me.”

“Not anymore. We’re done with each other,” he announces cheerfully.

Is he really that excited to be rid of me?

“I officially signed off on both the Rhodes application and the grade. You are no longer my student or my research assistant. Normally, classes don’t finish until after Thanksgiving break, after finals and reading days, but since this is an independent study, so there’s no need to bother with any of that. In case you were wondering, I gave you an A. It’s not enough of a thank you for all that you’ve done, but it’s the best I could do.”

I open my mouth to thank him, but he clears his throat, his eyes studying me pensively. “I....I don’t know what we’re going to do without you. You’ve meant a lot to the project.”

I don’t know what to say. Meaningless words are inadequate for what Holden has given me. There’s the independent study and the project, of course, but it’s more than that. His unfailing optimism, his endless patience for my whining, the way that he makes me feel like I belong somewhere that’s perfectly right for me—those things are unspeakably precious.

Being here is the best part of today, of every day. I spend hours anticipating those few minutes right before and right when I rush to his office to tell him a silly story about one of our participants or to moan and groan about the fact that Kellen, the other research assistant, didn’t show up.

It’s the best part of my day and I’m about to lose it forever.

There’s been no hint that we’re anything other than teacher and student. I mean, he treats me like a colleague, which is nice, but there’s been no sign that he finds me attractive since that flirtatious wink that I’m not even sure was a flirtatious wink in the first place. He hasn’t once mentioned that night that he walked me home.

And yet, I’ve managed to stick to my plan of developing a harmless crush on him. In fact, everything’s worked out to perfection.

Better than perfection. We’ve developed a spontaneous and genuine friendship, the only one I’ve really had since I met Izzy. We manage a fairly steady stream of quick-witted exchanges and funny jokes and conversations about books and movies and food. Our tastes are uncannily similar, so much so that I wonder if he actually has some window into my brain.

I’m not stupid, and I know what could have happened after the night with Luke. I could have sunk into a pit of self-pity and unrequited love. It’s happened before, to me and to people who have much more strength than I do.

But it didn’t. Thanks to Iz, to some show about duck people, and to Holden’s incessant good cheer, I’m back, better than I’ve ever been in my life, stronger even than the little girl version of Stella who sewed dresses and did some time as the mean girl queen of Amity High. I should thank Luke, really, for the wake-up call. And I should thank Holden for a lot of things.

I like this version of myself.

My hair is blond again.

I’ve finally managed to clear out some of the black from my closet, although I’ve vowed never to return to the cardigans.

I think I might even look like a normal girl. I’ll never be a supermodel, and I can’t possibly hope to possess Iz’s flawlessness, but I think I clean up pretty nicely sometimes. I could be cute, even.

I hardly ever think about Luke.

Once a day.

Okay. Twice a day.

If it’s a really bad day, maybe seven times. Or eight. Or eighty.

It’s still a massive achievement.

And it’s mostly, if not all, thanks to Holden and his preternatural ability to make me smile.

“Stella?” Holden asks, his eyes twinkling. “Still having trouble with those compliments?”

I don’t stop to think about the repercussions. I just stand up from the chair, throw my arms around his neck and wrap him in a tight embrace that lasts longer than it should and not as long as I want it to.

When I hear his awkward cough, I stumble backwards and give him a sheepish smile.

“Sorry about that. I’m normally not much of a hugger, but honestly, I needed to thank you. I mean, first of all, you didn’t even hold the douchebag comment against me, which is kind of a remarkable thing, and you let me prattle on about the annoyances of dealing with psych subjects, and you even listened to my bad jokes and naïve theories about personality and behavior, which has to count for something. I really appreciate it. All of it. And I just needed for you to know that.”

He furrows his brow, and for once, he doesn’t look amused. “Look, Stella...”

Holden’s speech is interrupted by a hard knock on the door. With an apologetic groan, he takes a step back from me.

“I should get that.”

“Yeah, and I should get out of here. I have a flight to catch and I didn’t mean to get all mushy on you.”

No. What I did was practically assault him. I suck at life.

“Maybe you can drop by sometime,” he offers.

His voice is unnaturally strangled. I’ve never heard him sound like that before, and it allows me to hope that maybe this isn’t just a professional thing. I mean, it’s not like I want to be his girlfriend or anything. That wouldn’t really be so crazy, especially when I consider the fact that he happens to be a super genius who graduated college at the age of nineteen, and is actually, honestly, only three and a half years older than me.

But...I haven’t felt fireworks, not during any of the late nights we’ve worked together, or in any of the back and forth tongue-lashings I’ve unleashed on him.

On the other hand, I’m through with fireworks. We would be good together. He would make me forget the darkness.

Get a grip, Stella. None of that nonsense.

Still. Maybe we can keep being friends.

“Sure.” I cover up my meandering thoughts and return to his query. “Maybe we could get a coffee or something after break. You can tell me horror stories about the new research assistant.”

His smile is beatific. “I would really like that.”

The knock comes again, more urgent this time.

“Okay. I really should get that.”

“You really should.”

Neither of us moves a muscle.

“Hol-den,” a teasing, familiar voice calls out. “Open the door, man.”

Jesus Christ.

I’ve seen him walking around campus, usually with his arm slung around some impossibly beautiful girl. Thankfully, Greenview is classified as an arboretum, which means it contains a plentiful array of lush tress, where are perfect for ducking behind when you’re trying to avoid someone. Luke may have been the catalyst for my seemingly stable grip on life, but that doesn’t mean I need to see him on a regular basis. Or ever. No more fireworks. No more Luke. It’s good for me.

Holden looks pained. “I can tell him to come back,” he offers.

My response is swift. “Don’t bother.”

I can only be hurt if I give someone the power to cause pain. I refuse to allow Luke Dixon to hold that power. Not this time.

Still, my hand hovers on the doorknob for a little longer than is strictly necessary.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Stella,” Holden says softly.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I whisper.

Luke is turned away from the door, his back against the wall, and I’m grateful that I don’t have to see his face. Maybe I can slip out the other way. Maybe...

“Finally,” he drawls. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you had a girl in there.”

I’m gratified to see that his mouth falls open when he sees me standing in the doorframe.

I’m also a coward, so I don’t meet his eyes or offer a joke to ease the tension. Let him think that I was that girl. Technically, I was her, I suppose. I adjust my bag on my shoulder, and as I march down the hall, I congratulate myself on my minor accomplishment.

As it turns out, it’s premature.

I’m halfway outside the building when he catches my arm from behind. He needn’t have bothered with touching me, because the little current of electricity sparks, kindles, then explodes, even before he lays a hand on my skin.

Freaking fireworks.

I so do not need this in my life. Warm and steady. Amber instead of blue. Safe instead of danger.

I manage to wriggle myself free of his tight grasp, but I don’t escape the fleeting thought—I wish he would touch me again.

He does. His lips brush my hair as he whispers softly into my ear. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

That conjures up a thousand fractured images of him and Jack and me and my parents around a table filled with burned potatoes and sad jello salad.

I spin around and face him head-on, no longer willing to be a victim of my own cowardice. What I find rips the air from my lungs.

If anything, he’s gotten more beautiful and more dangerous, all lean muscle and sharp angles and silken jet-black hair. But, as always, it’s the eyes that devastate me. They hold none of his typical sarcasm. Just an ocean of regret. I’m confused, disoriented, and I open my mouth to say something, anything.

And then I remember:
“Forget that ever happened.”

I turn on my heels and I’m outside before starting my five second countdown.

It only takes three. I should get a medal or something. Really.

M
ajor achievement of the day number two—I get to the airport in time to make my flight. As a reward, I decide to treat myself to a broad sampling of reading material. I pick up every single one of the weekly tabloids, which all feature the same starlet. However, each has a different headline—engaged, pregnant, in rehab, teaching orphans in Africa. I shove the one about African orphans back on the shelf. I don’t need to read about all of her good deeds, because that would just make me feel like a terrible person, and I already feel that way most of the time. Then, I spend a long time debating whether to pick up the National Book Award winner or one with the half-naked man on the cover.

Screw it. It’s not like I’m going to see anyone I know. That’s the beauty of airplanes. You can read what you want, drink what you want, and say what you want. No one will ever be the wiser. And the half-naked man on the cover is far more tempting than the maudlin description of one man’s journey from a wheelchair to long-distance running.

I settle into a leather armchair at the gate, and twenty minutes later, I’m already pretty pissed at Armando, the stable hand. If he doesn’t have the nerve to tell Felicia, the duke’s daughter, that he loves her, then how the hell does he think he’s going to win over her family? I’m about thirty pages in, and the most exciting thing that’s happened is a “clandestine” touch of her bare arm. Lame. I’m thumbing through to see if it picks up any speed when someone coughs conspicuously.