When You're Ready (8 page)

“It’s cool, Scout, see you tomorrow.”

The doors started to close, but before they shut completely they flew open. Scout stepped forward and grabbed my hand. He quickly tugged me into the elevator and I was so caught off guard that I tumbled into his chest. A group of people filed into the elevator filling it up, so I was forced to stay pressed into Scout’s body.

He felt like a rock. I knew Scout was strong, but I didn’t realize his body was as hard as a brick wall. He held onto my hand the entire ride down to the parking garage, and I could feel his warm, minty breath traveling over my forehead. I didn’t dare meet his eyes, or even breathe; instead I looked straight ahead at the tanned flesh that peaked out of his t-shirt.

When the elevator reached P3, Scout put his hand on my lower back and whispered in my ear.

“This is us, baby.”

Us
. Who knew such a small word could send my whole world plummeting toward a fall. I knew I should run as far away as I could get from Scout, because guys like him—beautifully bad, yet achingly tender guys—probably had half the women in L.A. at their beck and call. The last thing I wanted to be was another notch on his bedpost, but all I could hope for in that moment was for there really to be an “us.”

Scout led me to his car and unlocked the door, and then waited until I was inside before closing it. He jogged around the back of his Mustang and slid inside. His mouth started moving, but I was so intoxicated by being in such a small space with him that I couldn’t focus on a word he said.

“Nola?” Scout touched my thigh and I jumped, feeling an unfamiliar tingle building between my legs. “Nola?”

“Umm…yes?” I said, my head swimming like I’d had one too many glasses of champagne.

“I was asking where you live, baby.”

“Oh, umm…” Being pressed up against Scout in the elevator had messed me up so bad I had forgotten how to talk, and apparently, where I lived as well. “I live in an apartment.”

Scout chuckled. “I know, baby, but where?”

“Oh, umm, mid-city.” I swallowed hard and tried to remember what street I lived on. “Off La Brea and Edgewood.”

“Cool.” Scout turned on the car and revved the engine, causing the sound to echo through the garage. He threw the car in drive and navigated his way out of the parking lot.

As we rode down the highway heading toward Wilshire, Scout placed his hand on my thigh and let it linger. Unlike before, I didn’t remove it or even feel uncomfortable with the intimate gesture. Instead, I covered his hand with mine.

We drove along the streets in comfortable silence. After talking so much throughout the afternoon about our lives—well,
my life
—the quiet trip home didn’t seem weird or awkward. To my surprise, I was completely at ease with Scout and didn’t feel compelled to fill the silence with meaningless chatter.

The afternoon had been amazing and made up for my shitty encounter with Professor St. James.  Strolling through the Getty holding Scout’s hand felt so good and I was sad it had to come to an end.

It would be easy to fall for Scout. I could already picture us spending the weekend curled up on my couch watching movies, or having a picnic in Griffith Park, or making him breakfast, or letting him touch me in places I’d only dreamt about.

I was
obsessed
with rom-coms and I wanted so badly to fall head over heels into my forever, but I knew all-consuming, long-lasting love stories only happened in movies. That wasn’t real life.

In real life people died and left you alone, or ran off after they were through loving you. And no matter how sexy or wonderful or great Scout was to be around, sooner or later he would get tired of having me around and move onto the next woman who’d be more than willing to take my place. As much as I liked Scout, I wasn’t about to sit back and let that happen to me.

I looked out the window and sighed as Scout pulled up in front of my building. He was the most amazing guy I’d ever met, but we would just have to be friends. I couldn’t risk anything more. I’d seen what love had done to my mother; it ruined her life. I reminded myself that I couldn’t love a man the way she loved my father—no matter what.

Scout put the car in park and I knew I had to get out of there before he touched something other than my knee.

“Thanks for the ride, Scout.” I leaned over and quickly kissed him on the cheek, feeling the stubble on his face tickle my skin. “And thanks for everything.” Before he could say anything I bolted out of the door and swiftly walked up the stairs to my apartment. When I got inside I had two text messages on my phone.

Scout: Thanks for an AMAZING day!

Scout: Can’t wait to see you tomorrow, beautiful.

A warm smile began deep in my chest and spread throughout my body. Even though I’d left him less than a minute before, I already missed being with Scout. I hit reply and hastily typed before I even had time to change my mind.

Nola: Me too :)

Nola: Drive safely, k?

Scout: I’ll even go the speed limit if it means I get to see you again.

Nola: Have a good night, Scout.

Scout: You too, baby. Sweet dreams.

I moved around my apartment picking up the clothes, books, and dishes that were scattered around my living room trying to shake Scout from my mind. But every few minutes I’d look at my phone, reread his messages, and get lost in thoughts of him again.

For the first time in a while, I didn’t grumble about cleaning up my place, I smiled, remembering how gorgeous Scout looked when I first saw him standing in front of the elevator waiting for me and how my stomach flooded with butterflies when he first touched my hand.

Shit
. Keeping Scout at arm’s length was going to be more difficult than I thought.

8
Nola

Professor St. James’ office felt like an overstuffed box with stacks of books, DVDs, and gigantic posters of
Ms. Magazine
covers lining the walls. I sat in a hard wooden chair across from what
had
to be the scariest woman on Earth as she held up a finger instructing me to wait while she talked on the phone.

I showed up at Professor St. James’ door promptly at five p.m., not a moment before or after, to try to convince her to let me rewrite my paper for a higher grade. I hated having to rely on anyone or ask for favors, but I was prepared to beg Professor St. James for another chance if I had to.

I watched her fiery red hair flutter about her shoulders as she laughed—
laughed!
—with the person on the line. I tried not to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but become increasingly pissed as she droned on about heading up to Napa to go wine tasting like I wasn’t sitting right in front of her waiting to be seen.

I knew Professor St. James was arrogant, but as I waited to talk to her about my paper I realized she was also an egomaniac who got off on instilling fear in her students, cutting down the stupid ones who dared to question her point of view. I’d made that mistake once. It was the second week of class and we were discussing the role of women in rap music. Professor St. James, an admitted jazz buff, argued that hip-hop was a hostile space for women because rappers despised them. I naïvely suggested her position wasn’t quite true, citing women like Nicki Minaj, Lauryn Hill, Iggy Azalea, and Queen Latifah as evidence. But Professor St. James disregarded my argument as “petty” and “narrow-minded” and advised me to consult her book before opening my mouth again. Lesson learned.

I checked the clock that hung on the wall above her head and my stomach tightened; five minutes had already gone by. And there was no telling how long she would be on the phone, or how long our conversation would last. One thing was clear, however; I had about 20 minutes before I needed to dash out of her office and meet Scout if I had any chance of getting to work on time.

The more Professor St. James talked,
and laughed
, the more incensed I became. I had already explained that I had to be at work at six p.m., so she knew she was wasting my time, but obviously she didn’t care.

I stared at Professor St. James trying to bore a hole in her head that would either kill her or dismantle the bitchy part of her brain. I sucked my teeth and wondered what world she lived in where getting to work on time was a whim, and a phone call with a friend was not.

More minutes ticked by and I’d had just about enough of Professor St. James’ foolishness. I needed to know what was wrong with my essay so I could fix it, but she was pushing it. If she didn’t get off the phone within the next few minutes, I’d be forced to leave. Losing my scholarship would be freaking heartbreaking, but being unemployed and homeless was out of the question.

I watched the hand on the clock slide to five-fifteen and decided to gather whatever gumption I had and walk out the door. I stood to leave, but was by stopped Professor St. James’ trademark sneer.

“Where do you think you’re going Ms. Chambers?” she asked, her face contorting into a disgusted mask. Apparently, she’d missed the last 15 minutes I’d spent waiting for her to wrap up her personal call. I guess she was too caught up in her weekend plans to care.

“I was hoping we could discuss my essay, but I have to head out. I have to be at work soon.”

“Sit,” Professor St. James commanded, and I returned to the seat.

“Perhaps we can schedule another time to meet? I have to be at work at six, and if I don’t leave soon I won’t make it on time.”

She seemed to consider my words, but quickly dismissed them. “We make time for what’s important, Ms. Chambers. Is passing my class important to you?”

“Yes, of course. It’s just that if I don’t get to work on time my boss—“

Professor St. James held up her palm, halting me like a crossing guard. “Your paper was unfocused, underdeveloped, and wholly disappointing. I had such high hopes for you, but it seems like you’re not cut out for this caliber of work.”

I inhaled sharply at the venom she hurled at me. “I...I don’t know what to say, Professor St. James. I spent weeks on that paper and I thought it was pretty good.”

She let out a harsh, throaty chuckle. “Good? You thought this…this…amateur attempt at scholarship was good?”

Professor St. James tossed my paper in the trash as her entire body rocked with laughter. I wanted to slap her, or throw up, or cry. I could feel the tears inching toward my eyes, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Professor St. James was a bully who got off on breaking her students. I wasn’t going to roll over and play dead, no matter how pissed off and hurt I was.

I cleared my throat and picked my words carefully. “I’m sorry my paper didn’t meet your expectations, but if you give me a chance to revise it I’m sure I can make it better.”

“Revise it? Ha! Why would I want to read that abominable coup d'essai ever again?”

“Coup de what?” I asked, completely confused.

Professor St. James rolled her eyes. “Coup d'essai! Your essay!” She sighed like she was talking to an imbecile because I didn’t know the obscure French phrase. “Listen Ms. Chambers, I like you so I’m going to give you another chance.”

“You what?” I was baffled. If this was how Professor St. James talked to people she liked, I hated to see how she treated those she loathed.

“I’m going to give you another chance,” she repeated slowly like I had some sort of brain malfunction. “So don’t blow it.”

“Oh…Okay, ma’am.”

“If you’re serious about passing this class with a B, Ms. Chambers, you’ll bring me a 20-page exposition discussing the intersection between third wave feminism and the media by our next class meeting.”

“But that’s in less than a week!”

Professor St. James raised an eyebrow. “And your point is?”

“It’s just…it took me almost a month to write the last paper, a week seems a bit unfair, don’t you think?”

“Life is unfair, Ms. Chambers. The fact that I’m the lone woman in this department with tenure is unfair. Sexism and racism and ableism are unfair.” Professor St. James glowered at me over the tops of her glasses. “All you have to do is write a simple paper, not find a cure for cancer.”

A simple paper?

She sat back and folded her hands on top of her desk. “You asked for another chance, did you not?”

I nodded, unable to speak because of the gigantic lump in my throat.

“Then bring me your paper next week, or else you might as well drop this class because there will be no way you will pass.”

“But…it’s too late to withdraw.”

“Then I guess you better get to work,” she said, motioning for me to leave. “Good day, Ms. Chambers.”

I stumbled out of Professor St. James’ office, stunned. I had hoped to get some insight on how to improve my essay, but instead she dropped a huge bomb in my lap. Researching and writing a 20-page paper that would convince her that I wasn’t an idiot—
in less than a week
—was as close to impossible as I could get.

How the hell am I going to do this?

I headed toward the Bruin bear to meet Scout, but my mind was stuck on how I could write the essay for Professor St. James while working every single night until it was due. I didn’t have another day off until after she wanted me to hand it in, so that meant pulling crazy long nights and functioning on minimal sleep.