Page 15 of The Last Love Story

I finished the book around three in the morning and then lay awake until about five thinking about it. Only complete and utter exhaustion finally made me give in and sleep for a couple of hours before my alarm went off.

I’ve chugged so much coffee today I wouldn’t be surprised if my blood was made up of a small percentage of pure caffeine. My heart thumps in my chest as I force myself to focus on the monitors.

Cat.

Cat.

Cougar—technically a cat?

Hux is beside me today, and I haven’t looked at him once. I didn’t spare him much thought after I opened the book, but him sitting next to me brings back the words he spat:We can’t be friends.

As though I was strange for caring about him, as though feeling anything made me weak. I knew that wasn’t true before I read my first book, but I know it even more now.

And I want more.

Ms. Astor sits at her desk, her shoulders back as she clicks away on her keyboard. I haven’t looked at her either, really, but that’s because I don’t trust myself to keep my face relaxed. The wordsyou’re a secret librarianwill probably appear on my forehead or something.

Behind me, Nef keeps sniffling. Her allergies are getting the worst of her, and I fight the urge to lean back and hand her a tissue. I don’t want to draw any attention to myself today.

That is the new plan, the one I came up with on the train ride over.

Keep your head down. Don’t cause any trouble, don’t stick out like a sore thumb. Do the job, go home... and read.

But in order to do that, I have to find a way to ask Ms. Astor for another book. I haveFahrenheit 451under the false bottom of my gym bag, ready to return. I’m not going home without a new one.

I click faster than usual, nervous energy sending my fingers flying as my knee jostles up and down.

Hux sighs next to me, but I still don’t look at him.

“They’re going to bring the medics in if you don’t calm down.” His voice is soft as he tilts just slightly, eyeing Ms. Astor through the space in the monitors in front of us.

I tighten my jaw. It’s not like he actually wants an answer.

It’s not like he’s myfriend.

“Ripley,” he says, his voice low.

And maybe that’s it—my first name, for once. I turn to look at him. He’s got a dark bruise under his eye. Not that I care, but this morning I heard him telling another student that he got hurt while working out.

And for a moment, I see that boy I met eight years ago, and not the asshole he became.

“What is wrong with you?” he whispers.

“Too much coffee,” I say simply. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Hux presses his lips together as we both look back to our screens, clicks punctuating the silence. My knee bounces of its own accord again as I finish up cats and start another refining portfolio. This one is tiles: bath tiles, roof tiles, all kinds of tiles. Fascinating.

Just a couple of hours ago, I was deep in a world of intrigue and bravery and betrayal. Now, I’m staring at beige grout. I want to scream.

No, I don’t want to scream. I purposefully still my knee and click the mouse as I take a deep breath. I don’t want to scream. I want to talk to someone about it. I just experienced something singular, something magical. And until I can get Ms. Astor alone to ask for another book, I can’t tell anyone.

I cast a low, sideways look at Hux.

Hux whistles low, eyes on his screen—he’s sorting images of smiling faces. The grinning girl on his screen has far too many teeth. “Not even forming full sentences.” Now a smiling boy with eyelashes that sprout and intersect like insect legs. “Maybe I should call the medics. Exactly how much coffee are we talking?”

“Not enough to put up with your bullshit today, I can tell you that,” I shoot back, chancing a glance at him.

His jaw is shaded with just a hint of shadow, and there are dark circles under green eyes that flick to mine briefly. He smirks. It’s slight—curling up the side of his mouth briefly—but somehow carries more warmth, more of what it means tosmilethan the inhuman grimace on his screen.