I laugh and realize that I do sound way past crazy—and way past tired. I rub my hands over my face and sigh. “It’s not the weirdest thing that’s ever happened.” When I pull my hand away, there’s a streak of blood. “Damn it. I cut my face?”
Mark stands and offers his hand. I put my clean hand in his palm and he pulls me up. “Nah, it’s just a little scrape on your cheek.”
I dab it again with my fingers and walk over the mirrors. It’s not that bad, but I look like hell. My hair is a rat’s nest pulled into a ponytail. It’s all bushy. I didn’t bother brushing it before I left. I just pulled it back and snapped the elastic ring around my hair. There are dark circles under my eyes and I look beat.
Mark hands me a hanky. I look over at him, surprised. “It’s not used, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I take it and say, “Thanks, and that wasn’t what I was thinking at all.” I take the white cotton and run it under the water fountain, getting it damp, and then blot my cheek. “I don’t even know what did this.”
He points to my wrist. “Your watch. Your hands tried to cover your face when you fell. The watch probably scratched you.” I look at my wrist and then back up at him.
“So, what’s your story?” I ask. I don’t want him staring at me, but he is. I glance at him. “Are you always in here at four in the morning?”
Mark puts his hands behind his back and shakes his head. “Nah, it’s usually five by the time I get here. I was early today. As to the reason why, well, I’m a bit of a freak. I only need four hours of sleep.”
I’m dabbing my cheek as he’s talking. When says that, I look up at him, envious. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, it’s some kind of genetic thing. My mom’s like that. They thought it was ADHD for a long time, but that’s not it. I just don’t need to sleep eight hours to feel good. Four or five, max, and I’m good to go. I can stay out all night and then wake up at the butt crack of dawn.
“Since there’s nothing to do at the dorm, and my roommate kills me if I wake him up, I usually head over here.” He’s leaning against the wall, watching me. Mark’s closer to my age than Peter. This is the kind of guy I should be with. He’s normal, nice, and my peer. He’s not my teacher.
I watch Mark for too long, staring at his face, wondering what he would have done if I threw myself at him at the beginning of the semester—if it was Mark at the table and not Peter. Would he have done as much? Would he have stopped? What would that have done to me? Sometimes I think sex will fix everything. It ruined everything, so it makes sense, sort of.
I don’t realize how much time has passed.
Mark gets a nervous smile on his face and looks around, like I must be watching something else. “Uhm, Sidney? Did I accidentally put you to sleep with my overly boring story?”
I smirk and blink. I hurt so much and he’s so sweet. “No. You’re anything but boring.”
He grins. “You really think so?”
I nod. “I would have followed you around like a puppy if some other guy hadn’t caught my attention first.”
“Story of my life.” Mark’s eyes search my face before he lifts his hand and lightly touches my arm. It’s a reassuring touch. “I’m guessing said guy is the reason you’re here at this ungodly hour?”
I nod slowly. My thoughts are jumbled. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know how to make the agony inside of me stop. I’m staring at Mark’s lips. I’m reverting. I can feel my old pre-Peter plan jumping around my ankles, nipping at me.
Mark is shirtless. His body is covered in a thin layer of sweat. His hair is damp and messy. I’m aware of my breathing, aware of his mouth, and aware that I’m standing too close to him. Mark’s hand slips up my bare arm, over my shoulder, and touches my cheek.
He tucks a piece of my crazy hair behind my ear and smiles sadly at me. “I’m not a rebound guy, Sidney. I’m a love-her-with-my-whole-heart kind of guy, and since I really like you, it’s so damn hard not to kiss you right now. But, I can’t…” He breaks our gaze by looking down. Mark takes my hands and rubs his thumbs over my skin slowly. Breathing deeply, he adds, “Forgive me?”
Normally, I would have turned beat red, but today I just nod and look at our hands. “Then, how do you get over a broken heart? Everyone says sex, but I just don’t…” I sigh deeply and look up at him.
“Since I’ve had mine stomped on a few times, I can tell you the truth.” He tilts his head to the side and smiles at me. His eyes don’t meet mine again, not while he’s talking. “You don’t get over it. Nothing immediately heals the pain. It doesn’t vanish because you’re ready to get over him. It takes time. One day, things won’t hurt so much. One day you’ll notice someone else and not think about the last guy at all. You’ll be ready to start over, and so will your heart. Give it time, Sidney.”
I nod and he pulls his hands away. “Why are you so nice to me?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I shake my head. “You’re hot, like amazingly bodacious. I have a little crush on you.” Mark looks sheepish when he says the last one.
I smile at him. My face feels funny and I realize that I haven’t smiled in a while. “I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well, I tend to keep things low key.” He gives me a lop-sided grin and bumps me with his shoulder. “Want to race or something? I’m guessing you came in here to run and I bet I can totally beat you.”
I glance out the windows at the track and nod. “Sounds good.”
I spend the next hour running with Mark. We race until my muscles are twitching like I’ve been electrocuted. I fall onto the mats and lay on my back. Mark sits next to me in a comfortable silence. It seems that I’ve found another friend.
CHAPTER 22
I still have to see Peter once a week. I didn’t get transferred out of his night class, although I wish I did. My only option would have been to drop it, and if I did that, I wouldn’t be able to retake it because of my scholarship. It was too far into the semester by the time Strictland separated us. I’m just glad she didn’t force me to drop it.
Peter’s at the front of the room. I don’t look at him. Instead, I hear his voice and stare down at my notepad. I’ve been up for a really long time. It seems like yesterday that I was sitting with Mark, but that was only this morning. I touch my face and feel the cut on my cheek. Yup, that was today. I can’t believe I fell off a treadmill. Who does that?
“Miss Colleli?” Peter says. I get the feeling that it’s not the first time he’s called on me.
I look up. Everyone is watching me. “Sorry, what was that?”
Peter’s eyes drift to the cut on my cheek. His brows pinch together. “The poem at the beginning of the book…” When I don’t answer, he adds, “The Man Who Was Thursday had a poem at the beginning. What did you think it was about? Did it fit the literature?” Peter is standing in front of me for a moment. Then he crosses the room, leans back on his desk, and folds his arms across his perfect chest.
Why is he calling on me? I want to crawl into a hole and die. That’s the one question that I can’t answer at all. “It made me want buy a top hat,” I say, and shrug. A few students giggle. One says freak. I turn and give that guy a thumbs-up. I’m a proud freak. Deal with it.
Peter stares at me with a hopeless look on his face. He doesn’t ask me to elaborate. Instead he calls on the smartass who says he’s not g*y enough to think the poem is about hats. Peter pinches the bridge of his nose and looks at the clock. It’s almost nine.
“Since no one knows what the hell the poem is about, you guys are going to hand in a research paper next week. I want three sources, four pages, double-spaced, and include your own understanding of the poem. If you agree with the research, state why. Class dismissed.” They all groan and exit quickly.
I’m moving at slug speed. I feel so tired. I can’t remember if I ate today. I don’t think I did. I consider getting some food as I gather my books. By the time I head for the door, the classroom is empty, save Peter, who’s at his desk.
“What happened to your face, Colleli?”
I raise my eyebrow and look back at him. “That’s hardly complimentary, Dr. Granz.” I do the shame, shame, thing with my fingers, too, but it’s sloppy.
He gets up and walks toward me. “What’s with you? You realize that your grades are so borderline that you might fail, right? And, with Strictland breathing down my neck, I can’t pass you if you don’t earn it.”
I didn’t realize that. My spine stiffens. “I don’t want you to pass me through.”
“Then, what the hell are you doing? I don’t understand you. You wanted to take this class, didn’t you?”
“I wanted to take it when Tadwick was teaching it.” Peter flinches. Maybe I said that a little too harshly. “I didn’t mean—”
Peter puts up his hands, palms toward me, and backs away. “I know what you meant. It’s fine.” He grips the back of his neck and sighs.
I’ve avoided looking at Peter’s face, but when he’s turned to the side—away from me—I chance it. His lashes are lowered, and his shoulders slumped like he’s beaten, as if the weight was too much and it broke him. There are dark rings under his eyes that match mine. His lips no longer smile. Peter looks exhausted, with a sadness that penetrates every ounce of his being. He’s drowning in melancholy.
Peter must feel my eyes on the side of his face, because he looks up. Our eyes meet and I wish they hadn’t. My stomach drops to my feet. I’m dying. There was air and now there is none. Weeks have passed, but I’m not over him.
Peter breaks our gaze and looks down. “I better get going.” His voice is faint, weak.
Before I know what I’m saying, the words are out of my mouth. “Do you regret it?” Peter looks up at me. His eyes slip over my face until he finds my eyes. “Because I do. I regret it so badly. If I could go back and undo everything, I would. I can’t stand seeing you like this, and I can’t stand being like this. If I never sat at your table—”
Peter talks over me. “If you never sat at my table, I would have never known that I could be happy again. No, I don’t regret it. I don’t regret any of it.” He works his jaw, as if he wants to say more, but decides against it.
I nod slowly and pick up my books, not planning on saying anything else. A letter falls out of the pages and lands at Peter’s feet. He bends over and picks it up. His eyes lift to mine. “Is this from your brother?” I nod. “I thought you were going to throw it out?”
“I did. He sent another and then another.”
“You haven’t opened any of them?”
I shake my head. “No,” my voice is barely there. “He’s dead to me. Take it. Toss it. I don’t want to see it again.”