“Nope,” he responded quickly. “You seem like someone who was focused on her studies.”
I couldn’t tell if it was meant to be a compliment or an insult, but I could sense an in. Even though I didn’t like revealing this aspect of myself, I knew that since I had made Nathan feel like a fool at the bar, it was now my turn to make myself vulnerable. To return the favor, so to speak, and even the playing field between us.
“I didn’t go to college.” I tried to keep my tone light. It never got easier admitting that to people, and I found that it felt especially vulnerable to do that to Nathan. I had never had the opportunities that he had. I had done my research on him. I knew that even if he hadn’t gotten a full athletic ride to college, his family would have been able to afford to send him anywhere. My mom hadn’t even been able to make it to my high school graduation because of work. Helping me pay for college was never even an option. I tried to remind myself that I was doing well, that I had the job I wanted even without a college degree, but I couldn’t help feeling like I had missed out on something important I really wanted to experience. And there it was again, jealousy. I seemed to be feeling it an awful lot in the past few days and I was not a fan. I was better than that.
“Oh,” he responded.
“Yeah.” I didn’t want to look up. This is when people usually started acting differently towards me. A little bit of pity, a little bit of elitism. I had dealt with it plenty of times at the paper, where most of my co-workers had graduated from some of the best journalism schools in the country. Most of them didn’t think I deserved to be there, especially since I had taken the slot that was usually filled by graduates from their various alma maters. But the editor-in-chief had seen something in me, apparently. Or just wanted me to fuck up so they had a reason to fire me. Either way, I was going to hang onto this job with an iron grip as long as I could. And I wasn’t going to allow Nathan to make me feel the way my shitty co-workers did.
I looked up and made eye contact. “Couldn’t afford it.”
“Oh,” he said again, but he wasn’t looking at me the way that most people did when I told them about my situation. He looked more curious than anything. Either way, he wasn’t looking at me like I was a journalist looking to grill him for intimate facts he didn’t want to share. No. He was looking at me like he had looked at me the other night. And suddenly, I was once again the girl in the bar.
“It’s not a big deal,” I shrugged, hoping that sharing this information was going to be worth it in the end. “I worked instead. Got ahead of my peers, I guess.”
He didn’t say anything, just gave me a slow, assessing look.
“What?” I asked, feeling very exposed in front of him.
“You’re just not what I expected,” he said. “When they told me a journalist from the Register was coming to do an article on me, well, I guess I just thought you would be different.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I retorted, my hackles rising. I might not have been what he had expected, but I was a damn good journalist and I was going to write a damn good story on him with or without his approval.
“I didn’t say that,” he said as we reached the lecture hall. He sighed. “Look, I know you’re just trying to do your job and all, I just don’t see the point of all this.”
“I’m here to help you,” I assured him, not really understanding how someone could be on the verge of becoming such a huge star and be so reluctant to talk about himself. “There’s a good chance you’ll be a public figure soon and people will want to get to know you. I want them to see your best side.”
“And sitting in on my poetry class is going to help show that?”
“It depends,” I teased. “Are you going to be reciting poetry in there?”
He leaned forward, that wonderful smell of grass invading my senses and for a moment I thought he might kiss me. But instead, he spoke, in a voice that was almost a whisper:
“I will touch you with my mind. Touch you and touch and touch. Until you give.”
My mouth dropped open and placing a finger beneath my chin, Nathan gently closed it.
“e.e. cummings,” he said, turning to open the door to the lecture hall. “You coming?” he asked, the question equally naughty and innocent, and without a word, I followed him in.
Chapter Seven
The soft whisper of Nathan’s voice echoed through my ear throughout the lecture, making it nearly impossible to concentrate. Not that it really would have mattered much to the article. Nathan just sat there listening carefully and taking notes. Even with an entire seat between us, I could still feel the thick crackle of tension. Obviously this wasn’t something he did with other journalists, but was this a move he used on other girls? Because if he had, I was sure a little digging would uncover a trail of young women in a state of shock. Who was this guy? I mean, really. No one recited poetry.
I sat there, hyper-aware of the desire coursing through my body, and was thankful that the professor didn’t call on any of the students to recite poems, because I was pretty sure if Nathan had pulled something like that again, I would have full-on fainted. Like Jane Austen-style swooning.
No one had ever recited poetry to me. And sure, it wasn’t really meant for me, more for him to prove to me that he could, but I was having a hard time shaking off the tingly sensation the soft timber of his voice with the perfect rhythm of the words had given me.
After a while, I relaxed and began to listen to the lecture. All around me students sat enthralled, some taking notes, some just listening to the professor standing at the front of the room. It was a packed lecture hall, not what I would have imagined for a poetry class at a university like this, but then again, I hadn’t ever taken the time to imagine what a poetry class was like. When I thought of what I had missed out on in college, it was all the journalism courses and mentorships. I had never thought about taking a class like this. One that was just for the pleasure of it.
“Iambic pentameter,” the professor was saying, “is a type of metrical line. It refers to the rhythm established by the words in each line, measured by groups of syllables called feet. ‘Pentameter’ indicates five feet.” The professor leaned on one foot, wiggling the other just slightly off the ground. The class laughed. “If you’ve heard Shakespeare,” he said, “you’ve listened to iambic pentameter.”
I still found myself speechless when we left, but this time it was due to the class. My notebook was full, not of ideas for the article, but notes from a class I wasn’t even taking. I clutched my notebook to my chest, suddenly disappointed that I wasn’t going to be around for the next lecture. Nathan was ever the polite gentleman, leading me through the crowd of students trailing out of the class and making sure to hold open doors for me. I got at least a dozen of strange looks, both jealous and curious, from those around us, but I was too focused on trying to remember everything I had learned in the lecture, especially since I knew I wasn’t likely to get a chance to experience that again. I was just about regain my voice when Mandy appeared next to us, looping her arm through mine.
“Hi!” She was all brightness and cheer and it took me a moment to remember that tonight was her date with Chris.
“Hey Mandy,” Nathan responded.
“Ready for tonight?” I asked and she nodded.
“I was actually wondering if you had some time to help me pick out an outfit.” She looked hopeful, and I felt that surge of affection towards her. That was something I could handle. I shook off the distracting bubbly feeling that Nathan had given me and grinned down at her.
“I’d love to,” I told her, surprised to see her looking past me, her smile fading.