I kept her hand tight in mine, not wanting to let this feeling go.
“You okay?” she asked again.
“No,” I confided, the tears threatening to fall.
“You want to talk about it?” I absolutely did not, so shook my head.
“Does he hit you a lot?”
I decided to just go with it. She’d seen more than anyone else ever had; no use in pretending otherwise. “Don’t get a chance much anymore. He was pissed with something I’d done. He called me to meet him and… Well, you saw the rest.”
Shifting in front of me, she asked, “What was so bad that he’d strike you like that?”
I wanted to reply with the truth—because I was a blight on their perfect lives, a reminder of something they’d rather forget—but I was never going go there, never ever going to reveal that, so I simply said, “Money, disappointment, not being the dutiful son. The usual. He’s never gone that far in public before, though. I’ve never seen him so pissed.”
“But you’re his son! How dare he treat you like that? What the hell have you done to deserve to be punched?”
I wasn’t going to go there.
Sitting back in frustration, but accepting that she wasn’t getting an answer, Molly changed the subject, asking about the Arkansas game. I confessed that I hadn’t been playing well.
“I’ve never had such a bad start to a season in my entire life. My senior year, the one in which I’ll enter the draft, and it’s all going to hell in a hand basket.”
“Why is it going so bad?” Her eyebrows were pulled down, her thick frames slipping a fraction down her nose.
Pushing them back up into position, I revealed, “Because I can’t complete even one of my passes. I’m letting the team and fans down. My parents won’t back the f**k off over Shelly—you just witnessed my daddy’s insistence on that issue. She’s being a bigger leech than normal and I’m constantly fighting her off. My head is all over the place, I can’t sleep or get focused, and thinking about a certain English girl keeps me up every night. Every f**king night. She’s plaguing my dreams.”
Needing to feel her touch, I laid her hand against my cheek, the contact calming me right down.
“Yeah, I know what that’s like.” Her answer was breathy, telling.
It was time I told her some home truths. “I thought about our last meeting nonstop while I was away.”
“Yeah. Me too. It’s been… different to have my head filled with a certain Bama hottie and not Dante, Descartes, or Kant.” I wanted to laugh at her cute as hell accent and thank the Lord that she’d been thinking about me too.
“You think I’m a hottie?” I asked jokingly, nudging her arm.
“You’re all right.” Her nose crinkled as she smiled and that blush crept up her cheeks. I’d gone from hating the world to feeling on top of it.
“Where were you going at this time of morning when you saw this hottie getting a beatdown?” I needed to move from this tree, and I sure as f**k wasn’t going to class. I wanted to be wherever she was, and I pretty much always did what I wanted.
“Rome—” She went to say something, but I cut her off.
“Answer the damn question, Shakespeare.”
“The library. I have notes I need to write up for Professor Ross. She has an office there where I can work undisturbed. I saw… what happened with you and your daddy and thought you needed me more than the exciting world of academia does right now.”
Standing, dragging her with me, I announced, “Let’s go.”
“Where to?” She frowned in confusion.
“The library. I’m going to help you. We can’t let the world of academia down now, can we?” I lifted her bag off the floor and placed it on her shoulder.
“Romeo… are you sure you don’t want to go home or do something else? We could talk more if you’d like. Whatever you need.”
Jesus, talking about my home life was so not what I wanted. Hell, what I really wanted was to take Molly back to my room and not bother surfacing until I’d had my fill, but I wasn’t sure that suggestion would go down well.
Pulling on her hand, I said, “No. We’re going to go to the library and I’m going to help you with your paper.”
“You’re going to help me with philosophy?” I should have been insulted by her disbelief, but that air of arrogance she always had when it came to her studies just made me want to prove her wrong.
Turning her around and wrapping my arms around her shoulders, I whispered, “Hey, just because I’m a jock don’t mean I’m stupid. For your information, I’m acing that class. I may be able to show you a thing or two.”
I let her go and quoted, “For example, Immanuel Kant was a real piss-ant who was very rarely stable.”
Letting out an excited giggle, she sang, “Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar who could think you under the table.”
“Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle, and Hobbes was fond of his dram.” I gestured for her to finish.
“And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart. I drink, therefore I am.’”
She was British after all. Wasn’t watching Monty Python like a rite of passage or some shit? Her huge grin told me I’d just racked me up some points in her book.
“So you’re a Monty Python fan?” she asked excitedly.
“Well, you can’t study philosophy and not be familiar with ‘Bruces’ Philosophers Song.’” Truth was, one of my first philosophy professors in sophomore year used to play it all the damn time. After that, I watched every film they’d made.
“I agree, but I never pegged you for a British comedy nut.”
“It’s Python,” I said simply. I held out my hand. “So let’s go. I surprised you once with my philosophy knowledge. I’m pretty sure I can do it again.”
“Whatever, you’re twenty-one. I’m still only twenty and I’m already on my master’s. I doubt there’s anything you can show me, superstar. It’s my area of expertise.”
There she went with that mouth again. Grabbing her hand, I pulled her to my chest, gripping her tight, and leaned in to whisper, “Maybe not in philosophy, but I can sure as hell show you other things, Mol—in my area of expertise.”