“Stolen cars? You heard me say caramel onions, right?”
“Come on, don’t you ever just need a release? An escape from doing the same damn thing day in and day out.”
It terrifies me how much I understand what he’s describing. Still, semantics play through my thoughts like a memorized line that ends with Hannah. “We don’t know each other. This could be misconstrued.”
“Do we need to know each other? I’m not asking you to hang out. It would just be for fun.”
He doesn’t even try to sugarcoat the lack of personalization he’s seeking. “What if someone offends the other person?”
“Are you easily offended?”
“I don’t know, are you planning to steal my car?”
His smile turns charming and charismatic—the same one I saw in the internet searches when I’d looked him up that first day. “That really hung you up, didn’t it?”
That itch for impulsivity thrums in my veins, stealing logic as I shake my head. “Should there be rules? Parameters?”
He lowers his chin, his gaze growing serious, while his smile lies to me. “I fucking hate parameters.”
“I’m kind of a fan.”
“Is that a no?”
“It’s an I’m not sure.”
He raises a brow, his smile still goading. “So you’d rather make twelve more lasagnas? Come on. I saw your face when your sister mentioned the prank. You lit up. You appreciate a good joke and you clearly like to banter. This would be bantering without the words.”
I stare at him, searching for more reasons and excuses to say no because I really want to say yes. The idea of breaking the uniformity and disrupting a few grains of sand for this year has that itch dulling and anticipation warming my veins.
Nolan’s smile grows so wide it hints at being boyish because it’s so uninhibited. “Game on?”
“Game on,” I agree.
His smile grows as he punches a fist into the air with a silent cheer. The muscles in his bicep and forearm flexing is an impressive sight. “This will be fun.” He bends, grabbing a large duffel bag and a school bag from where they lay beside the door. “Watch your back.” He winks, then slips out the front door.
I’m not entirely sure what I’ve just agreed to, only that the dread to go to public speaking isn’t consuming my thoughts as I head into the kitchen and try to find something to eat besides leftover lasagna.
My thoughts are still preoccupied with prank ideas when Brielle slides into the seat beside me.
“Oh, thank God. I wasn’t sure if you were really coming back,” she says, dumping her bag on the desk.
“I’m kind of shackled to this class,” I admit.
Brielle turns, looking both ways before training her attention on me. “I talked to someone who took this class, and they said Hawkins is a total bitch. Apparently, she’s been waiting to retire for the past two decades and is just sticking around because of her tenure.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing. If she doesn’t want to be here either, maybe this will become a study hall class.”
Brielle shakes her head. “She gets her rocks off by making everyone miserable. This is supposed to be one of the toughest courses for PR and marketing.”
“Five speeches. We can do this.” Perseverance was my family’s motto. I watched my parents face adversity after adversity while trying to get our family’s business off the ground. They certainly had days—weeks, even months—when they were ready to throw in the towel and give up, but more often than not when things started to slide or regress, one or both would work to find the silver lining.
Brielle laughs uneasily, clearly wanting to see the same rainbow I am, but struggling to do so. “I don’t have time to re-write five speeches a couple of dozen times. My schedule is packed.”
“A couple of dozen?”
Brielle purses her lips. “If you don’t pass, you have to keep—” Before she can finish, the door opens and Professor Hawkins steps into the room, carrying another generic to-go coffee cup. Today, it’s not spilled down her front, but her expression isn’t any less pinched.
“Next week, you’ll be presenting your first speech to the class.”