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“I know you’ve got this,” I reply, returning her smile. “Just remember, stick to the outline, and after each paragraph, glance at the outline again to make sure you’re staying on track.”
“Right,” she nods, holding the two sheets of paper we used to compose her outline for the essay she has due in two weeks. “I’ll protect this outline with my life.”
I work part-time in the Brumehill Tutoring Center, specializing in helping students write essays.
A lot of our tutors are volunteers or here as a requirement for a course they’re taking—common for education majors—but they keep a couple students who’ve proven themselves especially good at tutoring as paid staff.
Apparently, I’m especially good at teaching people how to write essays.
It’s a great part-time job. The pay is good, it’s right on campus, it’s easy to schedule my tutoring hours around my classes, and I honestly really enjoy helping people with something that so many struggle with.
Once Belinda leaves the tutoring room and I’m alone with nothing to distract me, my mind decides to go somewhere it shouldn’t; somewhere I’ve been trying and failing to keep it from going to for the last several days.
Tuck McCoy.
I shouldn’t, but I keep thinking about that car ride home. How different he was from the version of him I’d held in my head since we first met. I was actually enjoying—no, let me be a little more cautious than that—tolerating his company.
At least, until the argument we had.
Even though it’s been days, an acidic feeling rises in my chest as I remember how cavalierly he dismissed my reasons for not doing the play this summer.
Then, something else happens that’s been happening often over these last couple of days: something very inconvenient and unwanted.
As soon as I feel mad at Tuck, images of him standing in front of my car, his sleeves rolled up, pop into my mind.
Images of him plunging his corded forearms into the engine with a rugged familiarity. Images of the way his bicep muscle popped when he flexed his arm.
Stupid brain, dredging up the most enticing images of Tuck at the exact moment I want to just be angry at him.
Not only is my brain betraying me, but my body decides to join in, too. Those images of Tuck—especially the one of him reaching underneath the hood of my car, forearm veins popping as he closes his grip around something deep inside the engine that I wouldn’t even know the name of—send a chill rolling over me that makes my nipples pebble under my shirt.
Then I remember the way he wiggled his eyebrows at me with a roguish grin on his lips when we were at that stop sign, and I feel a twinge deep in my core—the exact same place I felt the low vibration of his laughter when I was in his passenger seat.
With a force of will, I push thoughts of Tuck out of my head.
I crumple up and throw away some of the scrap paper I used during the tutoring session with Belinda, and then sling my backpack over my shoulder and start to head out.
Ugh, I’ve been wound so tightly ever since that day.
I know I’m making the right decision to stick with my internship. It’s the smart thing to do, the responsible thing to do.
But no matter what, it would’ve been disappointing. No matter what, I’d feel the frustration of wondering if I’m missing out on a career-making opportunity. The disappointment of rejecting an opportunity I know I’d absolutely love if only I didn’t have to worry about doing the smart, responsible thing.
The argument with Tuck only made all those feelings worse.
Of course, I have the broken-down car on top of it all. It’s just sitting by the curb in front of my house. Getting it repaired is totally off the table. Paying for the tow was a big enough hit to my bank account.
Luckily, I don’t need a car here in Cedar Shade. But without it, I can pretty much forget about landing that Macbeth role in Burlington. Getting back and forth from the next rounds of auditions, and then the rehearsals if I actually got the role, would be a nightmare. Besides, rehearsals and performances would go later than the bus between here and Burlington runs.
Another opportunity I have to forego. Because I’m not rich, like some people are. Like …
Nope, shutting down that chain of thought right now. Not even going to call his name into my mind.
As I walk towards the door to leave the tutoring center, I pass Dr. Galloway’s office, the tutoring coordinator. As I do, he calls out to me.
“What’s up, Dr. Galloway?” I ask, stepping into his office.
“I’ve got a special assignment for my number one English tutor,” he says.
