Page 72 of Crashing Tides

With a glare around the classroom, Elarion adds, “None of you have room for judgment. Every single one of you in this class have made mistakes that could’ve turned deadly.”

I want to throw up.

A few people have the decency to look chagrined. Jordan rolls his eyes, still laughing. I’m partnered with him for the rest of the semester, but it’s hard not to hate him when every mistake I make brings him such unfettered delight.

Why does he care so much? I’m not even the worst student in class (that honor goes to Henry Harvard, who breaks almost everything he touches, and can barely raise a teacup on command).

“Bet your mother’s proud,” Jordan muttered once after I broke a vase.

I snapped, “My mother’s dead,” and he had the audacity to hold up his palms like I was the one in the wrong.

After Elarion’s moved on to demonstrating how to open a book to the correct page without using anything but magic, Jordan whispers, “So you gotta tell me. Are you this bad on purpose?”

“Fuck off,” I hiss. I can’t hear the instructions over him.

“You just make it so easy,” he mocks.

The rest of class, he needles me, poking fun at my poor technique, my constant disorientation. I ignore him, but it’s difficult.

Prophecy and Prediction is worse. Jordan rolls his eyes at the rivers of blood the broken mirror insists on showing me, and gloats when he manages to summon one of the ghosts roaming the campus. It stares at us, dull-eyed and uncomprehending. I feel sick as its gaze roves past us, unseeing.

Then it’s my turn.

“At least you’ve got an acting career,” Jordan snipes as we watch blood stream across the mirror’s broken face. “Because I don’t think the fae are going to give you a real job.”

By the end of the day, I’m angry enough to skip studying with Jane. Instead, I go straight to the gym and stomp my way up a Stairmaster until I feel less like punching something and more like passing out.

Then I remember Jordan’s stupid sneer, and I spend another twenty minutes at the punching bag, wishing his ugly-ass face was on the other side of my glove.

I just barely make it to dinner, where a nervous-looking Duncan waves at me from Jane’s side. My entire mood lifts. He must’ve been waiting for me. Suddenly, I don’t want to punch things anymore. I want to steal food off his plate and copy his homework, like a proper boyfriend. Or whatever I am. Duncan can’t do casual, but I didn’t agree to anything, which leaves us in some sort of confusing limbo. The word situationship has always implied fuck buddies to me, but it’s also the most accurate term in my vocabulary, and I’ve begrudgingly accepted it.

After I’ve loaded up a plate with an enormous salad and a Coke, I hurry to the table. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s been a stressful day.”

Jane rolls her eyes. “What did you set on fire?”

“Nothing!” I cry, feigning innocence.

Duncan raises his brow. “Are you setting things on fire often?”

“Magic is hard.” I take a huge bite of grilled chicken and lettuce. Duncan steals one of my croutons, which is my role, but my mouth is full, so I just let out a cry of indignation and try not to choke.

He smirks at me while it crunches in his mouth.

Jane looks between us like she has some suspicions about what might really be going on here, but I haven’t told her anything yet. Mostly because I have no idea how to explain it myself.

I mean, I like Duncan. I slept with him (literally and figuratively). Despite all the confusion, I’m drawn to him. His serious face, his gray eyes, the endless stream of notes he hands me every class, the little noise he made when I kissed him this morning.

He’s not as confident as my usual type. Not as accomplished. But he’s comfortable in his own skin (except when I’m around, I’ve noticed), and he doesn’t need to prove anything, and that’s kinda hot in its own way. Honestly, I’m excited to date someone lower maintenance, who doesn’t need to show off his boyfriend for clout.

“Jordan Halloway is such a dick,” I grumble between bites of salad.

Duncan’s spine straightens at this. His expression goes from playful to serious in an instant. “Wait, is he giving you trouble?”

“He’s my partner in Prophecy and Prediction and he thinks I’m an idiot,” I grumble.

“Divination isn’t exactly your strong suit,” says Jane. She pushes her plate out of the way and takes a sip of her soda. There’s a book lying face down on the table in front of her. At this point, I know it’s for show. She pretends she’s ultra-studious (and for the most part, she is), but she’ll talk all through dinner if given the opportunity.

“Wow.” I spear a tomato and piece of chicken, pop it into my mouth. “Rude.”