In Too Hard (Freshman Roommates Trilogy, Book 3) Page 5

  “Uh-huh,” I said to Montrose, not catching everything he said, but most of it. I slid my laptop over and Googled “Billy Montrose girlfriend” and waited. Several times the name Diandra Scott came up, but upon further investigation, it looked like they’d ended things a while ago. And on Google images Diandra Scott was not the woman skiing with him. A new girlfriend? He looked about his current age in the photo, like maybe it had been taken last winter.

  “Um,” I said, when he paused, “I’m working at your desk today, and I was just noticing the photos on your desk.”

  “I have photos on my desk? I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, I’m looking right at them.”

  “Seriously? Like, framed photos of people?”

  Man, absent-minded professor or what? “Yes. Two of them. And you’re in both photos.”

  “I don’t think—Oh. Oh, right. My mom sent those to me when I first started at Bribury. She sent them right to the office. Probably figured—rightfully so—that I wouldn’t take the time to put up anything personal. I just sat them on the desk and didn’t think of them again.”

  “But you must see them every day.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  I was desperate to ask about his ski bunny when he said, “One with them at Brown, right? And one of me and my sister skiing?”

  An easing in my heart at hearing the word “sister,” and then self-chastisement. Like it should even matter to me if he had a girlfriend or not.

  But it did. It desperately did.

  “Right, those are the two,” I said.

  “Yeah, of course I remember. Like you said, I see them every day.”

  I laughed as I ran my finger along the heavy, expensive silver frame. “Oh yeah? What is your mother wearing in this photo?”

  “A Chanel suit.”

  “Huh. I guess you do notice them.”

  He didn’t say anything for too long. “Wait,” I said. “She always wears Chanel suits, doesn’t she?”

  “Busted.”

  We laughed together, and it felt so good, so right, to share something with him.

  After talking about Esme/Rachel for another hour we said our goodbyes and hung up. I wanted to dive back into his notes, but the Google page with results on Montrose taunted me until I finally mentally packed my bags and spent the next two hours cyber stalking him.

  There wasn’t much I didn’t already know, although I hadn’t been aware of his relationship with Diandra Scott—a woman he apparently met at Brown and dated quite seriously for several years. If I did my math correctly, I estimated they’d broken up right about the time he felt he was heading for self-entitled prick. So, he’d been a prick for about two years of their relationship. Maybe Diandra dumping him is what made him take a hard look at his life?

  Or maybe he’d dumped her because of said prick-ness?

  At one time, I’d known everything there was to know about Billy Montrose. In fact, I probably should have guessed that the woman in the second photo was his twin sister. They had a very similar look, though the sister was blond to Montrose’s dark brown hair. But the same eyes, the same perfect smile with blindingly-white teeth.

  But I was kind of shocked that I’d never Googled for his girlfriend before.

  Well, no, not totally shocked.

  It would never have been in my realm of thought that I should. To me, he was the author of the book that changed my life. I hadn’t thought of him in terms of even having a personal life. I’d only wanted to read about him as it related to Gangster’s Folly.

  Until now.

  Until I’d sat in front of him three days a week and felt this deep connection that no doubt every other female in his classroom did.

  Until I lay on the floor of his office and knew he liked that image, that it made him uncomfortable.

  I hadn’t come to Bribury because Montrose was to be a guest instructor for a year. I hadn’t even known that when I’d applied. But by the time I got the offer of a scholarship to Bribury and a few other schools (one of them a legit Ivy League school, not just a wannabe), I’d found out that Montrose would be at Bribury.

  I took it as a sign, and sent in my acceptance of their offer that same day.

  My alarm went off, interrupting my Google frenzy and I was glad that I wasn’t being paid by the hour or I would have felt terribly guilty, or not counted the past two hours or something.

  Funny, I never felt that guilt in my admin job. There, I was happy to have nothing to do and get some studying in on their time.

  I packed up and, with reluctance, left his office.

  Taking the bus to the Schoolport mall, I thought about where I would start back in tomorrow, even though I’d have to put in my eight-hour shift at the admin building first.

  I went to the shoe department of Macy’s looking for the combat boots I’d travelled across town for, cursing the fact that I’d have to spend some of my precious discretionary funds on something I didn’t even particularly like.

  I mean, I’d been to this mall too many times over the semester, spending too much of my precious money, making sure I had what would make me blend in with the other Bribury girls. It seemed like Lily had known exactly what to bring—I don’t think she had gone shopping even once since we’d arrived.

  And Jane couldn’t be bothered with things like trends and fashions. I swear she got most of her clothes at thrift stores and Navy surplus places. She always looked cool and funky, but Jane was the type of personality that could carry that off. I wasn’t.

  It was a struggle for me, never having been one that cared that much about clothes, mainly because we couldn’t afford latest trends when the boys’ feet were growing so fast.

  But I didn’t want any of the girls at Bribury to know that, and so I came to school with what I thought was a good start, but every time a trend shifted—even slightly—I was back at the mall.

  I had purchased a few pairs of Lulus in September, and had worn them with running shoes at first, then Uggs when it got colder, and depending on what I was wearing on top. But just before break I saw three different girls wearing them with combat boots and knew I’d be spending the money I’d set aside for Christmas gifts for the boys on new boots for myself.

  Which made me feel like shit, but wouldn’t keep me away from the mall.

  But now, with Montrose’s money coming in, I could afford both.

  I stood in front of the rack and two different styles—two different brand names—of the boots commanded my attention.

  Oh, God. I hadn’t taken a close enough look at which type those girls were wearing. What if I got the wrong brand?

  I’d just told a National Book Award winner that he had to change his protagonist’s name without batting an eye. But now, thinking I might get the wrong kind of boot? Absolutely terrified.

  “Most of the Bribury girls we see in here are going for this kind,” a sales lady said to me, handing over the—naturally—more expensive brand.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. It probably sounded to her like I was hoping it was the cheaper kind, and I was, but more importantly, I really just wanted to make sure I got the right kind.

  I knew it was stupid, and I ultimately didn’t even like the Bribury Basic look, but I just…couldn’t stand out as the Queens white trash that I was.

  That I had been. Because I’d vowed to leave that Sydney O’Brien back in Queens.

  The sales lady murmured her confirmation and I bought the boots.

  I went to Old Navy and got some cheap shirts and jeans for the boys. I found some perfume on sale, which I purchased for my mother. Picking up some wrapping paper, I figured I could run to the Post Office on my lunch hour tomorrow and get it all shipped to arrive by Christmas Eve on Wednesday. Shipping would probably cost me as much as the gifts themselves at this last moment, but that’s what I got for putting it off.

  On the bus ride home, I thought about the combat boots and battled with feelings of self-loathing for yet again caving to the feelin
g of wanting to fit in, and also a feeling of jubilation that, come January, I would fit in with those girls.

  Lying in bed later that night, trying to sleep and wishing I could hear the sounds that Jane and Lily usually made in the other side of the suite, I wondered if Diandra Scott, or Billy Montrose’s sister, had ever felt such fear as I had standing in front of a rack of boots?

  No, probably not.

  Chapter Eight

  Monday and Tuesday there were only brief texts from Montrose and I thought that maybe I’d lost him.

  Not that I’d ever “had” him, in whatever context that meant. But maybe he’d had some second thought about just how involved he wanted me to be after the whole Rachel/Esme thing Sunday.

  I worked during the day at the admin building, and at other places around campus, helping with the testing of the new system.

  Not that I was a techie or anything—far from it. But we students weren’t really testing that part, we were just entering mock data, like grades and stuff, in a “sandbox” environment (that’s what the tech guys called it when they’d trained us) at various points across campus to see if the new system worked.

  We were doing that all week. Then the tech team would look for errors, work them out, and then they’d do a conversion of all real data to the new system in the “live” environment, and then we’d spend the next week testing that.

  I think some of the students who stayed to work (most of them were international students who didn’t want to make the treks home) were hoping they’d be able to break the new system or something. There was an awful lot of consultants and technical people (student workers included) who were big time into this project.

  I was just happy for the full workweeks for the next three weeks and what it would do for my bank account.

  Well, almost full workweeks. We had Wednesday afternoon off for Christmas Eve, and Christmas day off. And the same schedule the following week, too, for New Year’s.

  So, I didn’t even get to Montrose’s office until after five both Monday and Tuesday.

  I told myself that was the reason he just briefly texted to see if I had any questions each night.

  I thought about making up a bogus question just so he’d call and I could hear his voice. It was amazing how much I missed hearing him after only a few days. Well, I had grown accustomed to his lecturing to me several times a week. Except, I didn’t seem to miss my other profs.

  But, I didn’t give him a reason to call. If I’d pissed him off about the Salinger’s Esme thing, then he had every right not to want my opinion on anything else. Resolving myself to just do the job asked of me, and not offer any extra curricular thoughts, I plowed through three more boxes during the two evenings I was there.

  As it turned out, I was doing testing from Snyder Hall on Wednesday, so when my shift was over, I only had to walk down to the first floor to Montrose’s office. Two more boxes were tackled, and I now had six very distinct piles going along the top of the credenza, which spanned one entire wall of his office. And only three more boxes to get to.

  I was looking through the piles, debating whether to start transcribing each pile here in the office, or wait until I’d gone through the boxes in his apartment and do all the transcribing at once, when my phone dinged with Montrose’s text tone. (Yes, I’d given him his own tone. Like, the second after he texted me the first time.)

  You at home?

  Not yet. Still in the office.

  My office?

  It wasn’t like I had an office of my own. Yes, your office. Will be going home in another hour or so. I wanted to catch the caf before it closed. They were doing an earlier dinner for Christmas Eve, then not open at all tomorrow.

  Taking the bus? Or train? He asked.

  To my dorm? Neither. Just walking. I wasn’t getting what he was asking.

  By “home” I meant New York.

  Oh. I meant my dorm room.

  Not going home until tomorrow morning?

  Not at all. I told you I was staying here over break. That’s why I was able to get so much done so far.

  Well, yeah, but I figured you’d go home for Christmas at least. And maybe New Year’s.

  Nope.

  There was nothing from him for a full minute and I was both hoping and dreading that he’d forego the texting and call me. I desperately wanted to hear his throaty voice, but I couldn’t bear to hear any pity in it because I would be alone on the holiday.

  But you could go home if you wanted, right? I mean, you’re not just staying because of my work?

  My thumbs hovered above the keyboard on my phone. I could give lots of excuses for not being able to go home without him feeling responsible. And the truth was I wasn’t staying because of his job, although that was making this whole break so much more enjoyable.

  But I didn’t want to lie to Montrose.

  Yes. I could go home. If I wanted to.

  Another long pause. I braced for a barrage of questions, or even for the phone to ring. But neither happened. Just a simple Got it.

  He’d read my papers, some of them talking about my home life. None of them mentioned the real reason I never wanted to go home again, even though I missed my little brothers Duncan and Liam terribly.

  So, yeah, even though he didn’t know the whole story, and stories like mine didn’t happen much in the Upper East Side, I think he did “get it.”

  I slept in on Christmas, and it felt wonderful. Until I thought of my brothers opening my presents to them and not being there to see their faces. It was just clothes, anyway, nothing that would make them beam with glee like a new toy would. But I knew they’d need clothes more than ever without me there to hound my mother and stepfather that they needed them.

  I rolled over in bed, shutting out thoughts of the scene in Queens, and for a half second considered staying in bed all day, something I’d never had the luxury to do, even when I was sick.

  Then I thought about the lovely piles of characters I was fast becoming friends with, just waiting for me in Montrose’s office, and I flung my covers off and headed for the shower.

  As I knew they would, the characters, and his notes, sucked me in, and it was four in the afternoon before I came out of my daze. And only because Lily called to wish me a Merry Christmas.

  We talked for a half hour, her mostly filling me in on how her parents were taking her bringing Lucas home with her to meet them. (Apparently okay.)

  She asked me how the admin testing job was going and I told her a little about it. I would have much more enjoyed talking about the job I was doing for Montrose, but for some reason, I didn’t even mention to Lily that I’d picked up a second job.

  After we hung up, I wondered about that—why I didn’t talk about it with Lily. It wasn’t like Montrose asked me to keep it a secret or anything. And though I had no intention of mentioning any specifics about his notes (not that Lily or Jane would care, but plenty of folks in the New York literature world probably would) there was no harm in saying I was doing filing for him.

  And despite my wish for it to be more, based on the two great conversations I’d had with Montrose about his work, I basically was just helping him with his filing.

  Certainly, if it had ever been more, it was back to note straightening and transcribing now.

  Jane called next, and I wondered if Lily texted her and told her to call me. But, if Jane was making a pity call, she hid it well, spending the duration of the call bitching about her mother driving her nuts and the upcoming wedding of her half sister, of which Jane was a reluctant bridesmaid.

  That was the thing with Jane—it very well could have been a pity call, which she covered by talking only about herself. Or, it could have just been Jane bitching, as she did semi-frequently.

  Either way, it was good to hear their voices.

  I hadn’t even gotten back to work after Jane’s call when my phone rang again with a number I didn’t recognize. It was a local area code.

  “Hello?” I answered.<
br />
  “Sydney O’Brien?” a man with a very heavy Chinese accent asked.

  “Yes?” I said hesitantly. Not really comfortable with confirming my name as I sat alone in a deserted building on an empty campus. But, he did know my name, and he had my number…

  “I have delivery for you. Out front of Snyder Hall. Please come to door.”

  “What kind of delivery?” I flipped through stuff on Montrose’s desk, looking for a campus phone directory to have security’s number if needed.

  “Dinner. Dinner from Peking Delight for Sydney O’Brien. That you?”

  “Yes, it’s me. But I didn’t order anything, so—”

  “Order from a Mr. Montrose. All paid for. Said to deliver to you here. You no want?”

  I had grabbed my keys and keycard and was through the door as I was answering, “I want. I’ll be right there.”

  He’d paid for dinner, even the tip. And it was an enormous amount of food, with appetizers, a couple of entrees and almond cookies. He’d even included a couple of Diet Cokes. It was all very thoughtful.

  He was no self-entitled prick any longer, if he’d ever even been close.

  I cleared off his desk and laid out my wonderful Christmas dinner. Most people would lament not having a home-cooked dinner on the holiday. But I knew my mother’s cooking, and I was much happier with Peking Delight’s offerings, non-traditional as they were.

  About half an eggroll into my feast, my phone buzzed with a call from Montrose. Not just a call, but a FaceTime call. I contemplated how I looked for about a half second, until I realized it was more important to get the call before he hung up than run my fingers through my hair and put on lip gloss. Instead of answering on my phone, I slid my laptop over in front of me, careful to not drag it through crab rangoons and duck sauce, and took the call.

  I wanted to see Montrose on a screen larger than my phone.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said when his face appeared on my screen. It seemed like he was on a laptop too, given how much of the room behind him I was seeing. He looked like his normal self, and yet…so…damn sexy. Deep brown hair tousled and looking like he’d just gotten out of bed. Tired face with a few days of beard growth, but with those intense, intelligent grey eyes looking straight at me. Or at least at the image of me. He had his laptop tilted at an angle so I just saw his head and the upper part of the room behind him. Lovely, tasteful drapes and an ornate tray ceiling.