My Favorite Mistake (6 page)

Our teacher was a woman with gray hair, who wore a long purple, gauzy top and matching purple pants. She reminded me of someone who had been a hippie and had never really gotten over it. There were a lot of those at UMaine.

She called us to order as the TAs collected the last of the extra syllabi. There were four TAs for such a large class.

Marjorie, she introduced herself as, got her Powerpoint up and running, and took us through her extensive lesson plan, including her personal history and educational credentials, the papers she'd published and the degrees she held. For someone who looked airy fairy, she certainly had a lot of degrees and accolades. I'd heard nothing but amazing things from other people who had taken the class and I had to admit the subject matter interested me. How could it not? Sex was interesting.

“I'll bet you already cracked the textbook open and took copious notes.”

So sue me, I'd skimmed it before class. I was curious about how graphic the diagrams would be. Turned out pretty graphic.

“I'll bet you're going to rip the pages out and plaster them on the ceiling,” I whispered back as Marjorie walked back and forth, using one arm to gesture and the other to click through the Powerpoint slides.

“It's all up here,” he said, tapping his head.

I was facing forward, pretending to be engrossed in the slides. He grinned at me and pulled out a pen, tapping it on his knee one, two, three, four, five times before he paused and started again.

I stole the quickest of quick glances and noticed something else behind his left ear when he moved his head. Looked like another tattoo, but it was so small I couldn't tell what it was.

The girls behind me yapped the entire class, and I wanted to tell them to shut up, but didn't want to start anything. The room buzzed with the hum of chatter the entire hour and a half. Granted, it would have been impossible to keep that many college students quiet for that long.

Hunter was fidgety the entire class. Whether it was pen tapping or knee jiggling or stretching or twitching. He was like a five-year-old high on cotton candy. I hadn't noticed him twitching so much the day before, but maybe I just hadn't been paying attention. But I thought I would have seen him vibrating like he'd had twelve cups of coffee. It was very distracting.

“Are you on speed?” I whispered as Marjorie was going through the grading scale for our homework assignments.

“Huh?”

“Are you on speed? Your knee is going a mile a minute.”

“I'm fine,” he said, leaning over and putting his ankle on his jiggling knee.

He started pen tapping again, and I reached out so he'd stop. My hand connected with his. It was the first time I'd really touched him. My fingers closed over his fist and the tapping stopped. I removed my hand without looking at him.

“Thank you,” I said.

He didn't respond, but his hand stayed still the rest of the class. When it was time to leave, I was hoping he'd just get up and go, but that didn't happen, of course. He packed up his things slowly, as if he was waiting for me. I took my sweet time.

“Do you have another class, or is this it for you?”

“I'm done for the day,” I said, standing up.

He followed suit and walked behind me as we left the room. I hated the fact that he was behind me, because he had full view of my ass as I walked up the stairs. I half-expected him to grab it, but he didn't.

We walked side by side out into the bright sunshine. It was blinding after being in the dark lecture hall.

“Mind if I walk back with you? I don't have class again until four, so I figured I'd crash for a little while.”

“It's not like I can stop you. It's a free sidewalk,” I said, looking left and right before crossing the road. He walked beside me, shortening his stride so he could match my stubby legs.

“True, but if I ask it makes me seem like a nice person.”

“You're not a nice person,” I said.

He laughed. “You're right, I'm not.”

He shook his head as if it was the funniest thing ever. It wasn't, really. Most people wanted other people to like them so they tried and were overly nice. Hunter wasn't like that. He was what he was and didn't give a shit if people liked it or not. No matter how crazy he drove me, I had to admire that about him. Sometimes I cared too much what other people thought of me. It must have been freeing to go through life like that.

We didn't talk much as we walked. At first it was strange, but the more we walked, the easier it was. It was the longest I'd heard Hunter go without a sarcastic comment or sexual innuendo. It was kind of nice.

“So, about dinner,” he said when we walked into the apartment, “what do you want me to make?”

The room was quiet; the other girls must still have been at class.

“You're serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

I set my bag down and leaned on the counter. Okay, Hunter Zaccadelli, you could make me dinner.

“Stuffed French toast, sweet potato hash and strawberries and cream.”

“Breakfast for dinner? You rebel, you.”

I shrugged. “What can I say? I live on the edge. So, think you're up to the challenge, Z?” I said, using the ridiculous nickname the bouncer had used last night.

“Piece of cake. Or toast, in your case. I'll stuff your toast, baby.”

I rolled my eyes. Soon I would be desensitized to his comments, but I hadn't quite gotten there yet.

“Whatever. I'm going to take a shower. No, you can't come with me,” I said, cutting off whatever comment he was going to make.

“Anytime you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Unfortunately, I did.

“How the hell did you do that?” I said, looking at the dining room table. It was spread with mounds of my favorite French toast that was stuffed with oozing Nutella, sweet potato hash that he'd made exactly how I did, despite my vague and confusing-on-purpose instructions, and strawberries that he'd somehow cut and stuffed with the hand-whipped cream. He'd even found champagne and made mimosas.

“I'm a man of many talents. Some of them are hidden, some are not. Maybe sometime you'll let me show you some of the hidden ones.” I was too dazzled by the meal to make a snappy comment.

“Holy crap, dude. I didn't know you could cook,” Renee said, coming out of her room.

Darah had already picked up her job as a desk attendant at the Union and wouldn't be back until late.

“We should probably eat it before it gets cold. Dig in, ladies,” he said, handing me a plate. There was definitely enough food for about twelve people. “I hope you don't mind, but I invited Mase over. Dev and Sean might come, too.”

So that was why he made so much. I couldn't really stop him from having his friends over, but I didn't want our apartment turning into a frat house with beer cans everywhere and strange girls sneaking out in the morning from one-night-stands on our couch. Yuck and ew.

“Fine with me,” Renee said, piling her plate with strawberries and cream and only one piece of French toast.

What was it with girls being afraid to eat in front of guys? I'd never had that fear, so I loaded my plate up. Just as I was about to plunge my fork into the French toast and unleash the Nutella-y goodness, there was a knock at the door. I had to hand it to them, at least they hadn't just barged in. 

Hunter opened the door, and Mase and Dev came in. 

“What are you making? It smells fantastic,” Mase said, going right for the table full of food. 

“I made this on Taylor's request. She doubted my cooking skills, so I had to show her what I've got.”

“You should never doubt Hunter when he brags about something. Most of the time if he's bad at something, he just won't talk about it. If he's bragging, it means he's telling the truth,” Mase said, grabbing a fork and shoveling French toast onto a napkin. 

“Do you want a plate?” I said.

“Naw, I'm good like this. Then you don't have to wash an extra.”

How considerate. Dev was more cautious, asking me where the plates were and waiting until everyone else had gotten their fill before taking what was left, which wasn't much. Sean followed suit. There weren't enough chairs, so we crashed on the couch and the living room floor like we had the night before with the pizza.

Choruses of “oh my God,” “mmm,” and “dear sweet Jesus” were interspersed with loud chewing and swallowing. Other than that, the conversation was nonexistent.

Okay, okay, I had to admit it. Hunter hit it out of the park. French toast was one of those foods that seemed easy to make, but was crazy easy to screw up. He'd overstuffed the middle with so much Nutella that it oozed out when I cut it with my fork and dripped down my chin when I bit it. I wiped it off and licked my finger. Hunter was watching me, as if waiting for my reaction.

“It's okay, I guess,” I said, cutting up another piece and shoving it in my mouth. He raised his eyebrows and took a bite of his own, chewing slowly. 

Sweet Christ it was like I'd died and gone to breakfast heaven. I really hoped he wouldn't use his cooking skills as leverage for sexual favors. For this, I might have to give in.

“I think we need to have a toast,” Renee said, raising her glass. Well, it was really a plastic cup. None of us had brought champagne glasses with us when we moved in. 

“To hidden talents,” she said.

We all clinked our glasses. Hunter winked when ours met. I wrinkled my nose at him.

“If you guys are going to eat like this every night, I might have to move in,” Mase said. “All we have is microwave popcorn, beer and week-old fried chicken that no one remembers buying.”

I shuddered, as did Renee.

“My ex-boyfriend never stocked his fridge. I always had to bring my own groceries when I stayed over,” Renee said, emphasizing the word, “ex.” As if everyone hadn't caught it.

“I think it's a guy thing,” I said.

“Not every guy,” Hunter said.

“Apparently not,” I responded.

My phone vibrated with a text from my mother, and I excused myself to chat with her. Hunter gave me a questioning look, but I hit call, put the phone to my ear and ignored him. 

“Hey, Kid, long time no talk! I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere,” she said as I settled onto my bed to chat.

“Nope, sorry to disappoint. I'm alive and well. Sorry I haven't called you. Things have been a little nuts.”

“How did moving in go?”

I gave her a quick rundown. I felt like I needed to record myself telling the story so I could just hit play when someone asked. I left out a lot when I gave her the mom-version. I didn't want to worry her. She always worried about me more than Tawny. I wasn't sure if it was because I was the baby or because of my issues. Perhaps both.

“Oh, no.” She proceeded to urge me to go right down to housing and give them hell. I told her that was what I had done, but hadn't gotten anywhere. 

“Well, I'm going to call and give them a piece of my mind. That's ridiculous that they won't do anything. They're just being lazy. Hang on,” she said, and I could tell she was putting me on speaker so she could look up the number.

“Mom, it's okay. I'll deal. You don't have to fight the bullies for me.”

“But I'm your mother. I'll always want to beat the crap out of people who are mean to you.”

“No one was mean to me. It's fine.” I was beginning to regret telling her. Mom was always trying to make up for not protecting me that one time. She'd been making up for it since I was twelve, and I didn't know when it was going to end, or at least lower in intensity. I loved her more than I could say, but I didn’t need her to fight my battles for me.

“Are you sure? You know I can make things happen.”

It was true. That woman could talk her way in or out of anything. She had this way of making people believe what she wanted them to. In another life I thought she would have been a lawyer.

“I know you can and I love you for it. I've just gotta deal with it, okay? How about we talk about something else. How's work?”

 She was reluctant to leave the topic, but switched for my sake. We chatted for a few more minutes while she told me funny stories about her coworkers at the bank and silly customers who couldn't understand how to use a debit card. She’d worked her way up at a local bank from teller to manager. I chatted a bit about my classes and told her about my job search. Nothing heavy, nothing serious.

“Your father called today,” Mom said, casting a dark cloud over our chat.

“What did he have to say?”

“Not much, he said he wanted to see you soon.”

He said that every time he called. My parents had gotten divorced when I was thirteen, and he lived in Connecticut now, which wasn’t far enough, in my opinion. He called me every now and then, but I always deleted his voicemails.

“I'm sure he does.”

“You should go and see him. I know he misses you.”

“If he missed me, he'd come to see me.”

“I know, Kid. I know.” She sighed, and I twisted my hair around one finger.

“Listen, I'll call you this weekend and we can talk more, okay?”

“Okay, Kid. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I hung up and sat back on my pillows, closing my eyes. A soft knock made me sit up. “What do you want?” I knew it would be Hunter. The door cracked open, and he poked his head in.

“Just wanted to let you know the guys are gone, and Renee went to the library to get some reading, done, so if you wanted some privacy you didn't have to hide in here.”

Renee already had massive amounts of reading since she was a nursing major. She also had a sick obsession with gory descriptions of diseases. 

“Where are you going to be?” I said.

“Where do you want me to be?” His smirk was back.

“Wherever I'm not,” I said, getting off my bed and pushing past him into the living room. I really didn't have any homework that had to get done tonight, so I decided to finish the book he'd so rudely distracted me from reading that morning.

I got out my e-reader and folded myself on the couch. I had to use my left hand to hold it because my right was still recovering from the encounter with Hunter’s face. I should probably have put some more ice on it, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.