Every day this week, I go to the library to work on my story during Student Mastery Hour. And every day, Dylan is there. At first, he pretends like he’s not at all interested in what I’m doing. He just casually stops by my table a few times, asking how things are coming along. But by the end of the week, he’s spending almost the entire period hunched over my laptop with me, pitching out ideas, helping me research, suggesting possible leads.
At first, I was reluctant to let him help, given that he’s still at the top of my suspect list, but he did kind of give me my first big break in the story. Plus, if he is the culprit, I’ll want to keep him close, right?
I don’t only work on the cheating story. I start brainstorming and fleshing out other stories as well. After all, if I’m going to put out an entire newspaper, I need more than just a front page. And Dylan actually has some really good ideas for articles.
On the following Monday, when the chime rings signaling the end of the second Student Mastery Hour, Dylan says, “I had a thought.”
I snicker. “Did it hurt?”
He rolls his eyes. “I think I might have another way to figure out who’s behind the test stealing. Do you want to meet for coffee after last period?”
The idea of spending time outside of school with Dylan is not exactly appealing to me, but I admit I’m intrigued by what he has in mind.
“Okay,” I agree. “Where?”
“There’s a little coffee shop on the other end of town. Near the public school. It’s called Peabody’s. Do you know it?”
I nod, feeling a lump form in my throat. “I know it.”
“Great,” he says. “I’ll meet you there at five.”
* * *
Sequoia drives me home that afternoon and I walk to Peabody’s. The place is packed, but I find Dylan sitting at a quieter table in the back.
He heads to the counter to order us some coffees and pastries while I boot up my laptop. I glance around the small coffee shop, a knot instantly forming in my stomach when I remember that this is the place. This is where Laney and Austin went together the morning before I caught them in the basement. Laney told me she was catching an early ride with her dad so that she could work on her newspaper story when actually she was here with him. How many more times did they come here together? Was it every morning for three whole months? Where did they sit? At this very table? Did they kiss while waiting in line for their coffees? Did they feed each other bites of muffin? Did they …
Stop, I command myself. Let it go. You have other things to worry about. Things that are happening now. In this life.
I blink and focus back on my laptop screen. Checking to make sure Dylan is still waiting on our coffees, I log in to my secret email account. The one I used to send the sting email to the test thief. The inbox is still empty.
That’s over a week.
What is taking so long?
Why hasn’t he responded?
Maybe because he’s been hanging out with you, my inner voice says. I look up to see Dylan returning to the table with a tray and quickly close the window.
Dylan takes the seat next to me so he can see my screen. He’s a little too close for my comfort. I can smell his amazing citrusy shampoo again.
He sets my Pumpkin Spice Latte in front of me and takes a big swig of his black coffee. The scent of it immediately masks all evidence of his shampoo and I’m reminded of the morning before I caught Austin and Laney kissing.
His breath smelled like coffee.
And so did hers.
A familiar pang of frustration wells up inside me. I should have put together the clues. I’m a journalist, for heaven’s sake. All the pieces were there. I was just too blind or stupid, or both, to see them.
I suddenly wish I had suggested another location to Dylan. This place is suffocating me with the memories of their betrayal.
“So, this is what I think we should do,” Dylan begins, taking a bite of muffin.
I come out of my reverie and instinctively scoot my chair away.
“Sorry,” Dylan says, wiping his mouth. “Am I chewing too loudly? My mom says I have a problem with that.”
I laugh. “I don’t remember you being so concerned about it when you were crunching carrots in my face.”
He nods and sips his coffee. “Ah, well, that was back when I still thought you were captain of the zombies. I had to take preventive measures.”
“Captain of the zombies? I thought it was queen of the zombies.”
He cracks a smile. “Don’t worry. The positions are interchangeable.”
“But you don’t think that about me anymore?”
He swallows his mouthful of muffin, looking pensive. “Hmm. Jury’s still out on that one. Check back with me tomorrow.”
I slap him with the backside of my hand.
He throws his arms up in surrender. “Hey, I’m just following the evidence.”
“What evidence?” I challenge in a mocking tone.
“Let’s see.” He drops the muffin and dusts crumbs off his fingers so he can count on them. “Top of the class. Student fund-raising captain. Member of all the clubs.”
“I’m not a member of all the clubs,” I interject.
He ignores me and keeps counting. “Immaculate uniform.”
I glance down at my gray skirt, white blouse, and blazer. “What’s wrong with my uniform?”
“What’s wrong with your uniform?” he echoes. “Where do I start? Your shirt is perfectly pressed and tucked in. Your blazer looks like you lint-roll it daily. Your socks are never slouched. And your skirt is…” He reaches out and touches the gray fabric, his fingertips grazing my bare skin.
For some reason, this little action sends a shiver through me. Even though his hands are warm. Surprisingly warm.
He tilts his head and studies me for a moment, almost as though he can sense my reaction. I play it off quickly by continuing my act of annoyance. “What’s wrong with my skirt?”
But he doesn’t answer right away. I lift my eyes to meet his and suddenly our gazes lock. Involuntarily. Unexpectedly. Irreversibly.
He clears his throat and looks away. “It’s … um, very clean.”
“Would you rather it be filthy and wrinkled like your uniform?”
“Yes,” he replies. “Yes, I would.”
“Fine.” I reach for the pastry on the tray in front of us, run my fingertip through the chocolate cream filling, and smear it across my lap.
Dylan stares at me with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape.
“Happy now?” I grin.
It takes him a while to reply. But when he does, he says, “Yes. And admittedly a little turned on.”