Chapter 40: Can’t You Read?

By two o’clock on Monday afternoon, the chemical stink of red spray paint in the library wing had been replaced by the sharp scent of fresh grey lacquer.

A two-man Facilities crew had worked for three straight hours to strip, scrub, and repaint my locker door.

Chief Reynolds had even personally stopped by the corridor to inspect the finish, assuring me in a quiet, formal tone that campus security was thoroughly investigating the "technical glitch" that had conveniently disabled the hallway cameras during the incident.

I knew better than to expect anything. Whoever had vandalised my locker had chosen their window carefully, and in a university as heavily focused on protecting its athletic reputation as Briar, a camera malfunction was the cleanest way to sweep public embarrassment under the rug.

Leaving the hallway behind, I walked out to the central quad and sat on a weathered wooden bench under the autumn maples.

The air was crisp, carrying the damp scent of fallen leaves, and I wrapped both hands around a warm paper cup of black tea just to keep my fingers from going numb.

My phone buzzed against my thigh. I pulled it out of my coat pocket, bracing myself for another screenshot from Priya or another alert from the Briar Gossip Page.

Instead, a text from Drew popped up on the glass.

Drew: Hey. Still waiting on that call. No pressure, just checking you’re okay.

I stared at the screen, a familiar, heavy knot of guilt squeezing tight in my chest.

I had promised him on Saturday morning that I would call him this week. Now it was Monday afternoon, and I hadn’t picked up the phone once.

It wasn’t because I didn’t want to hear his voice... if anything, I desperately missed the grounding sanity of home. But every time I opened his contact, I knew I couldn’t hold the lie together on a live call the way I could over a text message.

Drew knew me too well. He had known me since junior year of high school, back when we spent late nights studying for AP Chemistry at the Oakhaven Public Library or walking home together after long Saturday shifts.

If I spoke to him now, he would pick up on the slight hesitation in my voice, the exhaustion, and know something was deeply wrong within thirty seconds.

And I couldn’t tell him a single word of the truth.

Clause One of Knox’s non-disclosure contract burned behind my eyes: Nobody finds out this is fake. Nobody.

I chewed on my lower lip, typing out a quick, carefully vague reply with my thumb: I’m okay. Just insane with my schedule this week. I’ll call you Thursday, promise.

I hit send and immediately shoved the phone into the bottom of my canvas tote bag before I could watch his reply bubble appear.

Two Thursdays from now, Knox’s fake relationship would most likely still be running. I was postponing Drew indefinitely with a lie dressed up as an academic schedule, and the dishonesty sat like a stone in my stomach.

I took a long, slow sip of my cooling tea and stared out across the quad at the students walking between lectures.

’Just business,’ I reminded myself firmly. ’Four weeks. That’s all this is.’

The reminder didn’t make me feel any better.

—

At ten minutes to four, I headed down into the basement of the university library, pushing open the door to Study Room 4C.

The small, windowless study room smelled faintly of old dry-erase markers and paper dust. I pulled out my usual chair at the corner of the polished oak table, laying out my color-coded microeconomics binder, highlighters, and three printed case study worksheets.

At exactly four o’clock, the door handle turned.

Knox stepped into the room. He had swapped his hockey gear for dark jeans and a black Briar athletic hoodie, his hair brushed back from his forehead. The broad width of his shoulders instantly made the small study room feel half its size.

He pulled out the wooden chair opposite mine, sliding into it quietly.

For a long moment, neither of us said anything.

The air between us was heavy, charged with the lingering tension of our kiss at The Blue Anchor, the viral social media post, and our confrontation we had in the tunnel earlier today.

"Facilities finished the door," I said softly, breaking the silence as I opened my binder.

Knox didn’t look surprised. "I know. Reynolds texted me twenty minutes ago."

"Thank you," I said, looking across the table at him. My voice was lower this time, genuine. "Really. For taking care of it so fast."

Knox leaned back in his chair, resting his forearms against the dark wood as he watched me with a quiet, unreadable expression. "Just keeping up my end of the deal, Bennett."

I cleared my throat, forcing my eyes back down to the papers to break the weight of his stare. "Right. Microeconomics midterms are in two weeks. Today we’re covering supply elasticity, price ceilings, and cross-market price shifts."

For the next forty-five minutes, the session went remarkably well.

Just like every session we’d had so far, Knox was brilliant the moment I kept things verbal.

When I quizzed him out loud on market equilibrium formulas, price caps, and deadweight loss, his brain worked at a terrifying speed. He answered every complex theoretical scenario I threw at him without a single hesitation, breaking down market shifts in a clear, decisive tone.

He was brilliant out loud. Terrifyingly, effortlessly brilliant.

"Okay," I said, setting my pen down. "Let me test you on a real-world case study. This was pulled directly from last year’s midterm exam."

I picked up one of the printed worksheets from my stack... a dense, two-page document filled with three long paragraphs of fine, single-spaced black text outlining a corporate airline pricing structure.

I slid the paper across the table, stopping it right between his hands.

"Look at paragraph two," I said, pointing toward the top half of the sheet. "It’s on the third line; just follow along while we break down the price elasticity coefficient."

Knox didn’t move.

He sat perfectly still in his chair, his hands resting flat against the table on either side of the paper.

He didn’t pick up the worksheet. He didn’t bend over it. He didn’t even tilt his head down to look at the printed words.

He didn’t pick up the worksheet... he didn’t even tilt his head down. Instead, he kept his eyes locked squarely on my face.

I stared back at him, feeling a sudden wave of annoyance rise in my chest. We had been doing so well, but now he was reverting right back to his arrogant, infuriating habits.

He had done this at the library during our very first session, refusing to engage with the textbook and acting like reading off a page was beneath him.

"Knox," I said firmly as if speaking to a stubborn child. "Paragraph two. Third line. Stop staring at me and look at the text."

Knox didn’t blink. He didn’t touch the paper.

Then, so quietly I almost missed it over the hum of the overhead ventilation, Knox growled in a low, rough voice:

"Read it to me."

My jaw tightened. Of course. Typical Knox Sheridan. He was acting like an entitled, lazy prince who expected his paid tutor to do all the heavy lifting for him. He wanted me to spoon-feed him every single line so he didn’t have to strain himself.

Exasperated, I threw my hands up slightly and looked at him like he had lost his mind.

"Can’t you read?"