The low humming and blowing of the AC was deafening. Organizing and reorganizing my note sheets to drone out the machine had had only temporary success. I had arrived early at the library to snatch one of the small group work rooms and messaged John where to find me. The library was eerily silent on a Saturday at 9 am. I had already switched my seat twice, considering whether it was more awkward to face the see-through glass door and look like I had been waiting for him—even though I had—or to turn my back toward it. Finally, I had opted for a sideways chair and was debating switching again when the faint creak of the door handle being pushed down made me jump out of my seat.

"Hey, good morning," John rasped, voice heavy with the same sleepiness his tired eyes bore witness to.

I reciprocated his greeting, then raised my eyebrows. "Party too hard last night?"

There was no humor in his laugh. "Oh yeah, Patrick Henry and I had a wild night."

My eyes involuntarily fell to my laptop screen. "Speeches of Patrick Henry in the Virginia State Ratifying Convention" stared at me in large, black font. I cringed. He had been doing the readings. Ugh, I'm an idiot. What person suggested a study group at 9 am on a weekend? And then insults their study partner as their first official act?

Clearing my throat, I scratched the back of my neck with the end of my pen as John unpacked his laptop and notepad. "You said you were struggling with the readings?"

"Weren't you? I read the speeches so many times the letters started blurring together on the screen, but I still don't understand what he's going on about. Is there a 21st century English translation perchance? I don't know how I'll pass the quiz on Tuesday otherwise."

I pressed my lips together in a sympathetic smile.

"We read Beowulf in senior English in high school."

"Fuck," he groaned, covering his face with his large hands, "we read that, too. Don't remind me."

A smile snuck onto my lips. His exasperation was cute. —What the hell, Grace? Stop that right now. I reminded myself that he was a trust fund baby and I was only here because he needed help and I owed him for misjudging him the first day of class—even if he had no idea I had done that.

"What I mean is: nothing is worse than Middle English, so this colonial English will be a piece of cake."

His face contorted in a grimace. "I'm not sure I share your optimism, but okay, let's go."

After an hour of working through Patrick Henry's opposition to the proposed constitution and his musings on the necessary virtue of the people, John began to sigh more and more and let his gaze wander around the cubicle. When the desk started quaking along with his bouncing knee, I suggested taking a break which he gladly accepted.

Pushing his notepad far away from him, he sighed and reached for his teal Nalgene bottle. His Adam's apple bobbed as he took a long swig. The local farm apple I had taken from the dining hall at breakfast crunched under my teeth, my mouth suddenly dry.

"How do you do it?" he blurted.

My forehead wrinkled and I crossed my legs beneath my black skater skirt. "Eat an apple?"

"No, you joker. Deal with this." He gestured toward the sheets of paper sprawled out across the white wooden desk, each covered in notes front and back.

I shrugged. "I don't understand it all. Many things I'll only get, or even see, when we discuss them in class."

A heavy breath escaped his nostrils. "For someone who doesn't understand it all, you have a lot to say about it."

I stopped chewing and rapidly blinked twice. "Excuse me?" Had I just spent an hour of my free time helping him with homework for him to tell me to shut up?

The shift in attitude did not go unnoticed. "No, no, no," he assuaged, "that was supposed to be a compliment. You're smart. And you're a good teacher."

After a moment of scanning his face, I raised my eyebrows and took another bite of my apple. "Funny way of complimenting people you have." The heat rose in my cheeks regardless.

"You're more confident in a classroom setting than outside of it, aren't you?"

The sip of water I had just taken went down the wrong pipe, making me cough and flush.

"I'm just saying. You were so nervous when we talked the other day at the gym but when you talk about academic stuff, you're calm and collected."

Thanks for reminding me. "You were more comfortable at the gym than in class."

John shrugged one shoulder and smiled.

Awkward silence threatened to settle, so I blurted: "Where are you from, anyway?"

"Westchester." Why had I even bothered asking? Westchester County was the just-outside-of-Boston of New York. Of course he was from Westchester. "You?"

"Southern Maine."

His face lit up. "We went there on summer vacation one year when I was in middle school. I loved it. You don't live on an island, do you?"

A chuckle slipped from my lips. "No. I don't even live right on the coast, but the ocean is only a thirty-minute drive away."

"Do you miss it when you're here, the ocean?"

I nodded. "Do you miss the city when you're here?"

"Not really. New York is cool but I like the countryside, too. Honestly, I could live anywhere."

"But you live in the suburbs." I couldn't imagine living in suburbia. I was a New England country gal through and through.

"My dad works in the city. He's a district attorney. My mom was a paralegal and that's how they met. My grandpa, my dad's dad, was a lawyer and my great-grandpa was a solicitor."

I bobbed my head knowingly, pretending to know the difference but, curiously, still hanging on his every word.

"My brother went to law school, too, but he's currently in corporate. Wants to see how the bad guys work before he switches to the D.A. or U.S. Attorney's office."

"Whoa, a whole dynasty. Will you be continuing the tradition?" Why was I entertaining this bougie conversation? Even worse, why was I interested?

He exhaled forcefully and looked away. The wry smile on his face spoke volumes. "No. Ever the disappointment."

My mouth opened to say something—what, I wasn't sure—but his gaze snapped to mine again. "What do your parents do?"

My chin jutted upward. "My dad owns a small carpentry business."

As every time I would tell someone what my parents did, I got this strange feeling in my chest. On the one hand, it puffed because I was proud of everything my dad and Grampa had achieved with the business despite their humble background. On the other hand, it deflated because there was no bling to the story. The latter sensation threatened to tip the scale now that carpentry was directly compared to lawyering.

Not that that was a new experience for me. People at this college came from money. They had gone to private prep schools and their families paid the $70,000 tuition and room and board out of pocket. People like John did not have to take out loans or work through the summer to fund his expensive education. So from people like John, I expected the usual pitiful 'oh' or dismissive glance, or even phony interest at my family's working class background. Instead, he surprised me yet again.

"Oh, that's awesome! Running a business is hard work. I respect that a lot."

"You do?" Was there a hidden camera somewhere?

"Of course."

Was this a scheme? Was he setting me up? Or could it be that he was being sincere?

"Does your mom help out, too?"

My face fell. "Um." Wrong question. "No, she doesn't live with us." But he couldn't have known.

His own expression mirrored mine. "Oh, I'm—Is she..."

I looked at him quizzically.

The whites of his eyes grew as his eyes widened and made his hazel irises with their specks of gold stand out even more. His Adam's apple bobbed. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business. Please forget I asked."

I considered letting him believe it for a millisecond, but not even I was that unforgiving. "It's okay. She's a dental assistant in Massachusetts. She's not dead, they're just divorced." 'Just'. If only it were as simple and painless as that sounded.

A deep breath slipped from John's lips as his shoulders slumped forward. "Oh, thank god. I'm so sorry. That was insensitive." He ran one hand from his forehead to his chin. "Before I say more stupid things, should we call it a day? My brain is fried anyway."

Pulling his chair back, he began to assemble his notes into a neat stack.

"Oh, um, sure, we can."

"Thanks so much again for your patience with trying to get Patrick Henry into my thick skull. I really appreciate it." His backpack came to rest on his lap as he packed up his notepad and pen.

Just when I was beginning to tolerate his company, he had to up and leave abruptly. A similar thought must have crossed his mind, because he paused and looked at me. "Hey, would you..." His voice trailed off. "Never mind, dumb idea."

John Jay sure knew how to intrigue me. "You know good and well you can't start asking me something and then not follow through. What is it?"

"You're stubborn."

I scoffed, then mirrored the crooked grin on his face. "I prefer 'persistent'."

A low chuckle escaped his throat. The goosebumps which formed on my forearms were hard to ignore. "Fine. Would you want to come to a soccer party at our suite tonight?" My frown led him to quickly add: "It's really low key, I promise. I'd like it if you came."

Before I knew what I was doing, I heard myself say: "Okay."

John's face lit up and I noticed his dimples for the first time. Together with the gleam in his eyes, they made him look like a little boy in a toy store. "Awesome. I'll DM you the suite number."

What the hell had I just agreed to?