College Ruled

twenty-three

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THE SNOW storm lasts two days.

By Tuesday, the peeling sky has calmed into a dull gray. Thick snowflakes are traded for sporadic sleet and light flurries. The soft blankets of snow, inches deep, covering the road burn bright under the dull, hidden sun.

After my Women's Literature professor canceled class yesterday, I spent the remainder of the day cramming in research for my philosophy class. Between the three energy drinks I'd guzzled down—despite Grayson's judgment and impromptu speech about my health—and the fact that my spine was once again stiff from another night on the loveseat, I managed to get less than three hours of sleep.

I'd hoped to spend today catching up on that. Maybe even convince Grayson to let me take a much needed nap in the wonderful confines of his bed.

But Professor Barlowe had other plans.

"Who the fuck doesn't cancel class in this weather?"

Standing across from me with a butter knife in his hand and a jar of peanut butter open on the counter in front of him, Grayson looks almost as tired as me.

It's my fault, I'm sure. I was up late sitting at his desk. And while I made sure to only use the light of my laptop—which proved ridiculously difficult when trying to squint at the packet of philosophy papers spread on his desk in front of me—I have a mild inkling that I unintentionally kept him up. He tossed and turned for hours while I worked, but every time I would whisper 'are you awake' or 'do you need me to go somewhere else' the silence in the room would be deafening.

"I've told you before," I say, taking another bite of the last blueberry muffin before abandoning it on the counter, "he's a hard ass."

        "Or just an ass," Grayson grumbles under his breath as I squeeze by him on my way out the kitchen. "Where are you going?"

"Class." Grabbing my winter jacket off the hook by the door, I shove it over my flannel—the flannel I've unofficially stolen from Grayson—and stuff my feet into my discarded, muddy Docs.

I have one hand on my bag and one on the doorknob, pulling it open, when Grayson's hand falls on the door to slap it back shut with a slam.

"You're not going out in that."

I raise my eyebrows. "Sorry?"

"You're forgiven." He leans against the front door, arms crossed, lips quirked. "Now, what do you want to do today? Sleep? Or, let me guess, more studying?"

Narrowing my eyes up at him, I stick my jaw out. "What I want is to go to class."

When he doesn't immediately move, I drop my bag and place both hands on his bicep to shove him out of the way. Or, attempt to. Because of course he doesn't fucking budge.

"Now." Shove. "Please." Shove. "Move." Shove.

        By shove number four I've maxed out my exercise for the week.

        "You can't seriously tell me you're planning on driving on that sheet of ice out there."

       "It's not ice" —I crane my neck to peek out the glass window of the front door— "it's snow." Thick, fluffy snow. Nothing a decent four wheel drive couldn't handle.

        If I was even planning on driving. Which I'm not. I don't own a car. Chris doesn't like to let me drive hers after that one time I came back with a scratch on the bumper. And Leyla already left for some journalism seminar.