𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐘

[05] Confident Words

c o n f i d e n t  w o r d s
CONRAD'S POV:

I let go of her wrist once we reach my car, and the sudden loss of contact makes me flex my hand a few times. Why am I doing this? Why did I feel the need to stick my foot out to trip her? Why Why Why? That's when I realize I'm thinking of Covey's paper from the other day. The reasons. The Whys. Dammit.

"Woah," she says when I open the door for her to get in. "I think I'll marry your car, okay?" It's an all-black 1978 King Cobra Mustang with rustic orange-red trim.

"In your dreams." I scoff as I walk back around to the driver's side. When I get in, I say, "Don't touch anything. And put your seatbelt on."

"Okay dad," she grumbles, rolling her eyes at me.

Dad—daddy—fuck, I need to stop.

We ride in silence for a few minutes because I don't dare to start a conversation, but she breaks it, saying, "I don't like when everything is quiet. It's too awkward, especially with you."

I snort. Wait, did I just snort?

"Oh my god, you almost laughed again!" she points out. "One day, Conrad, one day."

The campus is only three minutes away, but I pull over to the side of the road before we reach the entrance. "They can't see me with a student, can you walk?"

"Duh, I have legs," she says, crossing her eyes and blowing up her cheeks. Then she laughs. "Thank you for the ride."

"See you Monday."

"Unless you pull me to your lap again sometime before then—oh, that sounds bad," she backtracks, slapping her hands to her mouth. "Okay, see you Monday, Coco."

"Conr—"

"Coco Puff." Then she's out of the car and trotting her way down the path and onto campus.

******

On Monday I walk into the lecture hall as soon as the clock hits 10:00 a.m. It's the same run-around motion. Same boring routine. I have with me a novel in my hand, one of the classics—The Great Gatsby. An American novel of historical fiction from the Roaring Twenties, a decade of a get-rich-quick mindset and unrealistic fantasies. And optimism. I hate optimism.

I clear my throat, turning the book over in my hands. "Nick Carraway. Daisy Buchanan. Myrtle the Mistress. Jay Gatz." I hold up the piece of literature to the air so everyone can see the cover. "The Great Gatsby is one of the finest books in all of literature. I understand this is a writing course, but in order to write great work you must read great work. I will be assigning you all to have this book read with a two-page summary by the end of the week."

The class groans. So what? I scan the crowd only to see Covey smiling brightly as per usual. Someone please wipe it off her face.

"Has anyone here read The Great Gatsby and would like to share their opinion?" I ask, raising one of my eyebrows.

Margot Lee raises her hand.

"Go ahead, Miss Lee."

"In all honesty, Professor, I think it's confusing," she states, moving a hand with overexaggerated gestures. "The way Fitzgerald writes is almost too descriptive, and you can't tell what he's saying half the time."

I nod but internally I'm laughing at her shallowness. "Thank you for your observations. Anyone care to counter that statement?"

"I think the way The Great Gatsby was written reflected the era in which it was set in perfectly," blurts none other than Covey Jensen. Oh, Cove.