What I Should Have Done ✓

Chapter 5

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."