“What are you doing?” I ask, annoyed that he’s making me speak to him.
“Valerie posted a video over the weekend of her and her shitty friends destroying your purse after you left it at the party. I figured you’d need a new one.” He pauses to look over at Melina, who is still standing there. “You can go.”
Melina gapes at him, clearly stunned. This is not the contrite behavior of a cheating boyfriend who has been caught. Not only is he not shunning me, he’s…
I’m actually not sure what the fuck he’s doing, but neither is Melina, and she’s much more confused about it than I am.
Still, the king told her to go away, so despite her clear reluctance, she shuffles back to her desk.
“Bag number two,” Hunter says, putting another, smaller purse on my desk. “Kate Spade. Same deal. Not that expensive, but I thought it looked like something you’d like.”
I’m gonna have to disagree with him on that. I consider Kate Spade pretty pricey, but I don’t comment.
“Now, this is the one I like best.” He puts a black shopping bag on my desk with CHANEL emblazoned across it. “Seems the most like your style. I got you a wallet to go with it. I assumed Valerie probably dumped out the contents of yours, so I put some cash in there for you, too. If I underestimated how much cash you had on hand, just let me know and I’ll give you more.”
My face is beat red. At this point, everyone in class is watching. The teacher has noticed, but while every single thing I do is wrong, she doesn’t say a word about Hunter putting on a show in her classroom.
“I don’t need your money, or your purses,” I tell him, keeping my voice low.
Hiking up an eyebrow, he asks, “Don’t you want to at least see what I picked out for you before you reject it?”
Dammit, I do.
It’s not so much the purse as my curiosity about what Hunter thinks I’d like. What he would pick out for me.
When I don’t take the bait, he opens the bag himself and pulls out a lovely blue tweed purse. It’s small, but perfectly big enough for me. The $14 Wal-Mart special I brought to Valerie’s house was really too big for me; I barely had anything to put in it.
This one is perfect.
And beautiful.
I’m not a big purse person. Not that I have anything against them, it’s just that we live on a tight budget, so I don’t have money to spend on extravagant purses, or even extra purses. Other than the one I brought with me to Valerie’s house that night, the only handbag I own is a tiny black one that I bought on clearance for $4. I don’t alternate handbags; I wear them out, then keep them for another month or so before I finally cave and buy a new one.
This Chanel bag, though… Wow.
I wish I could keep it.
I also wish the bag and I didn’t have an audience so I could open it up and look inside, but I can’t express any interest in the lovely purse. Not in front of Hunter. I don’t want him to think I’ll take his bribe.
Without waiting for me to comment, he reaches into the shopping bag and grabs a small wallet in a different material, but the same shade of blue. As if giving a demonstration, he holds up the wallet, opens the flap of the tweed purse, and tucks it inside.
“So, which one do you like best?”
“The Chanel.”
He smiles. “Good.”
“But I’m not accepting it. Or any of them.” Grabbing the purse out of his hand, I shove it back into the shopping bag and hand it to him. “Kindly take your things and get away from me.”
I hear someone whisper, “Is she crazy?” but I ignore the peanut gallery and Hunter. Once my desk is clear of shopping bags, I go back to my book and pretend he’s not there.
“You’re allowed to accept the bag, Riley,” Hunter says, his tone no longer that of a showman. He’s trying to reason with me. “It’s my fault your last purse was destroyed. I should’ve grabbed it when you left without it, but I was a little distracted.”
“I can buy my own purses,” I tell him. “Valerie is the one who owes me a new bag, anyway, not you.”
“Yeah, well… carry this one around in front of her and really piss her off,” he suggests, a hint of roguish amusement in his tone.
I shake my head, but don’t respond.
He stands there for a moment, waiting. When he accepts that I’m not swayed by the gifts he bought me, he gathers up the bags, but he slides them beneath my desk, not his.
“I told you, I don’t want them,” I say without looking up.
Without acknowledging I’ve said anything, he asks, “What are you reading?”
“Tolstoy.”
“That’s not for this class, is it?” he asks, glancing at the surrounding desks to see if anyone else has a copy.
“Nope.”
“Just a little light reading, huh?”
I focus harder, though I can’t digest a single word on the page. I don’t want him to know that, so I let my eyes travel across each line like I’m fully absorbed in the story and totally not distracted by him at all.
“Still not talking to me, huh?”
I say nothing.
“That’s not very nice,” he says.
My blood pressure shoots way up, but I can tell by his coaxing tone, that’s the response he wants. He doesn’t care if I yell at him for his audacity—I’ll still be speaking to him. Feeling things at him, even if it’s anger.
Nope. He’s not getting a rise out of me.
Crossing his arms and leaning forward as if letting me in on a secret, he says, “I’m supposed to be the mean one, you know.”
My eyes narrow on the page, but with some effort, I continue to hold my tongue.
“You’re the kind, considerate one,” he goes on. “I don’t mean to pigeonhole you, but without your calming influence in my life, God knows what I’ll get up to.”
That feels like an oh-so-subtle threat. He’s putting a nice, coaxing face on it because he’d rather be playful than wrathful, but… well, he’s flexible.
Still, I ignore him.
“Wasn’t it your buddy Tolstoy that said ‘Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the company of intelligent women’?”
I finally look up at him, reluctantly impressed. “Your behavior is not my responsibility. And don’t think you can just buy me purses and quote Tolstoy at me and I’ll like you again.”
“Didn’t you get the flowers? I sent flowers, too.”
“Yes. I threw them away.”
“How ’bout the teddy bear?”
“Decapitated,” I lie.
“Ouch.” Hunter shakes his head, but seems undeterred as he finally takes his seat.
The teacher hasn’t said anything about his antics, but she has stood up and she’s looking in our direction. I guess he figures he’ll sit down before she has to.
Once he’s in his seat, he says, “That’s fine. I’ll just send more. Do you not like roses?”
“I don’t want flowers,” I tell him, flipping to the next page of my novel, intent on ignoring him.
“Then what do you want?” he asks.
“Peace and quiet so I can read until class starts.”