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Ambrose
Albert Einstein was interested in the relativity of time. He noted that time stretches or compresses according to our experience of it—think of the endless minute before a microwave pings, for example, compared to the way a week-long vacation gallops by in a rush.
Privately, I have reached my own conclusion: there is no slower measurement of time than the week between my tutoring sessions with Lane Rhodes.
Kissing lessons. That’s what she asked me for.
Kissinglessons. What on earth?
I’ve barely slept since. Food tastes like cardboard in my mouth; sounds are muffled as I walk across campus and sit in seminars. The week passes in a dull, endless plod of work and study and the campus gym, where I pound out my nightly frustrations on the treadmill, staring dead-eyed at the silent game show playing on the TV screens.
Kissing lessons.
I refuse to believe that Lane Rhodes has not been able to kiss whoever she wants. A young woman like that, with her beauty and intelligence and wit… she could pick anyone. Anyone, and they’d fall to their knees in gratitude.
So has she never wanted anyone before? Is that it?
But why change her mind now? Is this some kind of prank? Or is there someone she likes on campus? Someone she wants to… prepare for?
My feet thud against the treadmill late on Wednesday night, my bones rattling from the impact. Air burns in my lungs. Sweat soaks my t-shirt and trickles down my temples, and I’m pushing too hard, but this makes no sense.Lanemakes no sense.
Why me?
Why kissing lessons?
The gym is empty except for two male students over by the free weights. They’re one-upping each other, chests puffed out with testosterone, talking loudly about drinking and parties and protein and sports. Inhaling sharply, I prod a button on the treadmill to increase the slope.
Need to tune out those idiots.
Need to tune outLane.
Need to stop thinking altogether. Fuck, I’m exhausted. If there were an off-button for my brain, I’d press it in a blink.
The gym is quiet except for the clatter of weights, the faint throb of the radio, and the rhythmic thud of my steps on the treadmill. It smells like sweat and deodorant in here, though someone has thankfully wedged a window open, and a salty breeze rolls in from the nearby coast.
Kissing lessons.
I won’t do it. I can’t. What kind of arrangement is that? I’m supposed to be a tutor, not a—a gigolo. And Lane would surely come to regret it; she’d feel bad about it and associate those feelings withme. I won’t set myself up for a fall like that.
Astrophysics is fine. Astrophysics is safe. Tomorrow we’ll talk about science, and I’ll send Lane back to her dorm unkissed. She’ll thank me for it one day.
A dull thud echoes through the gym—a weight dropped to the floor. One of the bros bursts out laughing, and I shake my head slightly, blinking the sweat from my eyes. How long have I been running? An hour? A week?
Is it time to meet Lane yet?
Need to douse myself in an ice cold shower before that time comes, and to give myself yet another strict lecture:there will be no kissing lessons.
* * *
Thursday evening in the library is dark and quiet, with the building lit mainly by pools of light from desk lamps. Lines of desks hug the walls around the stacks, where stressed students hunch over their laptops in a sea of snacks, the sickly, pale glow from their screens washing the color from their faces.
It’s good that Lane chose here for our third session. A public place. Although—I’d prefer more witnesses to keep me honest. As it is, I find Lane at an isolated desk on the third floor, her workspace a single pool of golden light in the gloom.
Pages rustle and laptop keys tap nearby, so therearepeople on this floor. But they’re invisible, wrapped up in their own worlds, sucked into their private study sessions.
“Hi.” Lane smiles shyly when I reach her, tucking her blonde hair behind one ear. A pen taps against her notepad. “You came.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Of course I came. Your parents paid me to be here.”
