It isn’t unusual for students to come in late, but most kids wouldn’t bother coming in for the last thirteen minutes of a class. Somehow I know it’s Max, even before I look up.
Of course, Max—who doesn’t do anything discreetly—throws open both of the doors with enough force that they bang loudly. Half the students turn to look when I do.
Because I rely heavily on visual presentations, the lecture hall is dark except for the lit area on the dais where I am. So there’s a long moment when we collectively stare at Max, backlit by the lights outside the lecture hall, his massive frame seeming to take up nearly the entire span of the double doors.
I stare for a full beat. It takes every ounce of willpower for me to not glare at him.
Because what in the proverbial handbasket is he doing here?
I muster more willpower and return my attention to the lecture.
This is content I’m familiar with. I’ve done some variation of this lecture every semester for the past four years. I know this.
And it still takes me several pounding heartbeats to get back on track.
Worse still, I falter. Several times.
At the end of a class, I should be driving home the point I’m trying to make—in this case the way Heidi Klum has smartly parlayed her initial fame as a model into a business empire. Instead, because he is watching, I stumble through the end.
Do I make my point?
Yeah. Probably.
But, darn it, why did he have to show up during my lecture about a supermodel?
Two days ago, I gave a rousing lecture about Bobby Kennedy’s seminal speech on the night Martin Luther King was assassinated. It was an insightful look at race relations and the lingering impact on politics and our nation. I brought a student to tears.
Did Max Ramsey—one of the smartest men I will probably ever meet—walk in on that talk?
No. He shows up to hear me talk about a supermodel’s Instagram feed. Just friggin’ great.
But I finish the lecture. Because this content is important. And relevant. And I don’t have to justify myself to Max Ramsey.
The timer goes off on my phone just as I’m finishing up, reminding me (and the class) that we only have a few minutes left.
I force a smile. “Obviously, I’d hoped we’d have time for questions. Since we didn’t, you all know when my office hours are.” As I turn off the projector, I remind them, “Don't forget, your speech on trending memes during the 2016 election is due by midnight tomorrow night. And I do mean midnight central time. However, I have office hours today and tomorrow if you need help.”
Most of my students pack up and head out. A few linger to talk to me. There are always a few with questions. I’m answering as best I can, but a chunk of my awareness is focused on Max, who is thumping down the stairs as my students scurry out of his way.
The guy is like a bulldozer.
Or maybe just a bull.
By the time he reaches me, my bag is packed up, I’ve turned off the projector, and I’m almost ready to leave. There’s a girl who wants to talk about the new Heidi Klum show on Amazon, but when Max scowls at her, she too flees.
He stops at the dais, right in front of me.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him outside of his lab. Instead of the white lab coat, he’s got on an ill-fitted suit jacket over a white oxford shirt. His tie is a gawd-awful paisley that someone should have thrown away a decade ago. His hair is even more disheveled than usual.
The first time we met, it had been . . . flatter. As if he’d at least made a recent effort to tame it. Now, I see that it’s wavy and thick and that when he’s not in his lab, he probably runs his hands through it.
Which shouldn’t be sexy.
No . . . wait.
Allow me to rephrase that.
It isn’t sexy.
