“Thanks. Can we not mention the exhibition anymore?”
“Definitely.”
Cinna reaches past me and squeezes Aubrey’s knee. “You’ll get in next time. Your work is too good.”
“Obviously.” Aubrey takes a long sip of her coffee, and I can tell the vulnerability cost her something.
I pull out my phone to check the time, mostly to have something to do with my hands, and my stomach drops.
“Shit.”
“What?” Cinna asks.
“I’m late. I’m so late.” I’m already standing, grabbing my bag, doing the mental math of how fast I can get across campus.
Cinna looks confused. “You don’t have class right now. At least, you didn’t last week.”
“Last week, yeah. But I do now. It’s a whole mess.” I’m walking backward, which is definitely going to end with me tripping over a cobblestone, but I don’t have time to explain properly. “Long story short, I thought I was enrolled in Women in Art History. Went to lectures the whole first week. Turned in the first assignment. The professor finally checked the roster and was like, ‘Who are you?’”
Cinna’s hand flies to her mouth. “Oh no.”
“I was never enrolled like I thought I was. Just showing up like an idiot. But I need a full schedule for my scholarship, and Women in Art History is full, so I had to find something else that fit my requirements and my schedule. And I needed a professor willing to let me join three weeks late.”
I suck in air because I haven’t been breathing.
Aubrey snorts. “What class?”
“Gotta go! Talk later!”
I wave and then break into a jog, leaving Cinna and Aubrey on the bench, their laughter fading behind me as I race toward Morrison Hall.
It takes about ten minutes to reach the steps, then I’m sprinting toward the doors, almost colliding with a guy coming out. Then I race through the halls, basically skidding to a stop outside the classroom.
Take a breath.
I slip through the door as quietly as humanly possible, which is not quiet at all because the door has a creak that could wake the dead.
Professor Whitman pauses mid-sentence, her eyes locking on me as she flashes a look of disappointment that only tenure can perfect. She’s a tall woman, with silver and black hair pulled into a low bun. And she wears a lot of chunky turquoise jewelry.She doesn’t say anything, just lets the silence stretch long enough to make my face burn, then continues her lecture like I haven’t interrupted her flow.
Great. Making enemies with the teacher on my first day here? Check.
I scan the room for an empty seat. The class is full, about twenty students arranged at wide worktables designed for hands-on projects. Every seat is taken except one.
One seat. In the entire room.
Next to Dorien.
He looks up at the same moment I spot him, and I watch the surprise flash on his face. His eyebrows lift, his mouth parts slightly, and for one absurd second we just stare at each other like two people who’ve walked into the wrong party and realized it at the same time.
I swallow and force my chin to lift because I don’t have a choice. I’m falling apart on the inside with pure shock and disbelief, but the alternative is standing here like an idiot until Whitman kicks me out entirely. I square my shoulders and force my legs to move. Soon, I’m sliding into the seat beside him.
We exchange quick nods, the kind of acknowledgement you give a stranger on public transit, not the boy you’ve known since childhood and spent the last decade pretending doesn’t affect you.
My heart is pounding against my ribs, and my palms have decided now is a great time to get clammy. I set my laptop on the table and focus very hard on opening it, on finding a blank document, on doing anything that doesn’t involve looking at Dorien or thinking about the fact I’m going to be sitting next to him for the rest of the semester.
This is fine. This is completely fine.
I close my eyes for a second.Ugh, no it isn’t fine. This is the opposite of what I needed.
