I spent my entire freshman year avoiding him, and now we’re going to be side by side twice a week for the next four months. Close enough to smell that stupid woodsmoke-and-rain scent. Close enough that if I shifted my elbow two inches to the left, we’d be touching.
I keep my elbow firmly to the right.
Dammit, four months? So much can happen in four months. A life can even change in the span of an afternoon.
Professor Whitman is discussing the philosophy behind mixed media as a discipline, something about breaking down the artificial barriers between artistic categories. I try to take notes and focus, but my brain keeps circling back to the disaster I’ve walked into. I literally had no other options. This was the only class that fit my requirements, my schedule, and had a professor willing to accept a student three weeks late. It was a minor miracle I got in at all.
A miracle that has now trapped me next to Dorien for the foreseeable future.
The rest of the lecture passes in a blur of anxiety. I catch fragments: material options are everywhere, think about conceptual cohesion when selecting materials, the importance of intentionality over randomness. Junk can become art if it’s intentional, and art can become junk if it’s done carelessly. The professor talks in a lot of extremes.
Regardless, very little of it sticks. I’m too hyper aware of Dorien, rightthere,beside me the entire time.
“For next session,” Whitman says, pulling my attention back to the front of the room, “we’ll be in the studio. I expect you all to have your first projects well underway. These are due in ten days, which means if you haven’t started, you’re already behind.”
My stomach drops. What project? I don’t know anything about this class and already I need to hustle to get some projectdone. I knew I’d be behind, but this is a little more than I’d expected.
I am so incredibly screwed.
I make a worried noise, and Dorien glances at me sideways. I keep my eyes on my laptop screen, typing nonsense, pretending I have everything under control.
When Whitman finally dismisses us, the room erupts into the usual shuffle of bags and chatter. Students stream toward the exits. I should be one of them. I should pack up and leave and not look at Dorien and justleave.
Instead, I sit here. Dorien doesn’t move either.
We both take our time packing up, moving slowly, like we’re caught in the same weird gravity. He gathers his handwritten notes, neat columns of text in dark ink, and slides them into a leather portfolio. I close my laptop like the wrong movement will make it break, then tuck it into my bag.
The room empties around us, all except for the teacher, who is busy on her laptop. My heart is pounding. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why I’m not already halfway across campus, putting as much distance between me and Dorien as possible.
“I’ll send you my notes.”
I look over. Dorien is watching me without the usual challenge in his expression. There’s no smirk on those lips and no glint in his eyes. He’s just… I don’t know. Chill?
No, not even that.
Gentle.
“Help you get caught up,” he adds when I don’t respond.
I should say thank you because that would be the normal, polite response. Instead, what comes out is, “You’re not going to comment on how I’m an idiot for starting this class so late?”
The smirk surfaces, curving one corner of his mouth, which I’m trying really hard not to stare at. “I wasn’t going to. But I can if you want. Sounds entertaining.”
I laugh and the sound surprises us both, I think. It was startled out of me by his unexpected lack of hostility.
But where is an interaction like this going? “Um, have you been working on your piece?” I ask.
“Of course.” He raises an eyebrow. “What insane person starts a project so close to the deadline?”
I laugh again and swat his shoulder without thinking about it. My hand connects with black leather, and the contact sends electricity through me I immediately try to ignore. “You’re such an ass.”
“You asked.”
We’re smiling at each other. That’s the thing I notice too late. We’re just sitting here, in the almost-empty classroom, smiling at each other like this is something we do. The light from the tall windows highlights the auburn undertones in his dark hair, and when he tilts his head I get lost in the rich tones for a moment as the strands shift. His coppery-hazel eyes are softer than I’ve seen them in years. The green and gold blend together like colors on a palette, and I just want to use that shade to paint. I want to fill an entire canvas with only the shade of his eyes, especially now that they have less armor.
Then I realize what’s happening.
I grab my bag and stand so quickly my chair scrapes against the floor with an ugly screech. “I should go. Thanks for the notes. Text them whenever.”
