Page 32 of Given Our History

My mind drifts to his hand around the glass of gin and tonic last night. He’s always had nice hands—large, masculine, dark hair encircling his wrist. It’s been so long since I’ve even allowed myself to entertain the thought. Remembered the feeling, however fleeting, of those hands on my body. I can just picture that intensity of his, that laser focus, all of it directed at me.

Warmth builds in my lower abdomen at the same time as it tinges my face. I shouldn’t be thinking about this. It feels off-limits, but at the same time it feels so good to let myself fantasize a bit, and really, what’s the harm? I set my phone face down on the nightstand and ease open the drawer, where the small and silver contraption lies innocently among old hair ties and cough drops and dried-up pens.

A buzz rattles the dresser and I leap out of my skin.

Not the vibrator. My phone. Heart hammering in my throat, I slide the drawer shut and flip the phone over to see who’s calling. Reagan. Any lingering heat fizzles out of me. Taking a few breaths to calm my frustration, I swipe to answer. “What’s up?”

“Professor Fernsby?” asks a hesitant voice—one that I’m certain doesn’t belong to my sister. “This is Natalia. From History 111?”

I haven’t memorized all the new students this semester yet, so I can’t put a face to the name. But whoever she is, she must be a friend of Reagan’s. “Why do you have my sister’s phone?”

“She’s—” Natalia stops short. Bass thumps in the background, mingling with raucous voices. “I don’t want to get her into any trouble.”

I withhold my exasperation. Unusual circumstance aside, this is a student of mine, and I need to remain professional. “She’s an adult. I’m not going to ground her.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Natalia continues. “We had to take her keys. She hasn’t tried to drive or anything, but I’m not sure…”

“No, you made the right choice.” I’m already hoisting myself back out of bed and searching for clothes to throw on. I worry enough about Reagan’s driving when she’s sober. I don’t want to imagine what it would look like drunk. “Thanks for calling me. I’ll come get her. Keep an eye on her until I get there.”

CHAPTER12

PRESENT

It’s a quick drive across town. I slow on the narrow and shadowy roads that branch off from campus, the glow of the old streetlamps dimmed by overgrown trees. Greek Row comprises mostly converted residentials—technically not part of campus, and therefore not an area I’m super familiar with. I was picturing kegs and people passed out on the front lawn like something straight out of a teen movie, but the lacy old Victorians and structured bungalows are innocuous in the dark. No sign of the yellow Jeep parked along the cut-stone curb.

Reagan had mentioned the name of the fraternity—Sigma Nu? Omega Something? I ring my sister’s phone, hoping Natalia will pick up, but there’s no answer. I should have asked where they were earlier. Unsure of what else I should do, I drive a block over to the familiar faculty parking lot outside the Hall of Letters, where I throw my car into park and open my messages. I shoot a quick text to Reagan’s number—What party did you say you were at again?—before I switch over to my browser and pull up the University of Irving website. There’s got to be a listing of all the fraternities somewhere on here, and then once I have a name, I might be able to figure out where their house is located.

Except these names are all Greek to me—literally. Kappas and Gammas and Omegas, but none of it is ringing a bell. I scroll through pictures and descriptions of each fraternity like that’s somehow going to help me, but it doesn’t. Maybe she said it was a sorority party. Weird how you don’t hear that phrase half as often as you hear frat party. Giving up, I try ringing Reagan’s cell again, but this time it goes straight to voice mail. That can’t be a good sign.

Something knocks against the passenger side window, hard.

I yelp, clutching my hand to my chest, where my heart thuds violently beneath my sweatshirt. A silhouette waves at me from beyond the dark tint of my windows. My finger hovers over the controls. I probably shouldn’t roll down the window—there’s rarely any trouble on campus, and we have private security on patrol around the clock, but better safe than sorry.

“Clara,” a muffled voice calls through the glass. “It’s Teddy.”

I exhale, the unease lifting off me, and roll down the window. “You scared me. I thought I was about to get robbed.”

In the dim light, I can just make out the way his eyes flick over my battered Volvo, over the dings and sunbaked paint. He raises his eyebrows, an expression that screams not sure you’d be their first target.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I prefer grading homework in the office,” he says. “Why are you sitting in your car?”

“I’m trying to find my sister. She’s at some frat party or something, and one of her friends called me, but I can’t find the house and now they’re not answering.” For good measure, I check my phone again, but there are no texts or returned calls.

“Kappa Sigma,” he provides without missing a beat.

I look up from my phone to gawk at him. “How’d you know that?”

“A couple of my students in 121 were talking about it in the middle of class.”

I imagine him pulling the ultimate teacher cliché: Would you like to share with the class? Most professors can’t even be bothered because we’re dealing with legal adults, not children, and if they want to waste their time, then that’s on them. But Teddy’s always been by-the-book in a way that makes me suspect he might actually use that line.

I make a mental note to look him up on Rate My Professors later. Because I’m curious.

“Here.” He reaches inside my car, patting around blindly for the lock. I swallow, all too aware of the inappropriate thoughts I was having about those hands not thirty minutes ago. I’m thankful it’s dark, because heat has crept back into my face. I press the button to unlock the door and he settles into the seat beside me, his long legs folded in the cramped space. He’s dressed more casually than I’ve seen him in years—jeans and a plain black T-shirt that’s snug over his broad chest, his well-toned arms on full display. It is the weekend, after all. He pulls up the map on his phone. “Looks like it’s over on Dartmouth,” he says. “I’ll give you directions.”

I glance over my shoulder as I back out of the space. Driving is a convenient excuse to look anywhere other than his arms. Or hands.