Page 5 of Fundamentals of Chemistry

“Ah, you must be the other new one,” she said. She was one of those women blessed with dewy, mahogany skin and could have been anywhere between the ages of twenty and sixty, but was probably on the lower end of that range judging by the line of script tattooed on her forearm. Taking my hand, she returned my smile, softening her perfectly made-up face.

“Here’s your key and a map. Faculty apartments are in Brookside Hall on the west side of campus.” She circled a remote building on the far shore of the lake. “You’ll be in apartment thirty-two on the third floor. Make sure you keep your key on you, because the doors lock automatically.”

“Good to know,” I said, pocketing the key and resolving to have a back-up cut as soon as possible.

She tapped a vibrant orange nail on a little camera. “Now look here, so I can get your picture for the ID.”

I smiled for my photo, then returned my gaze to the woman. “You can keep the map. I know my way around.” When she gave me a quizzical look, I added, “Class of 2015.”

She scanned me again, this time appraising. Her eyes lit with delight when they landed on my hands. “Your manicure is gorgeous. Are those decals?”

My eyes dropped to my fingernails, adorned with intricate sunflowers, individual petals in different shades of yellow, orange, and gold.

“Thanks, and no. They’re painted.”

“Incredible,” she muttered, inspecting my fingers like a connoisseur studying a Van Gogh. “Did you get them done in the city? I don’t think any place around here can do that kind of work.”

“Nope,” I said, beaming. “I do them myself.”

“Seriously?” she exclaimed and grabbed one of my hands for a closer look. “How?”

I decided on the spot that this woman was my friend. She would never replace Silvia, but I was thrilled to find someone with a common interest so quickly.

“Teeny brushes,” I replied with a laugh. “And a lot of patience. I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Theresa Jane Dixon, but everyone calls me TJ.” She released my hands with a wistful sigh. “You can find me here Monday through Friday from eight to four. And if you need me any other time, I’m in the email directory.”

I thanked TJ for the key and ID and promised to swing back by her desk the next time I repainted my nails.

Once I was back in the soupy August heat, I immediately regretted not having my Lyft wait and drive me over to the faculty residences. After-hours privacy from students would be fantastic, but right now, the considerable distance felt less like a stroll down memory lane and more like a slog.

I paused in front of Franklin Hall, home of the science and mathematics classes. The tingle was back, zipping up my spine as I regarded the stately Georgian-style building, ivy climbing its walls.

This was where I learned to love science. I would have gone to class in my underwear before admitting it out loud, but there was no hiding my wonder when my old teacher, Mr. Stephens, created a blue flame by burning copper, or a geyser of foam by mixing potassium iodide with hydrogen peroxide and dish soap.

Ten years later, I wanted desperately to pay it forward, to share my love with the next generation. My feet itched to climb the marble steps and explore the familiar building. I would come back as soon as I finished unpacking.

Soaked with sweat and panting from the exertion of dragging two fifty-pound suitcases nearly a mile, I nearly screamed when I realized that, like my apartment in Manhattan, Brookside Hall had no elevator.

Fuck the bags. They could wait. I abandoned them in the entryway and dragged myself up the two flights to my new home. Kicking off my shoes by the door, I made a beeline to the kitchen, quickly finding a glass in the cabinet and filling it from the sink. I guzzled tap water and basked in the air conditioning until I felt human enough to explore the rest of the space.

The one-bedroom apartment was fully furnished, if simple, complete with a sitting area, full kitchen, and vintage desk for working. While it had been updated with modern conveniences—thank goodness for the AC—the high ceilings and dark wood trim conveyed the simple elegance of the century-old building. Once I added a few homey touches—I had already purchased an exact duplicate of Silvia’s pink doormat—the place would be perfect.

Unfortunately, the doormat and all of my other worldly possessions were in my suitcases. Double unfortunately, I was still hot, and the bags were still heavy. But there was nothing to do except retrieve them. Key tucked safely in my pocket, I headed back into the hall, barefoot, since that was somehow less unpleasant than the alternative of cramming my sticky, swollen feet back into leather sandals.

The door to the stairwell jerked open just as my fingers touched the doorknob. I yelped in surprise.

Then, I noticed the man.

The tall man.

The tall, naked man.

Or, at least, the top half of him was naked, and I was too distracted to see what was going on with the bottom half. A surge of adrenaline flooded my nervous system.

Where the door had been a second before, there now stood a broad expanse of lightly-tanned olive skin glistening with beaded sweat. Without any consent from higher faculties, my eyes feasted on the defined pecs, counted the ridges of abs (eight!), and traced the hard V of his hip bones where they disappeared into the top of his shorts.

With an embarrassing amount of effort, I pulled my eyes up from the bare chest to take in the slack-jawed expression on a ruddy face. Dark hair, nearly black with sweat, curled around his face and stuck to his temples, framing a pair of deep-set, espresso-brown eyes which were fixed on me.