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Maybe the next time I see them laughing together, I’ll channel your I-want-to-be-friends-with-everyone attitude and meet them where they’re at.

Because maybe that’s the problem—I haven’t been meeting them where they’re at. Maybe they’ve been trying to meet me where I’m at and I’ve been too self-involved to notice.

So maybe it’s up to me to make the first move.

Wish me luck.

Yours always,

Freddie

The professor who currently taught HST 2050 at UVM—the course code that was written on one of the notebooks in Freddie’s bag—was covering for the professor who usually taught the course, Eli discovered the following day. She—the temp—obviously didn’t know anything about a potential Freddie in that class from fifteen years earlier, and neither would the usual professor, who’d been with UVM for only five years.

“I can give you Professor Farmer’s email,” the temp offered from behind the desk in her office. She was young, possibly only a year or two older than Eli, and she looked hugely out of place among the dusty shelves and tomes of leather-bound history books. “She might know who taught the class before her.”

It was worth asking at the very least, so Eli accepted the Post-it with Professor Farmer’s email address with a quick thanks and went on his way.

His next stop was Professor Waugh’s office, who taught PSYS 2100—the course code on Freddie’s other notebook.

Eli had had to come to campus today anyway for a quick meeting with his Sociology of Sport professor to talk about his final project. It had been simple luck that all three professors had been holding office hours this afternoon.

Three birds, one stone. Go him.

Of course, it meant that he’d have to sacrifice his pre-game nap, but it wouldn’t be the first time.

Professor Waugh’s office was in Dewey Hall, so Eli left Wheeler House—home of the Department of History—and headed along South Prospect Street. The University Green was on his left, though in November, it was more brown than green. Brown grass, brown trees. Hell, even the overcast sky had a brown hue to it. There was a bite to the air, so Eli zipped his jacket up to his chin, then texted Nolan.

Eli:

No luck with the history professor. She’s a temp covering for a professor on sabbatical. Got the email for the usual prof though. She hasn’t been teaching here long enough, but she might know who taught before her.

Nolan:

Thank you for checking. I appreciate you.

Oh. Well. That was nice. The warm fuzzies gave him a boost of energy, and he picked up his pace.

He arrived at Dewey Hall inside of ten minutes. The building itself was intimidating, a massive three-story rectangle that seemed to loom over the students. Its beige facade and pavilion entrance flanked by two-story Ionic columns definitely didn’t make it any less intimidating.

Because the building sat on a slope, when he entered the front doors facing the University Green, he was actually on the second floor. Handy, since Professor Waugh’s office was also on the second floor. He found it easily enough and knocked on the open door.

Professor Waugh’s silver hair was slicked back and his silver goatee was neatly trimmed. He had a tanned, oblong-shaped face, a wide forehead, and thinning eyebrows, and he wore a charcoal suit with a white shirt open at the throat, no tie.

He was handsome in an older-dude-who-could-be-Eli’s-dad kind of way.

“Eli Parker,” Professor Waugh said with a smile. “Come on in. Good to meet you. Sorry about the loss in Seattle.”

A Trailblazers fan. Nice. Immediately at ease, Eli sat across from him, a wide, functional desk between them. “Thanks, but, you know . . .” Eli shrugged. “You win some, you lose some.”

“I do know. I also teach Sports Psychology.”

Oh good. Professor Waugh was as intimidating as this building.

“So.” The professor threaded his fingers together on his desk. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m hoping you can tell me if you taught Narrative Identity and Human Relationships fifteen years ago.”

Professor Waugh’s brow furrowed. “I did. Why do you ask?”