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“And is the final cumulative?” a student asks, walking fast to keep up with me as I head out into the hall.
“Yes. Professor Olmsted has gone over that.”
“How many review sessions will there be?” another student asks, holding his phone up so he can take rapid-fire notes on whatever I say.
“At least two. Check your email over the coming weeks, I’ll send out the dates and times for both sessions. If neither works with your schedule, let me know and we’ll figure something out.”
“And do you think she’ll really include—”
I have no choice but to turn and cut them off; by now we’ve walked far enough that we’ve lost the lazy ones. The students standing in front of me are the absolute cream of the crop, the try-hard geniuses. “Listen, you all have good grades in this class. Unless there’s an earth-ending meteor or something, I have no doubt you’ll all finish on top. Stop overthinking it.”
The student closest to me—Neal, I think his name is—laughs and shakes his head. “Right. Yeah, okay.” I think I’ve finally gotten through to him, but then his wide, frantic eyes meet mine again. “Concerning the group project—”
Lord have mercy.
I finally feign a bathroom emergency just to get away from them. I wait in there for a few minutes, until I know for sure the coast is clear. Then, finally, I’m free.
I take the stairs down from the third floor and push open the side door. Blinding California sun instantly warms me, and I can’t resist the shiver of pleasure that runs down my spine. All day, I’m freezing. I swear they keep these buildings below zero. I peel off my sweatshirt and start to thaw as I walk toward a large cluster of oak trees in the Cahill courtyard. It’s a nice little pocket of green space surrounded by the building on all sides. Over the years, it’s become less organized and more overgrown, as if the university landscapers have accidentally abandoned it. It’s where I eat my lunch during the week, and it feels like it belongs solely to me. It’s a nice secluded spot compared to other parts of campus, but today, I’m disappointed to see that my usual bench by the fountain is occupied by two guys. The secret’s out about the courtyard, apparently.
I peer over at them as I walk closer, trying to decide if I should take the bench across from theirs or head back inside and cut my losses. If I go over to sit by them, I run the risk that they won’t mind their own business. I hate the idea of having to endure awkward small talk with strangers during my one-hour lunch break. Or worse than that, they could be students from Professor Olmsted’s class, here to demand more answers from me.
To better assess my odds, I give them both a surreptitious once-over and nearly trip over my feet when I do. Jeez, they stand out. For one, they’re both super tall. For two, they’re definitely not dressed like normal students on a college campus. The bigger one is wearing an all-black suit, for Christ’s sake. Is he in the Secret Service or something? Am I about to meet the president?
When they notice me, the bigger one stands up and nods to his friend, who is wearing a black baseball cap and is hunched over with his elbows on his knees. I frown as a weird trickle of awareness makes me stop dead in my tracks.
I look between the two of them rapidly, trying to process, trying to comprehend how this could possibly be, and then I flinch when I get a better look at the guy in the hat. A guy I immediately recognize.
Clarity sinks into my stomach like a two-ton boulder.
Ben stays sitting on the bench as his suited friend passes me by and disappears back inside the building. We both stay perfectly still. Outwardly, I’m a statue, but inside, my body riots. My heart races and leaps, trying to make sense of the fact that Ben is sitting in front of me, flesh and blood. Real.
For so long, we just stare at each other, looking, appreciating, cataloguing, grasping, waiting for the other to disappear into a cloud of smoke.
He’s wearing jeans and an unassuming gray t-shirt. Sunglasses rest on the bench beside him, and I wonder if he wore them, along with the hat, to better disguise himself. He has a bit of scruff that does a poor job of softening his sharp jaw, but I’m focused on his eyes. The ones that always used to carry a hint of sadness. The same eyes that drew me in from the very beginning.
I finally start to walk again, going right to the bench beside his, and I drop my book bag down onto it with a heavy thunk.
