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At this, I almost — almost — raise my voice and snap out a loud no.
He’s not going with her.
No way.
I’m not letting him. He needs to talk to me. Me.
I mean, about biochemistry.
He beats me to it though. Because he shuts the notebook with a snap and looks up at her. “I don’t eat lunch with students.”
Holy crap.
His voice.
Why? Why is his voice so… deep and sexy?
So calming. So soothing.
Like a dose of tranquilizer. It slows down my heart. It settles my nerves.
It makes me want to record him so I can listen to him talk while I go to sleep at night. Or when I think that I’m losing control of my thoughts.
It’s not fair.
That the thing with the power to calm me down is not a medicine, it’s a guy.
A guy with green eyes and dark hair.
Who doesn’t eat lunch with students.
Because it would be unprofessional.
The very fact that he doesn’t, that he stays aloof from us students — even though he’s only a couple of years older, a senior to our sophomores — makes him even more irresistible to girls.
As evidenced by what she says next. “Come on, we can grab a sandwich or something.”
He throws her a flat, blank look, offering her notebook back to her. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
She regards the notebook for a second before taking it from him and saying, “It will be a quick lunch, I promise.”
“I don’t do quick lunches.”
“But I —”
“And you shouldn’t either,” he speaks over her, looking her up and down, super quickly and dismissively. “I think you should have a long lunch and eat more than a sandwich. You need it. And while you’re at it, maybe try reading up and making notes on what we just talked about.”
With that, he dismisses her and turns around to gather his own things from the desk behind him.
Wow.
So it’s true then.
It’s true that he’s a freaking jackass. That his professionalism, more often than not, borders on rudeness and arrogance.
I have heard stories about it, see. About his alleged assholishness.
I’ve heard that he can be extremely rude when he wants to be. He can cut you down with his dry remarks and a cold, mean look.
Which makes my whole infatuation with him even more nonsensical.
I feel bad for her now, when two minutes ago I was jealous. Like an idiot. I even take a step toward her, hoping to catch her attention and throw her a small, encouraging smile or something similar to put her at ease. She doesn’t give me the chance though. Keeping her head down, she leaves in a hurry, and then it’s just us.
Me and him. Meaning it’s my turn.
To talk to him.
Yikes.
Why am I doing this again? Why can’t I leave like that girl just did?
Oh right. Because my therapist said so.
I hate her. I should fire her.
I mean, she works for me. Shouldn’t she try to make my life easier instead of making me talk to this asshole?
For the first time ever, no less.
Okay, fine.
I’m lying.
This won’t be the first time that I talk to him.
I have talked to him before. A year ago.
The day I had my episode.
But I’m not going to count that. Because A: it was such an extraordinary circumstance, and I was so completely out of it that it barely qualifies as a conversation; and B: I’d rather forget it and pretend that it never happened.
So this is difficult.
Very, very difficult.
Even so, I clear my throat and say, “Uh, excuse me?”
I’m dreading it.
I’m dreading the moment he’ll turn around and look at me. Along with anticipating it like a crazy idiot.
But I shouldn’t have bothered with any of those things because that moment never comes.
He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even stop what he’s doing, shoving papers and documents into his leather messenger bag.
So this time I say it louder. “Excuse me?”
Nothing.
Not one thing happens.
I can’t believe it.
I can’t believe that he didn’t hear that. And that he’s still packing up without pausing.
Oh my God, is he doing this on purpose?
He’s doing this on purpose, isn’t he?
There’s no way he didn’t hear that.
“Hey!”
This time my voice is so loud that it echoes around the empty auditorium, making me grimace. I didn’t mean it to be so loud, but it’s fine.
Because he finally stops.
His movements halt and he goes all still.
Good.
But then, I detect a movement. A slight flexing, tensing of his muscles. His fingers fisting around the papers, followed by a long sigh which undulates his shoulders up and down.
I’m not sure what it means.
This tension in his body and that deep inhalation.
But I think I’m slightly offended by it.
Before I can process all of this though, he turns around to face me and in a rough voice, the roughest that I’ve ever heard from him, he asks, “What?”
