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BEAUTIFULLY
PAST
“Fuck.”
My angry outburst startles the few people standing around me as I rifle through my canvas bag, searching for the cellphone that I know isn’t in there. This is what I get for rushing out of that damn classroom, trying to get as far away from Professor Pugliesi as possible.
Now it’s the end of my school day and I doubt the classroom is unlocked. But Iknowit’s in there. I haven’t used it since I read a text from Miley just before he’d started speaking. I remember shoving it away quickly and I guess it must’ve missed my bag and fell on the floor instead.
I stand there in the hallway a moment, debating on trying to see if the classroom is open. And then I think aboutyiayiaand Denise and how I haven’t spoken to either of them all day and I start the trek toward the other side of campus. The sun is still out but the sky is getting that cotton candy effect and the campus is less populated, making it quicker to maneuver through.
I find myself outside the building and I take a deep breath before I push the door open and head in.What if he’s with a female student again? What if I walked all this way for nothing?
Maybe there’ll be a janitor around who can help me. I try to be optimistic as I reach the door of the auditorium. My hand shakes as I try the doorknob and it’s locked. I glance down at my feet, wondering how I hadn’t realized my phone was missing all this time.
Probably because I’m trying to do way too fucking much.
“Miss Milas?”
I don’t lift my head when I hear his voice, opting to squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. Because the jolt of my skipped heartbeat and the way my body stiffens at the soft timbre of his voice forces me to take a second to reorient myself.
I open my eyes before I turn my head to look at him.
He’s wearing a T-shirt instead of the button-up he’d had on in class today. More of his golden skin is on display and I’m taken back to the night we met, when I knew this version of him; relaxed and open.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, and the softness of his tone does wonders to the curl of his accent.
“I lost my phone,” I offer, lifting my hands in defeat. “I’m pretty sure it’s in there.”
He tilts his head back just a little, his lips part in a silent “ah” and I press mine together.
“Let me,” he starts, stepping toward me and leaning against the door to unlock it.
He isn’t too far that I can’t smell him; that strange scent that I can’t quite pin, as confusing as it is intoxicating. I try not to inhale him, try not to stare at the stubble that adorns his neck, wondering how it would feel under my tongue.
What iswrongwith me?
He shoves the door open and straightens.
“After you,” he tells me, and I clear my throat before crossing the threshold. I make a beeline toward the seat I’d been at and glance around, finally setting my bag down with a huff to get on my knees. I’m sinking down, pulling my linen pants up to accommodate the movement when he speaks.
“No, no. Let me call it for you.” He’s holding his phone in his hand and holds it up as if to show that he means well.
I glance up toward him, sitting back on my feet, my hands on my thighs. He’s still by the door and I wonder if he doesn’t trust himself near me the same way I don’t trust myself.
“Sure…” I trail off, uncertain of how I feel, giving this man my phone number. But it seems innocent enough. I rattle off my number, staring down at my hands as I do.
“It’s ringing,” he announces, just as I hear the chime from a few feet away. I wear a frown as I lean forward to see it under the third seat.
“That’s strange,” I murmur, crawling toward it and wincing as I stretch awkwardly to grab it. The unknown number staring back at me disappears from the home screen as he ends the call.
He now has my number.
I now have his number.
I sit there for a second, trying not to feel anything about it.
“Are you okay?” he asks and I jump when I realize he’s right behind me. “Let me help you up.”
