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ChapterThree
Jonathan
Someone as busy as I am doesn’t have a lot of room in their life for social activities outside of work. Especially in the last few years, I’ve relied on old friendships, easy acquaintances, relationships with no strings attached. Lately though, even those have gone by the wayside. I’ve become so isolated outside of work.
However, there has been someone. One constant.
Last fall, I was sitting inside my small office at Dartmouth, preparing before a lecture, when I looked up and saw a girl sitting in the courtyard just outside my window. She was on a bench with her legs propped up across from her and her back leaned against the curved armrest. She had her textbook open across her lap and a coffee cup in her hand.
Nothing about the tableau was unique. Students study all over campus, and I never pay them any mind. I should have turned away and refocused my attention on the lecture I was about to finish, but I didn’t.
She was alone and unaware, and I had a full view of her through my window.
Her lips were glossy and red. Her brown hair was cut short in a way that didn’t hide her delicate jawline. When she turned to glance over her shoulder, I had a full view of her face. Her eyes were large, brown, and catlike. Her nose small and pert. Her lips bow-shaped and full.
I stared longer than I should have. She was intoxicating, and I realized right away that it wasn’t just in her appearance. She was a contradiction, childlike with rosy cheeks and a clear complexion, and yet there seemed to be an old soul lurking beneath her winsome features as she stared off into the distance, contemplating something with a deep-set frown.
I watched her try to refocus her attention down on her textbook. She chewed her bottom lip and finally heaved a sigh, swiveled her feet off the bench, and left.
It felt strange to watch her go, like I was watching the ending credits of a movie I’d hoped would last just a little longer.
I don’t take much notice of students around campus. Every semester, there are a few that seek me out for guidance and advising. Of course, requests for recommendation letters flood in once final grades are posted, but over the years, only the brilliant few have stuck in my memory.
Still, none of them have piqued my curiosity like this girl.
After the first time I saw her, I worried that was it, but a few weeks passed and then she was back on the bench outside my window again, reading and eating a croissant. This time I didn’t try to delude myself into thinking I wasn’t intrigued by her. I pushed my computer monitor a few inches to the left so it wouldn’t impede my view and watched her study. She wore a hunter green dress. Her hair was half up in a bun. She finished the croissant, checked the bag for any last bits, sagged with disappointment, and then went right back to studying.
For almost a full year now, she’s come to sit on that bench. I lament the fact that I likely miss most of her visits since I’m only on campus two days a week. I find myself growing desperate when weeks lapse with no sight of her.
I still know next to nothing about her—what textbook she reads from, how she takes her coffee, or whether she’s even a student at this university—but every time I look up and see her through my window, I feel a tiny jolt ofsomething.
Against my better judgment, I’ve started to seek her out every time I’m on campus. I look for her in coffee shops and around Dartmouth’s dining halls. I’ve never seen her anywhere but in that courtyard, until this morning when I heard a commotion during my lecture, glanced up, and found her sitting in the auditorium.
Emelia Mercier is her name.
Seeing her there of all places is the cherry on top of my shit-filled day.
The illusion is shattered. She’s no nymph, no siren, no dream.
She’s an undergraduate student in my class.
The realization hits me hard. Her existence in my life, however small, was more significant than I’d previously realized. In my head, she was so simple, a two-dimensional character I could place into any scenario, any scene. On a hard day, a sighting of her would be enough to lift my spirits. And if I’m being honest, I’d come to develop feelings for her, or if not feelings, a sense of hope. A crush.
I’m on the train riding back to Boston after my class, contemplating whether or not I should order a custom window shade for my office back at Dartmouth to block my view of the courtyard, when my phone rings.
My mother calls me more than I call her, something I perpetually tell myself I’m going to work on and never do.
She always starts talking quickly, as if she knows my time is precious.
“Oh good, you answered. I won’t keep you long, I promise” is how she starts today’s conversation.
“It’s fine. I’m on the train to Boston from Hanover.”
“The train?” She sounds personally offended. “Why aren’t you driving? Or better yet, being driven? Your father has a fabulous driver we always use when we’re on the east coast. I can call his secretary and have her forward you his information.”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind the train.”
She scoffs. “I can practically feel the scent of urine searing my nostrils as we speak.”
