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His eyes flare. “Oh yeah, you can give it to me. I’ll pass it to my boss. Did the student say where they found it?”
I shake my head. “No, he seemed like he didn’t know what to do with it.” I drop it in his hands.
“Right. Okay. And you’re a professor here?” He flips the key over in his palm, and his eyebrows lift.
“I am. Visiting. Anyway, thank you. We wouldn’t want it in the wrong hands.”
“You’re right about that.” He slips the key into his pocket.
“Have a good night.” I start down the hallway, but he stops me.
“Uh, ma’am, you wouldn’t happen to know which student passed over the key?”
I force a polite smile and shake my head. “Some of my lectures have a few hundred students in them. He might play for one of the school teams, though?”
“Okay. Thanks. Have a nice evening.”
I rush down the hallway toward the main entrance, not entirely comfortable with my lie. I push through the front door and step out into the cool evening air. It’s dark already, the sidewalks lit by overhead lamps.
As I drive home, I pull up my mom’s contact. I should have called her earlier. She has a tendency to worry, in part because of the situation with Gabriel. At first, she and my dad couldn’t understand why I didn’t want him to know where I was. Because they’d moved down to Florida, they only met him a handful of times. So they hadn’t seen the other, less-polished side of him. But eventually, they understood my perspective, and for that, I could not be more grateful.
“Hi, Mom. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. It was a busy day,” I say when she answers the phone.
“It’s okay. I just wanted to check in and see how things are going.”
Mom tells me about the various friends they have dinner plans with this week before she asks the question that comes up at some point in every conversation lately. “Have you made any progress with Gabriel?”
I grip the steering wheel tighter. The mere mention of him makes my throat feel tight. “No, Mom. No progress. He has the papers; he just needs to sign them now.”
She makes a sound. “I’m sorry this isn’t easier for you, honey.”
“Thanks.”
I shift the subject away from Gabriel, and we chat for a few more minutes before I let her go with a promise to call again later in the week.
I pass a row of student houses in one of the nicer neighborhoods. I live about three blocks over from here, far enough away that I don’t have to put up with the noise or the parties, but close enough to the pub district that sometimes drunk and disorderly college students stumble down my street in the wee hours of the morning, hooting and hollering.
I pull into the driveway beside Sophia’s Beetle. We have dinner together most nights of the week, except Tuesdays, when I have my night class, and Thursdays, when she counsels students until nine. I’m half an hour later than usual, but I sent her a message saying I was running behind, so I’m unsurprised to find her in my apartment, dinner already started, when I walk through the door.
I drop my purse on the side table and round the corner, stepping into the kitchen. She’s standing in front of a pot on the stove.
“Everyone should have a best friend like you,” I tell her. I cross to where she’s standing and peek over her shoulder. “What smells so good?”
“I’m trying a new recipe for mushroom risotto,” she tells me. “But it might be my first and last time. The stirring component to this is a lot more work than I anticipated.”
“Want me to take over?”
“Please. I’m halfway to carpal tunnel.”
We switch spots.
“Whatever you do, don’t stop stirring.” She goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of wine, uncorking it on her way to the cabinets.
“Wine on a Wednesday?” I arch a brow.
“I needed it for the risotto and figured we might as well have a glass while we’re cooking—or more than one.” She tops off her glass and pours a fresh one for me, dropping in two ice cubes because I like my wine a little watered down, at least the white stuff. She passes me the glass. “You got a gift basket today.”
“A gift basket? From who? For what?”
