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Only for Oliver to chuckle and say, loud enough for him to hear easily, “Maybe I’m just a masochist.”
Professor Solomon’s hand stills, pen going rigid as he looks up from the small notebook he’s writing in. We’re the only ones here, out of the eleven students remaining, and he looks both of us over with careful scrutiny.
Oliver still just fucking grins like we’re probably not going to fail the class for this, while I wonder if an apology would help the situation.
But our professor just scoffs and looks back down, paying us less attention than if we were flies on the wall or specks of dirt on the desk.
As I get comfortable beside Oliver and trynotto bump into him, even though he sitsso closewhen I know he could move toward the empty table beside us, I freeze.
Oh no.
Oh, God.
I’ve forgotten my photography textbook. I know where it’s at with absolute clarity: on my desk, where I’d been working through the first chapter like the professor instructed us to do. It’s right there, with my neon tabs sticking out of the pages where I’d found information I wanted to mark for future use.
And that means it’s nothere. Where it should be.
“Uh oh,” I whisper, mostly to myself as my stomach twists. In any other class, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but this is certainly notany otherclass.
“What’s wrong?” Oliver’s quick to lean over, eyes scanning my backpack like he’s going to see some kind of issue.
“I, umm.” Quickly, I glance up at Professor Solomon, who’s still writing in his notebook. “I don’t have my photography book. Should I… leave?” Leaving seems like a better idea than sticking around and waiting for him to notice.
“He’d notice if you walked out,” Oliver tells me. "No way you’d get away clean.”
My heart sinks in my chest, and I prepare myself for the berating and embarrassment I’m sure is going to happen when class starts. My fingers tighten on my bag before I let it fall to the floor between my knees, face in my hands.Fuck. This is exactly what I’d wanted to avoid, and here I am creating a self-fulfilling prophecy of him being an asshole to me.
“He’s going to kill me,” I mutter against my palms. “I should’ve dropped this class last week.” Lord knows if he rips me apart today, I absolutely won’t be able to show my face here ever again.
“Nah, he’s not.” Oliver pulls one of my hands down, voice gentle, and presses something large against my fingers. “You’ll be fine, okay?” I open my eyes and look down, heart twisting in my chest when I see what he’s pressed into my hand.
It’shisphotography book. The soft cover feels worn, not smooth like mine, and the book is tabbed and dog-eared. The spine is worn, with duct tape holding the bottom part of it together, and overall it looks… very well loved.
Does Oliver really love photography this much? I still can’t fathom why he keeps showing up to Professor Solomon’s classes, but I suppose it's something he truly enjoys.
“But he’s going to yell at you, isn’t he? And he’s going to know it’s not my book,” I point out, placing it down on my side of the table.
“No, Blair,” Oliver chuckles. “Well, yeah. He’ll yell at me. But he isn’t going to know it isn’t yours as long as you keep it open. You think he’s reallythatobservant to be able to tell the difference between our textbooks?”
It might be my imagination, but his voice rises as he says it, tone almost… goading? Like hewantsour professor to hear. Nervously I glance up, but if he did, he isn’t acting like it.
“And then I’ll share with you, with the book in front of you like this…” He slides it more directly under my nose and scootshis chair even closer, which I wouldn’t have thought possible, before draping an arm over the back of my seat and leaning in so he can look at it too.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. My heart stutters in my chest, and when I look up at him, I realize I’m close enough that I can almost feel his breath on my cheek.
Oliver blinks and looks down at me, grin turning big and goofy. Right. I remind myself that this is justhim. Just… Oliver. He’s too friendly, too physically affectionate, even though we barely know each other.
Too intense for someone like me, who worries over personal space and tone of voice. It feels like I’m a mess when he’s around me like this, even though it’s clear to me that he’s just doing it because he really is this nice and maybe a little unobservant of my personal comfort levels.
“Oliver.” I hadn’t realized our professor had gotten to his feet, and I jump at the tone of his voice, and the closeness of it. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, well, I forgot my textbook,” Oliver lies, beaming up at our professor as he looks at us. “So I’m sharing with Blair. She told me I could, actually.”
Professor Solomon’s gaze slides to mine, the epitome of unfriendly, and I smile nervously. He stares at me, lips pressed to a thin line like he wants to say something, then looks at Oliver again. “You don’t need your books today, so you can sit up, Greer,” he warns quietly.
Oliver does, looking almost like a kicked puppy.
“And you can give him his book back, Love,” Professor Solomon adds, taking a breath and launching into his discussion topic of the day: digital vs. film and how we might use each.
