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There wasn’t much chatter in the large theater-like room as she looked around and smoothed her topknot. There were easily a hundred students in the class and less than a few who were older—or at least looked to be older.
She picked up her pen and doodled on the lines of the blank page of her notebook. Remembering she had dinner plans with Melissa, she withdrew her one and only phone to text her.
DESI: Dinner @ 8?
When Desdemona got back from her last trip of the past year—a two-week cruise to the British Isles, Iceland, and Northern Europe—they had slipped right back into their friendship . . . and Desdemona had even admitted that her real name was Desdemona Dean. She explained her previous desire for anonymity in the big city and was glad when laid-back Melissa accepted the explanation. It had not been easy pulling back the façade but necessary. For her, there was no coming back from being addressed as Desdemona or Ms. Dean during her travels over the last year.
No more Alisha Smith.That hoe finally dead.
MELISSA: Perfect. Locanda Verde?
The thought of the restaurant’s excellent Italian cuisine made her empty stomach grumble.
DESI: Yesssss!
She set the phone down.
Bzzzzzz.
Desdemona picked up the phone again.
MELISSA: Not too late, though. Benji is staying over.
She smiled at the eggplant emojis at the end of the text.
DESI: Jealous. Days of celibacy: 455.
Melissa texted her the praying hands emoji.
The door on the left side of the room opened, and Desi sat up straighter as she looked down at the professor entering the room. She gasped.
Loren.
Her entire body went on high alert as she eyed him. More than a year later. Still handsome. More confident.
Still deeply planted in her heart.
Damn.
Four hundred and fifty-four days since she’d seen him last, and nothing had changed. He was still in her heart, still imprinted on her soul, and still her life’s biggest regret.
“Good morning, class,” Loren said, looking handsome in a lightweight linen suit with his hair pulled back and wire-framed spectacles in place. “I’ll be stepping in for Professor Warren this semester. He has a health matter that warrants his attention at this time but no fears or worries. You will leave this—my class—more proficient in English and even in storytelling.”
Should I leave? Would he want me to? Do I want to?
She stayed. Hunkered down. Took notes. Tried her best not to remember just why she had denied herself happiness with him. They had fallen in love.
And I still love him. Easily. So very easily.
And when the class was over and they were given their reading assignments before their next class two days later, Desdemona took her time gathering her things into her satchel until she was the last student in the class. “Great class, Dr. Palmer,” she said, rising from her seat and coming down the steps toward where he cleaned the whiteboard.
He froze.
She smiled as he looked over his shoulder and over the rim of his glasses at her walking up to his desk. He was just as surprised at her as she was at seeing him. He clutched the eraser tightly in his grip before setting it down and turning to face her.
“Were you in this class this whole time?” he asked after clearing his throat and removing his glasses.
She nodded.
