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Her attention was on the books between us on the table. She picked one up, turning it carefully over in her hands.
“You have the touch of an archeologist,” I said, watching her fingertips brush over the fabric cover.
“How old is this?”
“It’s from the early nineteenth century.”
“How does Bill get ahold of these things?” She carefully opened the book to the cover page, the paper yellowed with age. “It’s in remarkable condition.”
I was mesmerized by her. The way her eyes focused, the way she sat marveling at something as simple as an old book with such wonder, her lips slightly parted.
“Why are you with Christian Brockford?” I hadn’t meant to ask.
She pursued her lips and exhaled deeply, her eyes still fixed on the book as she slowly flipped the pages. “I started dating him during my sophomore year. He was a freshman. His parents and my parents are friends and... they set us up.” She set the book down and sat back, her fingers curling around her teacup. “I would have ended it before the year end when I was a sophomore, but our parents ... It wasn’t up to me at that point. They saw a union between us as something good for both families, and so, there I was, for the next three years, stuck with him.”
She looked up at me and shook her head.
“It sounds insane because it is. My parents are very wealthy, and the idea of me running off and marrying an archeologist one day was terrifying.”
I had a hard time wrapping my mind around it—being forced into a relationship that was obviously unhealthy.
“Broke up with him this morning.” She met my eyes, holding firm as she searched my face.
“Why?” I asked.
Her mouth twitched into a smile, and it took a moment to sip her tea before saying, “I have something else I want, and I don’t want him in the way anymore.”
Something, or someone?
I watched the column of her throat move as she swallowed, then brought my eyes up to meet hers. “I’m happy to hear it. He’s a prick.”
She laughed, her straight, white teeth gleaming in the woven wicker chandelier above our heads. “Are you allowed to say that about a student?”
“I don’t really care. I’m probably not allowed to be sitting here talking about my student’s personal life, either.”
“I like talking to you.”
I felt my chest tighten. Looking at her, I realized how slippery of a slope we were on. “I like talking to you, Ms. Dahl.”
She leaned back in her chair and observed me closely. “Are you really going use your lecture on the sociology impacts of the political system in ancient Greece in your midterm?”
I was thankful for the change of subject.
“Yes, I am.”
She sighed, looking down into your tea. “Can I come in during your office hours to go over a few things? That’s one topic I have a hard time with.”
“Hard time, or don’t agree with my interpretation?”
She gave me that feline grin that set my soul on fire. “You know which one, Professor.”
Chapter 15
Whitney
MIDTERMS WERE FAST approaching, but I didn’t feel a heavily weighted anxiety about them compared to previous years. Maybe because I was only taking a handful of classes compared to a full schedule like during my undergrad, or because I’d effectively taken several steps away from the social life I once lived.
In fact, instead of spending the final week before midterms toiling away in the library, I packed up my bedroom at the sorority house and prepared to move into the graduate apartment I’d just secured until next spring.
