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Near the top, I finally find a couple of empty seats. There’s only one guy up there, and he doesn’t even bother to lift his chin to look at me as I scoot in and sit down, legs and arms pressed securely to my side. I clear my throat self-consciously and remove a pen and pad from my bag for notes. In the middle of labeling my paper, a few more students pile into the auditorium, heading up past the filled seats to find some empty ones closer to the top.
“Are you saving this seat for someone?”
I look up, startled, catching the gaze of a handsome, blond-haired guy with glasses. It’s the man I saw outside on the couch. The ass-staring guy.
“Um, no,” I mumble, heat rising to my cheeks. “You can sit there if you want.”
The guy doesn’t bother to ask twice. He swings his bag off his back and plops down next to me, making the whole aisle vibrate. Then, he twists his body in my direction and holds out his hand for me.
“I’m Jason.”
“Um, Rowan,” I say, taking his hand in mine. His skin is warm, calloused a bit, but not too much. He has a gentle handshake.
“So, what are you in for, Rowan?” asks Jason, making himself comfortable in the folding seat. He smells good, I notice it almost at once. Like expensive cologne and new book pages.
“I’m here for … school?” I mutter.
Jason laughs. “I mean, what’s your major?”
“Oh.” Sweat trickles down the back of my neck, and I laugh nervously. “Nursing. I want to be a trauma nurse. You?”
“Business management.”
“Then why are you taking microbi—”
Before I can finish my question, the back door closes one last time and a man comes in, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a jacket tucked under one arm. For a moment, I think he’s one of the students, but then he sets his bag down next to the podium and digs in there for some papers, looking up to scan the room.
“Hey, guys,” he says. “I’m Professor Hansen, but you can call me Paul. Ready to get started?”
* * *
The sky is darkeningby the time my last class ends, and I walk to my campus housing in the cold. My fingers are numb and tingling, even though our house is less than two blocks from the largest lecture hall on campus. It’s only fall, but in Seattle, autumn is cold. Like, really cold.
The front porch lights to our beautiful three-bedroom on-campus house are on when I get home, and I know that at least one of my roommates is already here. I live with two other girls; my good friend Jamie, a girl I met through online classes last year and befriended at once, and a second woman, Carly. Carly is new to both Jamie and me, but she seems okay. A little wild, maybe, but okay. Sure enough, as I hang my pack near the door and kick off my shoes, the delicious smell of homemade soup wafts in from the kitchen.
“I hope you saved some for me,” I call with a grin, making my way to the kitchen.
“Girl, duh,” Jamie says, pushing her reading glasses up onto the bridge of her nose as I come in. She’s in her school attire, a button down, white shirt and jeggings. Her chestnut hair is pulled up on top of her head in a businesslike manner, and the shaved pencil she keeps on her is tucked carefully behind one ear. She’s adorable, my friend, a woman wise beyond her years. She’s one of the reasons I decided to ditch online school and move to campus housing. “Dig in.”
“You’re amazing.” I grab a bowl from the cupboard and Jamie spoons in some chicken noodle soup, handing it back to me with a slice of homemade bread. “Where do you even find the time for this, especially today?” I ask, sitting down at the table. “Wasn’t your first day busy? How was your Social Welfare Policy class?”
“Yeah, it was okay, but I got my homework done early,” Jamie says with a shrug. My best friend is majoring in social work, a career that will, no doubt, fulfill her in all the ways she needs. That’s just the kind of person she is.
I laugh, peppering my soup. Jamie is an overachiever. Everything is always done, early or on time, and it’s always great work, too. She’s an honors student. “You would.”
“Hey now.” Jamie plops down at the table beside me, reaching for an open bottle of wine. She pours herself some, then me. We clink, and I take a long drink. “I like school, okay? Homework is, well, fun for me.”
“I guess that’s what makes you so fabulous.” I take a bite of my soup, savoring the perfectly spiced concoction. It warms my throat, then my stomach, and I close my eyes, tired suddenly. I still have a ton of homework to do, but I can’t even bring myself to think too hard about it.
“How was your clinical rotation?” Jamie asks as we eat. “Did you get any traumas?”
“A drunk driver hit a mom and her kid,” I tell her with a sigh. “He ended up killing his own daughter and putting the little boy in intensive care.”
“Jesus,” Jamie says with a shake of her head. “I don't know how you do it.”
Because someone did it for me, I want to say, but I bite my tongue before the words can slip out. It doesn’t matter, not really. Like I told Daniel’s mother … you can’t change the past.
As I reach for the butter to spread it on my bread, the front door opens again, and someone giggles, stumbling in. I look at Jamie, who rolls her eyes.
