I probably should just find a random guy and make out with him. Sure, my casual make outs have never been spectacular in the past, but it could help me get my mind off of my calculus professor, and I would welcome the respite.
Harper: You did say that.
Margaret: What about two guys?
Me: Three guys! Four guys!
Margaret: You’re making fun of me, but it can be arranged.I put my phone down again. I look at my laptop screen, where I’m trying to write a paper on the intertextuality of avian themes in García Marquez and Cervantes, and it is not going well.
I should probably just go home and go to bed so I can tackle this in the morning, but first I stand from the uncomfortable wooden chair. My knees pop like I’m seventy.
When’s the last time I stood up? I think, and I have no idea.
I roll my shoulders, flex my hands, bend backwards, and then stroll along the wall, between the book stacks and the other carrels. There’s no one in any of them, but the ones on this floor are reserved for seniors doing their theses.
I walk all the way to the corner and then stand there, looking out the window.
At the mathematics building.
Dammit.
It’s been a little over three weeks since I showed up at his office hours and gave him a bottle of wine, which means it’s been a little over four weeks since the time I kissed him in the hospital.
I still haven’t apologized. I’ve been in class with him three times a week and back to his office hours twice, and I still haven’t apologized. At this point I don’t even know if I should apologize any more, or just pretend it never happened. Which is worse? Which makes me more of an asshole?
Meanwhile, I’ve been so busy that I’ve barely had time to breathe, between making up for the week of school I missed, graduate school applications, taking the bus home every weekend, and now midterms.
Just survive this week, I tell myself, looking out the tall, skinny window at the math building and the campus beyond, bathed in the orange light of street lamps.
Just get through this week, and then you can breathe for a minute before the last round of grad school applications and then —
There’s an office light on in the math building. Just one, on the top floor, and the moment I see it I have a bad, sinking feeling.
I also have butterflies. It’s a weird combination.
I should walk back to my carrel, pack my things, and leave before I get locked inside the library. That is what I, a reasonable and rational human woman, should do.
I don’t. I cup my hands to the glass to block out the light, then look out the window.
It’s the wrong office, I tell myself. What are the odds —
It’s not, of course, and as I look closer I can see a man sitting in an office chair, at a desk, in front of a computer. Doing something or other.
And I can tell it’s him. I don’t know how but I can, even from here: it’s shaped like him and it’s wearing a shirt that looks like his and he’s running one hand through his hair like Caleb does, pushing his glasses up like Caleb does, turning around like —
Caleb turns to face the window, and I freeze, hands still around my eyes, so obviously spying that I may as well be wearing binoculars.
He looks straight at me. Of course he does.
Slowly, I stand up straight, take my hands away from my eyes.
After a moment, he waves. I wave back.
Then, not knowing what else to do, I flash him a double thumbs-up and walk back to my carrel, where I sit, the paper still open on my laptop screen, and stare at it for a long moment.
The Crown, in its current incarnation, was built in the 1960s, a time that was pretty bad for VSU, architecturally speaking. It’s square and made of concrete, with tall, narrow slit windows that let almost no light in.
One of those windows is next to my carrel, and slowly, cautiously, I look through it.
Yup. There he is, though at least now his back is to me again and he’s on his computer, acting like I didn’t just spy on him and then act extremely weird about it.
Okay, I tell myself. Two more paragraphs and then —
An email notification pops up at the bottom of my screen with a ding, and even though I should be writing, I open it.From: [email protected]
Subject: ChivalryYou’re not walking home alone at this hour, are you?I look through the window and there he is, facing the window, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.
True to his new email address, his glasses are off.From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Chivalry