His sister huffs out a laugh. “Okay, A: it’shardlyraining. B: I’m not an idiot, and, in conclusion, it isimperativethat you stop being a helicopter parent before I block your number and you never hear from me or your daughter again.”
The call ends with a resounding click.
Roman pulls the phone from his ear, jaw slack as he stares at the darkened screen.
As he walks the length of campus to get to his next class, the humidity and rain cause pools of sweat to roll down his arms. The sun glares at him as he picks up his pace through the bustling campus. It seems to scold him for running late. His schedule doesn’t leave much time for him to take a piss in a timely manner, apparently. He breezes across the quad and cuts through Freshman Orientation, letting out a breathless apology when he bumps into a young woman wearing a green sweater.
He does a double-take and his mind floats to the woman from a few weeks ago. Truly, he thinks it’s for the best she said no. He doesn’t have anything to offer. He’s too busy trying to keep his life together.
What would have happened, really?
Maybe they would have hit it off. He’d let her steer the conversation, though, because he was fascinated with her. Her quick retorts and sharp mind. He had several questions that he needed answered and she’d maybe, hopefully, after a few minutes, be willing to answer them, but then she’d ask about his life, his story. And he’d be reminded by the fact that he’s not someone who can go on dates with just anyone. He can’t just bring strangers into his house, into his home. Because they’d get there, stumble through the door, and maybe even trip into a baby walker. He can’t exhaust his energy on someone else when there’s someone far more important that’s needing his attention.
He can’t have both.
Right?
So, even as he pushes through the double doors to the auditorium, he wills himself to think that everything happens for a reason. Despite being an engineering major, he believes in things like fate and destiny.
Starry-eyed. Quixotic. Impractical is what he is.
The lecture hall is spacious, dimly lit, and has the worst ventilation system in the university. Rows of worn-down oak desks line the auditorium, and two blackboards take up most of the front wall.
Hushed murmurs fill the space as Roman slips inside. He braces his hand on the creaking door so as not to draw attention to himself. Gliding up the carpeted stairs, he sinks into the first open seat he notices. Adjusting his bag on the side, he takes out his laptop.
He taps hastily, trying to pull up a blank document for note-taking. The room falls to whispers and murmurs before a different timbre greets his ears. It’s a juxtaposition to the gritty tone that was echoing throughout the space only moments ago. This one isgentle. Soft. Confident, but not supercilious.
“My name is Jahlani Jones, and I will be the graduate teaching assistant this semester. I am looking forward to working with you all. I’m currently in the final semester of the master’s program for Data Science and Statistics. I recently moved from New York City so I’m really,reallystruggling to adjust to the humidity here.”
This earns a few chuckles throughout the room and causes Roman’s gaze to drift upwards, his body humming in recognition because it’shis Jahlani.
She stands in the middle of the room with the small mic curled tightly between her fingers. She walks across the space as she speaks, gesticulating with her hands. Her dark eyes rove about the room, and her initial nerves seem to ease as she continues. Sitting upright, he almost knocks the laptop off the desk.
His eyes follow her, soaking her in. Watching, lingering on areas that most would considerhighlyinappropriate andextremelyimpolite, but he just can’t help it. He watches her from his corner of the room. Watching the way her angular flats turn outward when she steps, to the way her lips curve when she answers questions about her experience working with her internship company.
As he does his hardest to listen above the rattling, pulsing, thumpingthingin his chest, he can’t help but think she looks the same: unbearably beautiful and impossible to forget. Memories of“What if I’m the problem?”and“I’m finishing up my master’s program around here”dredgeup as he studies her. He sinks lower into the seat, wiping his hand down his mouth, trying to even out his breathing.
Her braids gather into a mass of curls that cascade dutifully down her shoulders, accentuating her high cheekbones and rounded ears. The green cardigan drapes over her frame and he wonders how she isn’t dead yet from overheating. Leaningforward with his elbows on his knees, he listens intently as she reviews her role and course materials. He seems to forget that it was less than an hour ago he was determined to remove the foot that Jackson had on his neck. And now?
Now, he’s never been more thankful to a professor for failing him.
“Are there any other questions for me?” She asks warmly, innocently. Her eyes skate across the room, first to the leftmost side, then down the middle, where a hand has shot up.
“I’m sorry, but like what do you know about statistics?” The voice is nasally. Condescending.
Jahlani’s smile falters, and her initial weariness seems to slip back onto her like a second skin.
“I can assure you that Ms. Jones is more than qualified,” Professor Jackson says. “Besides, she isn’t here for an interview, Mr. Torres, especially one conducted by someone who failed this class. Twice.”
Jackson’s voice is loud and razor-sharp as he stares at the boy sliding further into his seat.
Jahlani blows out a breath, answering a few more questions before finally reaching Roman’s section. He inhales sharply, clutching the armrest, blood pulsing, mouth drying as her eyes catch his briefly and?—
She continues her exploration without a second glance. He licks his lips and wills his heart tostop thrashing so fucking loudly.
She doesn’t remember.
She doesn’t remember him.
