He stood up.He walked over to me.He pressed his forehead against mine for a long second.
“Good luck,” he whispered.
“Good luck,” I said, grabbing my bag and lanyard.
I walked to the door.
“Austen?”
I turned.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
I opened the door.The hallway was empty.
I walked out, leaving the sanctuary of Room 412 behind.
Down in the lobby, the chaos had returned.Math students were drinking coffee in one corner; hockey players were stretching in another.
I saw Ryan O’Connell by the elevators.He waved at me.
“Hey, Math!”he yelled across the lobby.“How was the floor?”
I adjusted my glasses.I channeled every ounce of academic detachment I possessed.
“Adequate,” I called back.“Spinal alignment maintained.”
Ryan laughed.
I walked toward the ballroom, my heart still beating in time with the goalie upstairs.
Chapter 22
Quiet Study
Austen
The fourth floor of the university library was designated as the “Deep Quiet” zone.No talking, no headphones with bleed, no snacks louder than a marshmallow.
My natural habitat.
Or, at least, it had been.Usually, I came here to escape variables.Tonight, I was here waiting for one.
I sat at a corner carrel tucked behind the Slavic Literature stacks, a location I had selected for its optimal obscurity.My thesis draft was open on the screen, cursor blinking at the end of a sentence I had written twenty minutes ago.
In a system with multiple unknown factors, the hidden variable often exerts the most force on the trajectory.
I stared at the words.The irony was heavy-handed, even for me.
My phone buzzed against the wood of the desk.One short vibration.
Luke:Elevator.
My pulse did a traitorous little jump.I turned my phone face down and forced myself to look at the screen.Focus.You are a scholar.He is a guy.
He wasn’t a guy.He was the guy who had kissed me senseless in a Marriott king bed thirty-six hours ago.
