“If that’s a euphemism, I’m going to throw up,” Toni said.
“Stop.” I flushed. “It’s not like that.” Tim and I werefriends.
He arrived as I was leaving, plate in hand.
“Wow.” I took a deep, appreciative sniff. “Are those scones?”
He nodded. “Earl Grey with lavender icing.” A tiny V appeared between his eyebrows as he took in my jacket and the purse over my shoulder. “You’re not staying?”
I shook my head regretfully. “I can’t. I have this reading thing to go to.”
His mouth curved. “The full Trinity experience.”
A memory surfaced. Tim, his dorky graphic T-shirt half concealed by his navy blazer, when we all went out together the evening of the Oscar Diggs reading. The night that Sam kissed me.
“Um. Yes.” We stood on the landing, arm’s-length apart, the plate between us. I swallowed. “Well...”
“Have fun,” Tim said at the same time.
“You, too.”
Our eyes met. For a minute, I thought he was going to say something. Do something. I held my breath in anticipation. But all he said was, “Take a scone with you.”
“Thanks.”
It was still hot from the oven. I ate it on my way to the bus, savoring the warmth on my hands, the faint, floral sweetness lingering on my lips.
—
The reading was followed by a reception in the Arts Building. Glenda Norton shepherded the visiting speaker—a debut writer who had graduated from Trinity some years ago—from group to group. I recognized the creative writing students and staff, some English faculty, a deputation of administrators. They’d all read his book. Anyway, they pretended they had.
I missed the rainbow-haired tweens queuing for selfies, the friendly onsite bookseller with colorful stacks of Shivery Tales books.
Maybe Oscar Diggs did, too. He was standing on his own, blocked from the refreshments table by a knot of postgraduates drinking tepid wine and eating cubed cheese like it was their first solid food in days. I felt a tug of sympathy.
I wished Reeti were here. Tim. Sam.
“Can I get you anything, Mr.Diggs?” I offered. “Some wine?”
“Oscar, please. Thanks,” he said when I handed him a plastic cup of red. “Dee, isn’t it?”
I had been in his class for almost two months. I shouldn’t be gratified he remembered my name. “Yeah, hi. Um. Did you enjoy the reading?”
His eyes twinkled. “Bit long, I thought. But then, I have the attention span of a five-year-old. After twenty minutes, I’m ready for a drink.”
I smiled. “Should I have offered you apple juice?”
“Might be better than what they’re serving. How did you like it?”
He wasn’t asking my opinion of the wine.
“Well.” I paused, embarrassed to appear to criticize another writer. A published writer. I’d read his novel, strung with small, significant observations, polished hard and bright as diamonds. “It was very detailed.”
“Long on description, short on story.” Oscar sniffed at his glass. Grimaced comically. “That was a nice job you did with the character sketch. The little girl. What was her name?”
I glowed. “Rose. Thanks.” The last writing prompt for his seminar had been to write from the point of view of a child. “You don’t think she’s too ordinary?”
He cocked his head. “You want her to have superpowers?”
