I tucked my phone into my pocket, collected my notes, and took three deep breaths. Time to be Dr. Price.
When the department chair introduced me, I walked onto the stage with practiced confidence. The lecture hall was almost full—students with notebooks open, faculty colleagues nodding in greeting, community members who’d come to this lecture to hear the “firebrand historian” speak her truth.
I adjusted the microphone, set my notes on the podium, and observed the audience with a smile that came across as more natural than I expected, considering the news I’d just received.
“Thank you all for coming today. We’re here to talk about the evolution of civil disobedience in the digital era, but first, I want to take us back to the foundations . . .”
12
RONAN
Several days had gone by since I called and warned Nia to lie low. Now, here she was at the grocery store in the produce section, and I wondered if I should walk away and save both of us from an awkward conversation, but it felt right for us to talk now.
Nia was gorgeous, wearing a head wrap and a matching sundress. For a second, I watched her inspect each piece of fruit, the slight furrow in her brow, all that beauty and brilliance focused on something as mundane as grocery shopping, and my heart did a stupid stutter thing.
She hadn’t spotted me yet, too focused on examining an avocado as I headed her way.
I stopped at a respectful distance away. “That one’s not ripe enough; give it at least two more days.”
Nia’s head snapped up, her beautiful brown eyes widening for just a second before something stuttered behind them. “Ronan, ” Nia said my name flat and carefully, with no warmth or surprise.
"Hey, I didn't expect to see you here."
"Yeah, I’m grabbing a few things." She set the avocado down. Her eyes darted past my shoulder, scanning the store behind me.
The conversation stalled, weighed down by everything we weren’t saying. In the holding cell, we’d shared secrets and fears, parts of ourselves we hid from others. In my cabin, we’d shared even more of our bodies and a closeness that should have erased this awkward distance. It hurt that she seemed to care more about picking fruit than about me.
“Been busy?” I asked, trying to find something to say, desperate for any topic that might keep us talking.
She nodded, eyes on the fruit display. “Mmm. Classes, lectures. You know how it is.”
I didn’t know, not really. I didn’t know why she couldn’t look at me directly, why her answers came out clipped and careful, why the woman who’d stood almost naked and unashamed in my living room now seemed desperate to put distance between us.
“Nia—” I said, but a middle-aged woman who appeared at my elbow, her eyes bright with recognition, interrupted me.
“Oh my God, you’re the police chief from the videos! My daughter follows you on Instagram. Chief Pretty Boy!”
Her voice projected through the produce section, drawing inquiring looks from other shoppers. Heat climbed up my neck. Not this shit again. The nickname had gone viral again after the protest, and I couldn’t go anywhere without someone bringing it up.
I offered a polite nod, despite my embarrassment.
Another woman approached. “Can I get a quick selfie? My book club will die!”
She positioned herself beside me, phone held out to snap the photo. I smiled automatically. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Nia’s amused expression, but it vanished quickly.
“Thank you so much! I think what you’re doing is so important.” The woman beamed after taking the photo. She patted my arm, then scurried away before I could say anything.
When I looked back at Nia, her eyes were cold, just like they had been at community forums before the protest and before things changed between us.
“Looks like fame follows you everywhere,” she noted, her tone unreadable.
I rubbed my beard, feeling self-conscious. “Not by choice. It’s embarrassing.”
She checked her watch on purpose. “Listen, I should really?—”
“You avoiding me, Nia?”
Something crossed her face, but I couldn’t tell what it was.
