I swallow hard, and before I can stop myself, I type back:I have plans Friday.
It's a lie. I don't have plans. But I'm so tired of being told what to do, where to be, who to be.
His response comes immediately:Cancel them. This is important.
Savannah:My plans are important too.
Thad:Savannah. Don't be difficult. These are major clients. I need you there.
I stare at the text, at the casual dismissal of my time, my autonomy, my life. And I think about Romeo, who asks if I'mfree before suggesting we meet. Who respects when I say no. Who treats my time like it has value.
Savannah:I can't make it. Sorry.
I send it before I can second-guess myself, then turn off my phone and shove it in my bag.
I'm going to pay for that later. I know I am. But right now, I don't care.
—
Our project presentationis in two weeks, and once again, I give in and start to meet with Romeo in person again. I tell myself that it’s because it’s more convenient, and we can more easily hash out how to do things and what we want to include during a face-to-face conversation than back and forth over email.
But when my heart flips when I arrive at our usual table to find him already there, two coffees waiting and his laptop open to our shared presentation file, I know I’m lying to myself as well as Thad—who I’ve told I’m no longer working with Romeo. There’s always a chance he might double-check with my professor, but I’ve just let myself hope that either he’ll be too busy, or Dr. Kouris will respect student privacy. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who would take well to a man calling her up and demanding information about her students.
"Hi," Romeo says as I approach, and I feel my heart stutter again.
"Hi." I sit down across from him, trying to ignore how aware I am of his presence. The way he smells like cedar. The way his hands move when he gestures. The way he looks at me like I'm the only person in the room.
"I added some slides about the religious symbolism in Minoan art," he says, turning his laptop so I can see. "But I wanted to get your input before finalizing them."
I lean forward to look at the screen, and I'm immediately impressed. The slides are well-organized, the images are high-quality, and the analysis is good.
"This is really good," I say, glancing over the references. “Those are exactly the right sources for this argument."
"I've been doing my reading." He sounds proud that I noticed and approved.
We work for an hour, refining slides and debating interpretations. And the whole time, I'm hyperaware of him—the way his knee occasionally brushes mine under the table, the way he leans close when pointing something out on my screen. The way his voice drops slightly when he's making a point he's particularly passionate about.
The tension is beginning to feel unbearable.
I've never felt anything like this before. I’ve been kissed a few times before Thad, in high school and at college parties, even though I never actually dated. I’ve never gone further than that. Thad is the most intense kissing I’ve ever experienced… but I don’t like it. The way he kisses me clearly has never had anything to do with my pleasure, and it always feels like he’s claiming me, putting a stamp on me so that no one else can take what’s his. And not in a way that feels good.
But with Romeo?—
He’s never even touched me, and yet, I can’t help but feel that if he kissed me, I’d come apart at the seams. That just his lips touching mine would be the most exquisite thing I’ve ever felt.
"Savannah?"
I realize he's been talking, and I haven't heard a word. "Sorry. What?"
"I asked if you wanted to take a break. Get some food?"
"Oh. Yes. That would be good."
We pack up our things and head to a small café near campus. It's starting to get dark outside, and there's a strange quality to the air—heavy and electric.
"Storm coming," Romeo says, following my gaze to the darkening sky. "Supposed to be a big one. Spring storms up here can be intense."
We order sandwiches and sit at a corner table. The conversation flows easily—about class and our research, about books we've read and places we want to visit. I don't mention Thad, and neither does he. We head back to the library around eight. The storm still hasn't hit, but the air is thick with the anticipation of it. The library is nearly empty—most students have gone home or to their dorms, not wanting to get caught in the weather. There are still a handful of them milling around at the coffee counter inside or the tables, too worried about upcoming presentations or tests to be concerned about the weather.
