My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I slowly sat back down, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away from Hoffmann’s challenging gaze.
She wasn’t backing down either. If anything, she looked more determined than before.
“This is exactly the kind of discussion I was hoping for,” Dr. Chen said, seemingly unfazed by the tension. “Ms. Obi raises important questions about cultural sovereignty and the dangers of moral imperialism. Ms. Hoffmann challenges us to consider whether there are limits to cultural tolerance. Both perspectives have merit, and both have serious flaws.”
I barely heard the rest. All I could feel was Ms. Hoffmann’s gaze still resting on me.
When class ended forty minutes later, I packed up quickly and bolted for the door, my heart still racing from the confrontation.
But as I stepped into the hallway, I heard her voice behind me.
“Running away, princess?”
I spun around, my bag nearly sliding off my shoulder.
She was standing there with her hands in her jacket pockets like earlier, an infuriating smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.
“I’m not running,” I said, lifting my chin. “Unlike some people, I don’t enjoy arguing with strangers.”
“Strangers?” She took a step closer, and I caught that same scent from earlier. “We’re not strangers anymore, are we? We’re classmates now. Guess we’re stuck with each other.”
There was the faintest hint of something on her face that might have been amusement.
Before I could respond, she walked past me down the hallway, her boots clicking against the floor.
I watched her go, my hands shaking slightly from leftover adrenaline, wondering what exactly I had just walked into.
II
“The most intense conflicts, if overcome, leave behind a sense of security and calm that is not easily disturbed.”
— Carl Jung
Chapter Three
Marley
“C’mon, Atlas, no rush. I’m gonna be there in umm…” I said into the voice note as I checked the status bar of my phone. “Thirty minutes max,” I clarified as I pushed my legs into my boots.
I had a blind date, courtesy of my best friend, and honestly, I was already regretting agreeing to it. But Atlas had that irritating combination of guilt and logic that always worked on me.
“She’s perfect for you, Mar,” she’d said over coffee last week. “She’s smart and funny, and she won’t put up with your emotional unavailability bullshit.”
That last part should have been a red flag, yet here I was anyway, pulling on my winter coat and checking my reflection in my hallway mirror. My short hair looked messy, blue jeans that actually fit properly, and boots that could handle whatever the weather decided to throw at me today.
My phone buzzed against the kitchen counter where I’d left it charging.
Atlas: She’s already at the bar. Brown hair, red sweater. Don’t be an ass.
I snorted. Such low faith in my social skills.
Me: When am I ever an ass?
Atlas: Do you want the chronological list or the alphabetical one?
Fair point.
I grabbed my keys and wallet, shoving them into my jacket pockets. The thing about blind dates was that they were usually disasters, but at least they were predictable disasters. All I had to do was show up, make polite conversation for at least an hour, invent an excuse to leave early, go home, and watch HBO with a drink. It was a light-footed, no-strings kind of easy.
