Makes you forget you’re sitting still, Silas? Seriously. Get a grip.
I need coffee more than I need to sit here unraveling, so I head down to the cafeteria.
I spot her the moment I walk in.
She’s sitting next to a girl who looks exactly like her, and I assume that’s Lupe.
You can tell from their posture and the way they move how different they are, and even though Lupe is more polished and put together, my eyes stay on Amalia, on the storm of lavender, yellow, and green all living on the same blouse.
Her glasses have slid too far down her nose while she’s in the middle of telling her sister something, and I watch her push the frames back up. I catch myself smiling at the gesture.
Is this the early onset of dementia? No, I’m too young for that.
In the background I spot Hugo Duarte watching her with something close to hunger, and I’m grateful the mugs here at the university are made of sturdy ceramic, because the grip I have on mine right now would shatter anything less. With one final glance at Amalia, I exit the cafeteria and take the stairs to the second floor. I have class in twenty minutes, but right now I need to have a very direct conversation with a certain fool who seems to think my girl is his next conquest.
A fragment of rationality tries to remind me that what I’m doing isn’t okay, that I’m putting my career and my integrity on the line for her. For this thing I can’t even name. Is it a relationship? Is it a fling I need to get out of my system? I could have had her yesterday. I could have. But her lilac and chocolate scent washed over me, and the only thing my brain wanted washer pleasure. The need to make her feel good, to hear those soft, breathless sounds she makes, to feel her skin under my fingers.
I check my watch and wait.
Exactly six minutes and nine seconds.
Hugo Duarte comes into view, scrolling on his phone, completely oblivious to everything around him. I check the hallway. Two students are chatting at the far end, but here, tucked between the pillars, no one has a clear line of sight. The second he passes by, I grab him by the back of the neck and pin him to the wall.
“What the—” he starts, but I apply more pressure. “Professor Vaughn?” spills from his lips.
“I’m going to make myself very clear because I understand that letters and words can be complicated for you, Hugo. Amalia Sanchez ceases to exist to you starting right now. You see her? You look the other way. That flowery scent of hers reaches you? You turn the other way. You so much as think about her lips, I will know, and there will be nowhere to run. I will make sure the dean and the campus police know about the stash you keep in your locker. I will make sure you’re off the football team before the week is out. I will make sure no one remembers your name.”
His eyes go wide and he nods, as quickly as a man can with a hand at his throat. He starts to stammer something, but I’m already walking away toward my classroom.
Eight minutes and fourteen seconds to make it.
When I finally get free from the last seminar, I get in the car and drive home.
On the way I pick up several different brands of hot chocolate mix, and somewhere between the second and third option, I also pull a pink and blue mug off the shelf before I can talk myself out of it, because it reminds me of her. I stand there for a second, mug in hand, and think:this is insane.Why am I trying this hard for this woman?
I don’t have a good answer, so I buy the mug anyway.
Back at the apartment, the light is warm, the last stretch of the day painting the walls in shades of orange. Green tea made, her hot chocolate ready in the new mug, I check the clock.
Four past eight.
Four minutes, Silas. You told her after eight. That could mean eight thirty, nine, or even eleven.
Right then, there’s a knock at the door.
Something lifts in my chest when I open it and find her standing there, shy, yellow rain jacket, that disheveled bun.
I step back to let her in, and from the moment she leaves her jacket and laptop by the entrance, my body becomes hungry for contact, so I close the distance between us for a kiss.
I hear the small surprised sound she makes, and when I feel her hands at the base of my back pulling me toward her, I’m the one who can’t mask the satisfaction.
Because in the past twenty-four hours, every thought I’ve had has been hijacked by images of her in my lap, her eyes going bright when I touch her, and that damn smile of hers that seems to go straight to my limbic system like it owns the place.
“God, I missed you,” I tell her, and I’m as caught off guard by the admission as she is. I swallow against a knot in my throat as I look at her.
Her features settle, and with a smile on her lips, she whispers, “I missed you too.”
That’s all I need to hear before I kiss her again. I don’t know how long I hold her like that, only that at some point I break the kiss and guide her to the kitchen.
