Astor Hill

Chapter 9

9

Olivia

Sitting in my early, Monday morning seminar, I’m hyper aware of rifling hands, rapidly clicking pens, and floppy notebooks hitting the tables. Topics in Women’s Literature doesn’t start until 8:45, but I’m here at 8:30 to suss out the most advantageous seat. Professor Delphi rarely teaches undergraduate seminars anymore, spending most of her time at Astor with her carefully selected circle of graduate students. While I was intrigued by the reading list, I was even more excited by the prospect of entering her orbit. A recommendation from Delphi, a woman publishing the kind of books that get you a meeting with the president, carries the weight of one library donation. At least.

The room is in the new English wing of Astor, funded in part by a hefty donation from the Newhouses. Three creamy ivory walls are interrupted by a series of four long paned windows conjoined to form the front of the seminar space, while the wall behind me is crowded with faculty publications and a heavy wooden door, engraved with the Astor Lion insignia. Above the door is a thinly framed clock with intricate hands. I check the time— 8:38. A few more students file in, and I see a red headed girl throw a sidelong glance at me and the seat I occupy. My eyes narrow and I shoot her a tight-lipped smile as I place my tote on the seat next to me. The early bird gets the worm, bitch.

I pull my legal pad out of my tote, placing it on the mahogany table in front of me. I’m dating the top right corner of the sheet when I hear a heavy door shut at the front of the room. A tall woman in chunky loafers strolls in, slamming her messenger bag onto the chair by the podium at the front of the room. Brushing her tawny bangs out of her face, she glances up from a freshly acquired notepad.

“Topics in Women’s Literature?” she asks, scrunching her eyebrows at me.

I sense the girls around me freeze, and I answer “Yup” before the red head beats me to it. Delphi smirks at me, and I know I’ve already scored a point.

“Great,” she continues. “It’s 8:40, but we’re going to get started. We’ve got a lot to cover, logistics to figure out, and I like to get out of here early. Driving around here is unbearable after 10:30.” A few students chuckle nervously, obviously unsettled by Delphi’s cavalier attitude. “Okay… who can tell me what they think is the first femin?—”

The back door creaks open and heavy footsteps audibly mar the wooden floors. Determined to appear focused, I keep my eyes glued on Delphi. I start sifting through early feminist pieces of literature: Wollstonecraft technically… but maybe Christine… the french one? The City of whatever? Shit. I already know red-head is about to score a point. I’m managing the intense competitiveness surging through me when I hear a familiar voice.

“Sorry, my schedule said 8:45. It won’t happen again,” the faceless voice remarks softly, obviously self conscious about the masculine echo emanating from where he shuffles toward the front. I feel myself shiver recognizing immediately who that velvety deep voice belongs to.

“Oh, I started early. I just gave my ‘Let’s get out of here early spiel.’ And now I’m doing my ‘guess the earliest feminist work’ bit, so you haven’t missed much. Just grab a seat… if you can find one.” Delphi flashes a crooked smile at the intruder, and I glance at the empty seat next to me. Please let there be another seat. Please don’t fill the air and space around me with all of your voice and scent and warmth and sarcasm and wit and ? —

“Here’s free! I think I recognize you from the other night?” the redhead squeakily offers. My jaw unwillingly tenses and I pointedly flip the pages of the syllabus that just landed in front of me.

I’m registering the absence of a response when I hear a low chuckle next to me.

“I think I’ll sit here, but thanks.” Ben responds as he slowly presses into the seat I’d so valiantly guarded just minutes before.

I take a deep breath and steel myself against the warmth that’s already emerging from his body. There’s really no reason for our chairs to be this close. Are they even that close? I refuse to glance anywhere but straight ahead.

“On time is late, Cabot,” I mutter through closed teeth, slightly tilting my head to ensure he hears me. He chuckles in reply.

“Wollstonecraft,” the cheeky red-haired girl remarks a bit pointedly, clearly frustrated by Ben choosing the seat beside me. I clear my throat, attempting to mask my glee at her obviously wrong answer. Even with the extra response time granted by Ben’s late-but-on-time arrival, she still got it wrong.

“I am so glad you said so! But no. Anyone else?” Delphi’s enthusiasm buffers the rejection apparent in her reaction and I can’t help but smile. Knowing the coast is clear for even a partially correct answer, I readjust in my seat.

“ The Book of the City of Ladies ,” the voice next to me casually states. An unruly heat tingles from my neck to my breasts, swirling into my abdomen and threatens to travel further before I bite my lip and readjust in my seat. I’m too busy stifling how hot my body finds his knowledge of fifteenth century literature to be pissed that he basically cut me off.

I clear my throat attempting to regain my composure and add, “Christine de Pizan.” Delphi confirms my answer with a warm smile.

“Yes,” she commends, slightly nodding to me, then Ben. “Wollstonecraft was the first to explicitly outline a feminist manifesto of sorts, that is true, but Pizan’s text is really our first recorded piece of literature whose purpose is feminist in nature.”

Feeling Ben glance at me with a conspiratorial smile on his face, I shift my eyes down to my legal pad and begin writing notes, pressing the tip of my pen hard against the lined sheet, hoping the exertion will suppress the heat pulsing from my various erogenous zones. Delphi waxes poetic about the Bront? sisters, Woolf, Austen, Hurston, Morrison, and I struggle to keep up with her stream of consciousness lecture as the heady scent filling the seemingly shrinking gap between Ben and I overwhelms my senses. I still refuse to look, unwilling to break the focused persona I’ve crafted for Delphi.

“Now that I’ve given you the Spark notes history of women’s literature, we can pivot to the content of our course.” Delphi’s smile is smug as her eyes survey the room. I gently place my pen on my legal pad, willing my gaze to remain steady. The scribbling of pens stops so quickly, I know I’m not the only one who feels like they’ve made a fool of themselves by frantically taking note of every syllable flying out of Delphi’s mouth for the last thirty minutes. Ben leans forward in his seat, and I get a glimpse of his firm forearms as he places his elbows on our shared table. He is, naturally, unfazed by Delphi’s pivot, seeing as he hasn’t even taken out a sheet of paper.

“This year, I want to focus on the literature women are writing and reading now . If you want a class on the classics, feel free to visit the registrar and enroll in a different seminar. But if you’re open to exploring how we might use feminist frameworks to decipher the allure and intention of contemporary women’s fiction… then yeah. This is the class.” One chair screeches against the floor, and the back door slams shut. I see the corner of Ben’s determined jaw as he briefly rests his head on his hand and glances to the back of the room.

“Cool. Better than I thought,” Delphi remarks, mostly to herself. “By the next seminar you’ll need to have read Radway’s ‘Women Read the Romance,’ and come prepared to discuss. Because I despise fluff discussions where you obviously haven’t spent a minute considering the ideas I asked you to read about—” she pauses, taking a breath before continuing, “you’re going to be going through all of our readings with a partner.” I’m hoping the gulp that just traveled down my throat wasn’t loud enough for Ben to hear. “I hate grouping students, so who you’re next to is fine. Partner up, read the essay, come back next week ready to share your thoughts on popular women’s fiction. Off you go!” And with that, Delphi gathers her notepad and pen, stuffs both into her faded cross body bag, and slides out the front door.

“So I guess we’re gonna be?—”

“Partners,” I let out with a breath as I finally turn to face Ben. His warm eyes dance with amusement and he smiles at me. The smile draws my eye to his cheekbone, highlighted with bluish-purple hues. My fingers itch to reach out and brush it, but I brush them against each other instead. I feel a rush of worry accompanied by a wave of heat. The flush that had been confined to the clothed parts of my body spreads beyond my t-shirt and I feel it begin to creep up my neck. Eager to quell the biological reaction my body has to Ben’s smile, I turn back to my notepad. “Perfect. Just another opportunity for me to get that story out of you.”

“As if you needed an opportunity,” he says, the slight lilt in his voice doing nothing to disguise his increasing amusement.

“Aren’t you a quick study?” I arch my eyebrows, feigning surprise. “I guess you’ll bring something to the table in this partnership, after all.”

“You’ll find I bring a lot more to the table than that.” I catch his jaw tense briefly before he smiles sardonically, casually laying his arm across the back of my chair as if the tight space can't contain his tall frame.

“Ah, he’s presumptuous too,” I coolly drawl, attempting to put a lid on the heat his flirtation is stirring and the warmth of his arm now spreading across my back.

He lets out a soft huff, drawing his top teeth over his pillowy bottom lip. His eyes narrow and his warm gaze heats my face before it moves to the side, catching the time on the clock.

“If you have somewhere to be, please—” I blurt out, eager to end this exchange.

“I…” he hesitates, glancing at the clock again. “I actually registered for a morning lab so, yeah, I do. And if I’m going to walk and get there on time…” He pulls his arm away instantly leaving my body feeling empty with its absence as he moves to stand.

“Of course. Just text me so we can coordinate that partner reading.”

“Partner reading?” That sardonic smile, again. I resent the blush I feel burn on the apples of my cheeks.

“Or not. She won’t know we didn’t read together.” I force my right shoulder to shrug slightly. That chiseled jaw flicks again as he pauses, visibly considering my words.

The smile reemerges, the mocking partially replaced with what looks like delight.

“We can read together, Olivia. That’s fine.” He starts to push his chair back, but stops suddenly, pulling the legal pad from beneath my palm. The pen in my hand disappears as his fingers brush against mine, and he scribbles a series of numbers on the paper. “There. Now you won’t have to ask Will.”

Rolling my eyes, I forcefully push myself out of my seat. I’m embarrassed by his mention of Will, especially as I’m unable to douse the desire that has been lapping against me since he answered that stupid question.

Staring down at him I elongate my spine, shifting back into myself. I soften my features, allowing what I know is a luxuriously playful smile to grace my face. I float my hand to his shoulder, pushing past the hot sensitivity in my fingertips as they graze the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

“And he’s thoughtful,” I say, subtly tilting my head. “Don’t worry. I can handle your brother,” I almost whisper with a mischievous wink. I sweep my legal pad and pen into my tote before I meet Ben’s gaze again. The amusement from moments ago is gone, now replaced by something I simply refuse to investigate.

“Bye, Benjamin,” I cheekily throw over my shoulder as I make my way to the heavy wooden exit. I feel his eyes on me until I reach the bright September morning on the other side of the door. The late summer sun replaces Ben as the source of my full body flush as I survey the quickly crowding campus. He’s definitely going to be late .

Sitting down on the cleanest patch of grass on Mawbry Lawn, I slip my legal pad out of my tote and type Ben’s number into my phone. The bottom quarter of the sheet tears as I tug at the corner with the elegantly scribbled digits. Crumpling the sliver of paper in my hands, I stuff it to the bottom of my tote and make a mental note to find a trash can later.

“ As if you needed an opportunity.” I scoff quietly to myself as I rifle through my tote for my lip gloss.

“You’ll find I bring a lot more to the table than that.” The wand of my gloss slowly glides back and forth and back and forth over my chapped lip as I relive the bodily sensations that invaded me the moment Ben’s words left his pretty mouth. I’m lost in thought when I feel two broad hands cup my shoulders from behind. Will’s breath tickles the side of my neck.

“Hey you,” he says before pressing a soft kiss to the spot his breath caressed just moments before. Guilt inches up my throat and I swallow it down.

“Coffee?” I ask, tilting my head back with an innocent smile, focusing my brain’s train of thought on the present. My hand reaches out to the side in anticipation of the cardboard cup Will is about to place in it. Not a moment later, an icy Americano in sheer plastic is in my grasp.

“I figured it was too warm for a hot one.” It was.

Will was good at this, sometimes. Anticipating my thoughts and feelings when they weren’t too complex, making decisions in my best interest when they weren’t too high stakes. I slowly sip my midnight black iced coffee with one hand, passing my gloss to Will with the other. He slips it into my bag, and my heart skips a beat as I remember the wad of paper I’d shoved to the bottom of my tote just minutes ago.

It isn’t that I’m hiding my association with Ben from Will; he knows I’m writing this story, so I’ll obviously have to spend some time with him. And it isn’t that I’m afraid of what Will might do or say, though I would rather avoid the fallout. I actually don’t know why, exactly, I’m so hesitant to let Will into this tiny pocket of my life right now. The attraction is unsettling, yes, but I’m also not some shallow whore, powerless in the face of an extraordinarily beautiful man. Genevieve comes to mind.

It’s that Ben both eases and unnerves me, and I don’t know what to do with that. I think the unnerving has to do with his intense attention to my relationship with Will. Every time Will comes up, I feel like he’s cracked open my head and taken a magnifying glass to it. His eyes get so earnest and thoughtful and I start to notice my chest aches.

Unnerving, to say the least. Anyone would say so. And the fact that he, every now and again, puts me at ease, isn’t so odd now that I think of it. Grant puts me at ease, and I’ve never contemplated my friendship with him. I’m being over analytical.

Will should have been more transparent with me about Ben. Who dates someone for over a year and doesn’t mention their literal brother? That’s the source of all this weirdness.

I smile, satisfied with my logic.

“Sip, babe. You’re catatonic over there.” Will’s voice pierces my thought bubble and I feel my awareness click into place. Here, with Will, on Mawbry Lawn, on a beautiful, albeit warm, Monday morning. I turn my head so I’m taking in all of Will’s boyish charm at once.

The sleeves of his Astor Hill Basketball crewneck are bunched up to his elbows, revealing bronzy, tanned forearms taught with the muscles he must’ve used while doing dribbling drills this morning. His hand reaches toward my face and his calloused thumb grazes an errant smudge of lip gloss beneath my lip.

“How were drills this morning?” I ask, snatching his hand with mine, pulling it into my lap. Rather than making contact with his usually smooth skin, I’m met by a rough gauzy surface. I look down, noticing slight bruising where the bandage fails to cover an obvious injury. It reminds me of the bruise I noticed on Ben’s cheek earlier this morning; my mind is racing, considering all the explanations for what I’m realizing was a fight between Will and Ben.

“They were?—”

“Did you hit him?” I demand, dropping his hand from my grasp in disgust.

“Wait, hit who?” Will’s brows furrow in annoyance as the reality of who I’m talking about dawns on him. “Why the fuck do you care? It’s not like you know him.” I’m surprised by the irritation that overwhelms me.

He’s not wrong. I don’t know Ben, and I shouldn’t care. I should be relieved that he’s dropping his fixation on Ben even speaking to me, but part of me is disappointed that the person who is supposed to be consuming my thoughts doesn’t know that someone else is.

In an attempt to shield my unfounded fury, I rise off the grass, brushing debris off the back of my thigh.

“Are you serious? Why are you making this into something? Olivia, you’re being dramatic,” Will huffs, his non-bandaged hand wrapping around my calf.

Looking down on him, I shake him off. “Oh, I’m sorry. Would you rather me assault you when I’m annoyed?” I see him roll his eyes right as I start to turn away.

“Fine. Genevieve just texted me that she got me some ice from Nero. Pretty thoughtful, huh?”

“I’m surprised she didn’t get it from the food hall, considering her taste for sloppy seconds.”

The sly glint in Will’s eyes turns slightly feral. “Who says she’s the one getting sloppy seconds?” My eyes widen. I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me but his blatant disrespect for me and our relationship seems to be the only consistency we have right now. Without a word I grab my bag and move to leave. “Wait—” Will says standing and dusting the grass off his jeans. “Chill— that was clearly a joke.”

I refuse to speak to him blatantly, looking away as to not make eye contact with him. His arm circles around my waist and I roll my eyes, my aggravation subsiding only slightly at his gentle touch. He kisses me tenderly on the cheek.

“I really am running late, but I’m sorry. Call me when you calm down?” He grabs his basketball duffel off the ground leaving me standing there looking after him, wondering how many times I’m going to have the same argument until I can’t anymore.