Chapter 3
Callum
Asoft tap at my door pulled me out of a mind-numbing email from the dean of students.
“It’s open.”
The door inched forward, revealing a young woman with hesitant eyes and a loose plait spilling over her shoulder. I recognized her immediately as the third-row student who’d spoken to me after our first class.
“Gabrielle Clark,” I said, my surprise bleeding through more than I’d intended. Students rarely appeared at my Thursday afternoon office hours until desperation drove them here, usually closer to the first exam—or afterward, to plead for their grade.
Her eyes widened. “You remember me.” She tentatively stepped inside, notebook clutched to her chest.
“It’s rare to be thanked for a lecture.”
Her cheeks flushed, a delicate shade of pink against the muted gray afternoon light filtering through the window.
Rain was coming. She brought an odd warmth to the drab little box that passed for my office—cinderblock walls, shelves of textbooks lined like sentries, and institutional beige metal furniture.
The only hint of life was a failing fern slumped on the windowsill.
She wore an oversized forest-green cable-knit jumper over dark indigo jeans—well put together in a classic sort of way.
“Am I interrupting?” she asked, glancing at the papers scattered across my desk—the detritus of administrative tedium.
“Not at all. It’s refreshing to see someone here so early in the term.” I gestured toward the chair opposite me. “Please, have a seat.”
She moved with an unpretentious grace, settling into the chair and placing her notebook on her lap. I caught myself watching her slender, elegant fingers as she traced the cover.
“I was reviewing your notes from the first two classes,” she began, her voice steady but soft. “I’m having trouble with capacitors, I think? Unless it’s something more basic that I’ve missed.”
Her directness caught me off guard—so unlike the artifice or evasion I’d grown accustomed to hearing from students who darkened my door. I leaned back slightly in my chair and considered my response.
“Capacitors are tricky devils, but not nearly as devilish as they seem at first glance.” My tone softened, knowing she was likely out of practice but certainly not out of her depth. “Let’s take it from the top.”
She nodded, her expression one of complete focus. There was something surprisingly gratifying about having an audience of one.
“Think of a capacitor as a container—like a balloon—that stores electrical energy. It fills up when connected to a power source and then releases that energy when needed.”
The tension in her shoulders eased ever so slightly, though I knew she wasn’t entirely convinced.
“This ‘balloon’ effect allows capacitors to control the flow of electricity,” I continued. “They can release their charge all at once or gradually. This is especially useful for things like camera flashes, where you need a sudden burst of energy.”
“That makes sense,” she said slowly, as if testing the words before committing to them. “So in a circuit…?”
“They function as gatekeepers,” I replied. “Balancing the current or providing bursts when needed.”
“I was making it too complicated,” she admitted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. A simple gesture, and yet, I noticed.
“You wouldn’t be the first. It’s easy to get bogged down by the maths, but it makes sense when you understand the meaning behind the numbers.”
Another knock at my door. Surely not another student.
Bill Watkins, my colleague and resident of the adjacent office—tenured long before I’d arrived—stuck his head through the doorframe. “Hey, Cal, did you— Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Gabrielle turned to face him, and her eyes lit with recognition. “Hello, Dr. Watkins.” Her voice was sweet but not vapid or disingenuous.
“Gabrielle!” Bill exclaimed with a grin, eyes crinkled at the corners. “Camping out in office hours already?”
Her laughter was a quiet ripple, and it struck me as unexpectedly musical.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms casually crossed over his plaid jumper.
“Gabrielle here was in Physics 111 with me last fall.” He turned his attention back to her.
“Has Dr. Hawthorne learned yet that you’ll be a permanent fixture in his office until you’re satisfied you’ve conquered every concept? ”
“Consider me warned,” I said, drawing Bill’s attention back to me. I couldn’t be sure, but Gabrielle looked relieved to have the focus removed from her. “How can I help, Dr. Watkins?”
“Oh, it’s nothing important.” He scratched at his beard, more gray than red these days. “I just wanted to know if you could make heads or tails of that cryptic email from the dean. We can chat later.”
“Of course. I’ll pop by your office when I’m done here.”
“Great!” He turned back to my student. “Nice to see you again, Gabrielle. Good luck with classes this semester.”
“Thank you, Dr. Watkins,” she replied with a slight dip of her head.
Bill turned to leave, then paused. “You’re in good hands with Dr. Hawthorne. He’s the brightest of us all.”
“Don’t lie to the lady,” I teased, shooing Bill out of my office. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Sorry about that.”
She blushed ever so slightly, her cheeks again flushing a lovely pale rose.
“Now, what else can I help you with?”
By the time I left the science building, it was pitch dark outside. The faculty lot lay under those ghastly sodium streetlights that washed everything in amber and gray. Every time I stayed late on campus, I felt like I was walking through a noir film—flat light, no color, no warmth.
I approached my car, the mid-January chill biting through my overcoat.
The air carried a damp tension that always preceded rain—a North Texas specialty, where winter meant a dreary damp and bone-deep cold rather than snow.
As I reached for my keys, a fine drizzle began to fall.
That’s when I saw her—a figure standing under the sepia glare in the adjacent student lot.
She was beside her car, its bonnet propped open like a defeated banner.
Even from this distance, I recognized Gabrielle.
As the drizzle thickened into proper droplets, I pulled my umbrella from my satchel and unfurled it. Rain tapped against the fabric. I broke into a jog, footsteps sharp against wet asphalt, and came up beside her.
“Miss Clark,” I called, just loud enough to rise above the rain.
She startled slightly, straightening and brushing damp hair from her face. I lifted the umbrella over her head. The proximity to her—innocent enough—still kicked up my pulse.
“Oh! Dr. Hawthorne,” she said, voice laced with both surprise and relief. “What are you doing here so late?”
“I might ask you the same,” I replied with a trace of humor. “Trouble with your car?”
“It won’t start,” she grumbled, glancing down at the engine with a mix of frustration and resignation. “I think it’s the battery.”
I couldn’t help but smirk at the irony. “Battery troubles? Rather fitting, considering what we’ve been covering in class.”
Her lips curled faintly, a flicker of amusement in her eyes despite the situation. “You don’t happen to have jumper cables, do you?”
“Regrettably not. And even if I did”—I gestured back toward my car—“I drive a hybrid. It doesn’t play nicely when it comes to jumping other batteries.”
She let out a breath. “Just my luck.”
“I’d be happy to give you a ride,” I offered, careful to keep my tone professional. Still, something tightened in my chest at the prospect.
“Really? That would be amazing.” She shut the bonnet and brushed rain from her hands.
“Come on then, let’s get out of the weather.”
The umbrella strained against the wind as I walked her to my car. The scent of rain on wet pavement and pine hung in the air. Her shoulder nearly brushed mine. Her damp hair glistened, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold.
Once inside the dry haven of my car—a sleek silver sedan—we shook off the rain. Gabrielle rubbed her hands together to chase away the cold while I adjusted the climate controls.
“Shall I switch on your seat heater?”
She grinned. “Fancy. Yes, please.”
“Which residence hall do you stay in?” I asked, hoping to dispel any awkwardness that accompanied having a student in one’s passenger seat. I pulled out of the monochromatic car park and onto the rain-slicked street, the windscreen wipers swishing in a steady cadence.
“I actually live off-campus,” she said with a hint of pride.
I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve managed to circumvent the university’s strict on-campus residency policy? Impressive.” I glanced at her, intrigued. “Local, then? Living with your parents?”
She flinched slightly at the word “parents,” and I immediately regretted my curiosity, cursing my breach of discretion.
“No, I have an apartment. Nothing fancy, but it’s all mine,” she said quietly, gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window. “I’m twenty-five. The residency requirement only applies through twenty-four.”
I nodded, absorbing that. She was older than most students. Perhaps that explained her focus and determination. It also meant she had more life experience than I’d assumed, something that drew me to her in a way I couldn’t quite articulate—a way that left me unsettled.
“I’ll take you home then, if you’ll permit me.”
“Thank you, that would be great.” She chewed on her bottom lip and fiddled with the hem of her jumper. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all. Where to?”