Chapter 7 Harper
HARPER
“It’s official,” I mutter, tossing a sweater onto my bed. “I have nothing to wear.”
Emma raises an eyebrow at me before pointedly looking at the pile of clothes on my bed. “Dramatic much?”
“Fine,” I turn back to the closet. “I’ll amend my statement. I have nothing suitable to wear.”
“I thought you just have class today.”
I turn my head away to make sure she can’t see any trace of a blush on my cheeks. There’s obviously no way I can tell her that I’m stressing about the possibility of seeing Nate again on campus. She doesn’t even know that Nate exists.
“I’m meeting with my advisor later,” I tell her, which isn’t even a lie. But it’s also not something that I’m particularly stressed about. And certainly not something worth having a fashion meltdown over.
She looks a little uncertain, like she can tell there’s something I’m not telling her, but she also perches on my bed to help me figure out the clothes situation.
“Those black pencil leg jeans.” She points at a sleeveless blouse I already tried with my skirt and discarded. “And the cream silk.”
“You don’t think sleeveless is too much?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a grad student, Harper. Not a nun.” She thrusts the shirt at me. “This looks professional for summer but not dowdy. It’s perfect. Trust me.”
Since she’s rarely steered me wrong in the fashion department, I take the shirt from her and start to change, for the hundredth time that morning.
“Come here,” she says, once I’ve finished. “I’ll do that front braid thing you like.”
I flash her a smile. “You’re the best.”
I join her on the bed and she gets to work French braiding the front section of my hair. “You feeling okay?” she asks, eyes on my hair. “It’s not like you to get so nervous about school stuff.”
I snort. “About everything else though, right?”
She smiles. “I mean, you are kind of a basket case in day-to-day life.”
I flick her knee and she laughs, tugging on my hair a little.
“I’m serious, though, Harp. It’s not just this morning.
You’ve been…jumpy, lately.” Her eyes flick down from the braid to catch my gaze.
She looks concerned and I have a feeling I’m not going to enjoy this conversation. “Ever since Club Wyld.”
I blow out a breath, averting my gaze—she knows me too well.
“It’s given me a lot to think about.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t do anything wrong, babe.”
“Sure,” I say, even as that familiar, slightly sick feeling rushes through me.
She tugs on my hair again, harder this time. She’s not buying my shit. She never does. “I mean it, Harper. There’s nothing wrong with wanting what you want—”
I cut her off with a raised hand. “I don’t know what I want. That’s the problem.”
She watches me for a long moment, that concerned expression still there. Finally, she smiles, a familiar wicked glint coming to her eyes. “Then I guess I need to work on getting us some more passes. So you can do lots of experimenting.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m so sure that’s the reason you want to go to that club.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind doing some experimenting of my own.”
She finishes my braid and pats the top of my head, her expression now motherly. “My baby’s first day of grad school. I can’t believe it.”
I laugh, pushing her away. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this Hallmark moment, I need to get going or I’ll be late.”
Before I can get up, she wraps her arms around me. “I’m proud of you, Harps,” she whispers in my ear. “I really, really am. And they would be too.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. It’s a question I ask myself every day—would my parents be proud? That question has impacted every decision I’ve made for the last ten years.
And I’m not sure I’m any closer to being able to answer it.
There’s usually a calm that settles over me when I’m on the campus of Denby University.
I like to think it’s the proximity of all those books.
It’s been this way since I first stepped foot on the rolling green lawns as a nervous freshman four years ago.
All the uncertainty that normally plagues me seems to fade away when I’m here.
School makes me feel like I have a purpose.
Like there’s a plan. Like my life makes sense.
But today that calm doesn’t come. I’m on edge all morning, through my first two classes and my hurried lunch of a granola bar, scarfed down in the ten minutes between my last class and my advisor meeting.
I know why I’m feeling this way—it’s Nate.
I keep telling myself I won’t run into him, that it’s a big campus and he has a full schedule. But that doesn’t stop me from looking for him in every hallway, around every corner.
Even in my advisor meeting I don’t have a reprieve. In addition to going over the curriculum for the classes I’ll be teaching as Professor Travers’s TA, we talk about research opportunities for the semester.
“You’re not required to finish your full-time research piece until second year,” he reminds me. “But we always encourage first-year students to get as much experience as possible. There are several part-time positions you could try for.”
I don’t need to listen as he goes through the list of projects with open grad student positions. I have them all memorized. And I already know which one I want.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” he says when I express my preference for Dr. Chase’s study. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that you’re looking at a very competitive position.”
I nod. Everyone in my year is going to be going for a spot.
Not only does his topic have a lot of overlap between several departments, but Dr. Jonathan Chase is a big name in this field.
His books on relationships and dating in the modern era almost always jump right to the front of the best seller lists, making him about as famous as a psychologist can be.
While it’s not guaranteed this research project will play a role in one of his mainstream books, the mere possibility is enough to make this the hot position of the year. The fact that it’s way more interesting than Professor Bradford’s Gender Studies in Amphibious Biomes project doesn’t hurt.
Of course, I don’t tell Professor Travers the other reason I would want to work with Jonathan Chase.
Put that out of your head right now, I tell myself. This is your academic career. Nate’s hotness has nothing to do with it.
Before I can think too much about the details of that hotness, my advisor leans across his desk. “So, tell me, Miss Cain. Why do you want to work on Dr. Chase’s project? I’m assuming you have a more nuanced reason than hoping to contribute to an Oprah’s Book Club selection.”
I smile at that. “I’m not going to pretend like that wouldn’t be a perk.
” He chuckles warmly and I’m thankful, not for the first time, that I landed an advisor who seems so normal.
Some of the older academics in this department can be pretty stodgy.
Almost all of them are eccentric. And that’s putting it nicely.
“It’s an interesting topic,” I tell him, sitting up a little straighter. “And fairly broad, which I’m hoping will help me to narrow down my focus before my own research next year.”
He leans back in his chair, gesturing for me to go on.
His expression is neutral and I can’t tell if I’m doing a very good job of impressing him.
I take a deep breath and launch into an explanation about the benefits of observing and working on a large project like this one due to my plans to focus primarily on research for my PhD in a few years, once I’ve completed my master’s.
Then I talk about the topic itself and how it relates to the areas I’m already interested in and considering for my second-year research—namely subversive and non-traditional human sexuality studies.
By the time I’m done talking, he’s finally smiling.
“Sounds like you have a good handle on things. I would be happy to recommend you for the position, Harper.” My heart soars. He has faith in me. “But it might be wise to have a few back-ups in mind,” he adds before I can get carried away.
That’s fine. A back-up is smart. The important thing is that I have my advisor’s approval.
I leave Travers’s office feeling better than I have all day. Talking to him reminded me of what’s really important here—and refilled my supply of confidence about my abilities. There might be a lot of things in my life I’m unsure of, but school has never been one of them.
So of course, it’s at that moment, when my guard is finally down, that I see him. And by see him I mean run right into him outside of my adviser’s office.
“Whoa,” Nate murmurs, steadying me with his hands on my forearms. My face immediately flames with embarrassment. What is it with me barreling into this man? I’m not usually so clumsy.
“Sorry,” I say, taking a step back. His eyes flash with something—regret?—before he releases me.
“No, problem,” he murmurs, straightening a little when Travers follows me out of his office.
“Ah, Dr. Chase,” he says, holding out a hand. “I was just speaking with my TA here about her application for your research project. This is Harper Cain. A very promising first-year grad student I’m working with.”
Nate’s eyes flash again, his jaw clenching. But his voice is smooth and unconcerned when he replies. “I wish her the very best of luck.” Then he holds out his hand to shake mine.
Man, he’s better at that whole compartmentalizing thing than I am.
My heart is beating so hard I’m sure Professor Travers must be able to hear it as I reach forward and take Nate’s hand.
His skin is smooth and warm, just the way I remember, his fingers strong.
And God, how am I supposed to not think about what those fingers have done to me?
I snatch my hand back, hoping I don’t look as worked up as I feel.
“I was just heading down to see Dr. Kenwood,” Nate says to my advisor. He casts me a final glance, his jaw clenching again. “Good luck with your application.”