Chapter 5 Savannah #2
"Same time Monday?" he asks.
I manage to nod. "Yes. Monday."
He holds my gaze for a moment longer than necessary, and then starts to gather his things before standing and leaving.
I sit there for several minutes after he's gone, trying to calm my racing heart, trying to convince myself that this is just intellectual excitement. Just the thrill of working with someone who challenges me academically.
But I know I'm lying to myself.
—
During our next seminar, for the first time, I find myself disagreeing with Dr. Kouris as she lectures on Minoan religious practices. I get her point, and her argument is a traditional interpretation, but I don’t think it’s right.
I raise my hand, my heart pounding. Dr. Kouris is brilliant and intimidating, and challenging her in front of the entire seminar feels like academic suicide.
Her eyes narrow on me. "Yes, Ms. Beauregard?"
"I—I have a question about the snake goddess interpretation." My voice is steadier than I feel as I start to lay out my counter-argument. The room has gone very quiet as I speak. Dr. Kouris is looking at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"That's an interesting point, Ms. Beauregard. But the scholarly consensus—"
"The scholarly consensus is based on one interpretation," I interrupt, and I can't believe I'm doing this, can't believe I'm challenging her.
"But he was working with Victorian assumptions about goddess worship and fertility cults.
More recent scholarship suggests a more complex understanding of Minoan religious symbolism. "
Dr. Kouris’s eyebrow rises. "And you think these scholars are correct?"
"I think the evidence supports a more nuanced interpretation."
Dr. Kouris opens her mouth to respond, her expression suggesting that she doesn’t think much of my argument, but Romeo speaks first.
"Ms. Beauregard is right." His voice is calm and authoritative, and I feel a tingle rush down my spine. "The archaeological context is crucial here—" He keeps talking, quoting the texts that I was using for my theory, and I can feel my heart starting to pound again.
He's citing sources. He's backing me up with actual scholarly evidence, and I feel a rush of something that's part gratitude and part excitement… and part something else I don't want to name.
Dr. Kouris looks between us, and then—surprisingly—she smiles.
"Well. It seems you two have been doing your research.
You make a valid point about the archaeological context.
Perhaps we should revisit the interpretation in light of more recent scholarship.
" She turns back to the class. "This is exactly the kind of critical thinking I want to see from all of you.
Don't accept traditional interpretations just because they're traditional. Look at the evidence. Ask questions."
The seminar continues, but I'm barely paying attention. I'm too aware of Romeo sitting behind me, of the way he defended my argument, and the intellectual partnership we just demonstrated in front of the entire class.
When the seminar ends, I'm gathering my things when Romeo comes up behind me and leans close.
"That was impressive," he says quietly. "Challenging Kouris like that."
"I can't believe I did that."
"You should do it more often. You were right, and you had the evidence to back it up." He pauses. "We make a good team."
We do. And I can feel that it could be a problem.
After class, Romeo falls into step beside me as I head toward the exit. "Where are you going?"
"Home. I have reading to do."
"I'll walk with you."
I should say no. I should tell him I'm fine on my own, that I don't need an escort.
But I don't. I feel like I’m still riding the high of him defending my argument, that feeling of being intellectually in sync with someone else, and I can’t shake it.
I want him to walk with me, and I tell myself that there’s no harm.
We’re just partners for this project, and we can talk about it while we walk.
We walk through Washington Square Park, past the fountain and the arch, and the late afternoon sun is golden on the buildings.
It's one of those perfect early autumn days in New York, when the heat has finally broken, and the air is crisp and clear. It’s cooled off since the first day of school, and I’m loving every second of it, considering I’ve never experienced real seasons before.
I tell Romeo that as we walk, and he seems to take pleasure in the novelty of it to me. He tells me he’s lived in New York all his life and has never been down to the South, so the concept of less variation in the seasons seems as odd to him as the feeling of the weather truly changing does to me.
He asks me more about my research, why I love archaeology, and I tease him about being a business major and how terribly boring that must be.
“I’ve loved the idea of being an archaeologist since I spent a summer in Europe and visited every museum I could,” I tell him.
“I felt connected to something so much bigger than myself. I wanted to feel that way all the time.”
"I understand that. That desire to connect to something beyond your own life."
"Do you?" I glance at him. "What do you connect to?"
He's quiet for a moment. "My family. My sister, especially. She's the only person who—" He stops, and I see something flicker across his face. Vulnerability, maybe, or regret. "She's the only person who sees me as more than what I'm supposed to be."
There's something in his voice that makes me want to ask more, to understand what he means. But we've reached my building, and I stop at the entrance.
"This is me."
"I know."
The way he says it sends a small shiver through me. On the surface, it doesn’t mean that much. I’m sure he’s passed me here before.
But something in his tone suggests that it’s more than that.
He's standing close. Too close. Not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of him, close enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes.
I take a step back, my heart starting to flutter again. "Thank you. For backing me up in class. You didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did. You were right. And you deserved to be heard."
The way he's looking at me— like I'm the only thing in the world that matters—makes my breath catch. "I should go," I say, but I don't move.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Savannah."
I feel that flutter again at the way he says my name. "Tomorrow," I echo.
I force myself to turn away and unlock the door, step inside. But I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, and when I finally close the door between us, I lean against it, my heart racing.
I shouldn't feel this way. I shouldn't feel this thrill at the thought of seeing him tomorrow, this excitement at the memory of the way he looked at me.
I'm engaged. I'm supposed to marry Thad in two years. I'm supposed to be planning a wedding, thinking about my future as Mrs. Thaddeus Whitmore III.
But all I can think about is Romeo. The way he listens when I speak. The way he challenges me intellectually. The way he defended my argument in class, backing me up with evidence and scholarship, treated my ideas as valuable.
The way he makes me feel seen.
I pull out my phone, and there's a text from Thad waiting.
Thad: I’ll be in town next weekend. Looking forward to seeing you.
I stare at the message, and I feel that familiar tightness in my chest. He’s coming to town far more often than I’d planned or anticipated. He doesn’t want to let me out of his sight for long.
And maybe he has good reason.
I think about the way Romeo asked me about my research. How he really asked, genuinely interested in my answer. The way he remembered something I'd said in class two weeks ago. The way he looked at me when he said, "You're going to be brilliant."
I think about the difference between being told what to do and being asked what I think.
I type back to Thad: Next weekend isn’t good for me. I have plans. Can we push it back a week?
It's a small rebellion. Tiny, really. But it feels significant.
His response comes quickly: What plans?
Savannah: Research. For a group project.
Thad: Can't it wait?
I stare at the message, feeling anger rise in my chest. Can't it wait. Like my academic work is a hobby, something to be set aside whenever it's inconvenient for him.
Savannah: No. It can't wait. I’ve already made plans with my study group. I don’t want to let them down.
I don't wait for his response. I silence my phone and head to my bedroom, and I try not to think about the fact that I just lied to my fiancé.
There are no study group plans set in stone. In fact, I’m working with Romeo as a partner, and we haven’t made firm plans, either.
We could, of course, and then it wouldn’t be a lie… but right now, it is. I created an excuse to avoid Thad, using Romeo as my justification.
I try not to think about what that means.
I can't sleep that night. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and I keep replaying the last few days.
The way Romeo looked at me across the study table.
The electricity when our hands touched. The way he backed me up in class, his voice calm and authoritative as he cited scholarly sources to support my argument.
The way he stood too close outside my building, looking at me like—
Like what?
Like he wants me. Like he sees me. Like I'm something precious and rare and worth paying attention to.
I roll over, pulling the covers up to my chin, and I try to summon guilt. I'm engaged. I shouldn't be thinking about another man. I shouldn't be feeling this flutter of excitement at the thought of seeing him again. But the guilt won't come. All I feel is anticipation.
And underneath that, something darker. A question I don't want to ask but can't ignore.
What if I'm engaged to the wrong person?
Well… that’s not really the question. I’ve never thought Thad was the right person for me.
But I thought he was tolerable. I thought the marriage for grad school was a trade I could make.
What if the life I'm supposed to want—the appropriate marriage, the Charleston society wedding, the future as Mrs. Thaddeus Whitmore III—what if I can’t live like that?
I close my eyes, and I see Romeo's face. The intensity in his gaze. The way he smiled when I challenged Dr. Kouris. The way he said, "We make a good team."
I know I'm in trouble. I know this is dangerous, this attraction, this connection. But I can't seem to stop myself.
I'll see you tomorrow, Savannah.
I shouldn't feel a thrill at that thought.
But I do.