Untruly With You (Wonderings #2)

1. Laine

1

LAINE

I want to enjoy every nugget of delightful chaos that life has to offer.

My first—and only—ex saw that in a much less idyllic light.

“I can’t keep watching you zig-zag around without a destination,” he once told me.

I looked up at the road signs, double-checking myself. I never got lost in the city. Sure enough, we were going down Houston Street as planned. “I thought we were headed to Lombardi's for lunch?”

He threw his hands up, halting in the midday sidewalk traffic. Like true New Yorkers, those around just rushed by us like a stream along a jutting rock. “I don’t mean it literally.”

“So, we aren’t getting pizza?”

“No. We aren’t getting pizza.”

I crossed my arms over my growling stomach. “What destination do you want, then? Sushi?”

“Laine.” He said my name with so much weight, I prepared myself for the oncoming monologue. Then those big blue eyes peered into mine, glistening on demand, in search of connection. He was a Tisch student through and through, never one to avoid the dramatics. “I need a destination, a commitment. I can't keep up with the constant uncertainty of our journey. It's like being on a rollercoaster without knowing when it will stop.”

“Is this about the movie thing?”

“No,” he huffed. “It’s about everything.”

I got pizza alone that day.

I haven’t learned whatever lesson he was trying to teach me. That much is clear.

My finger hovers over the trackpad of my laptop for no more than two seconds before I press down, the “Drop Class” text highlighted in yellow for a split second.

It’s not that I wasn’t enjoying the class; it’s just that I wanted to be sure I made the most out of my last elective at NYU. After all, the whole reason of life is to enjoy every little minute of it. Plus, my dad has been begging me to take up an interest in Shakespeare ever since I could read.

I have over an hour until class, but, as usual, it takes me twenty minutes to decide on an outfit, ten minutes to pick the right music for the commute, and five minutes to decide on the right shade of red lipstick. (For what it’s worth, I choose a hot-pink turtleneck and matching beanie, brown leather coat, oversized plaid scarf, the new Harry Styles album, and a classic scarlet shade that makes my black bob hairstyle look all the more French.)

My phone buzzes as I lock my door behind me, and I find my twenty-odd group chats piling up endlessly.

Once on the street, I race across the February slush and make it onto the A train just before the doors close. As we pass through each station, I tap my foot against the floor, trying to will the train to go faster. Even Harry Style’s smooth, sweet voice serenading me through my headphones isn’t soothing me today. When the train finally arrives at the West Fourth Street station, I sprint out of the turnstiles and up the escalators.

The lunch traffic is already in full force. People are rushing from one side of the street to the other while honking cabs and buses zoom past them. I weave in and out of pesky tourists that don't seem to understand why everyone else is in such a hurry. As I move, the cold air bites my nose and dries my eyes. When I get to the last block of my commute, my eyes begin watering. I wipe them, smudging eyeliner and mascara on my fingers.

Unlike most other colleges, NYU doesn’t have a campus to itself. Instead, a collection of buildings houses NYU’s classes. Thankfully, because I’ve been working on my bachelor’s degree for six years—and have joined (and dropped out of) many classes and social groups in that time—I know most of the university by heart. I find my building easily, running under the ever-present scaffolding along the street to get there.

Once inside, the elevator draws me toward it like a magnet. It’s already full of students, but I squeeze into the pack, hunching my shoulders and ignoring the dirty looks thrown my way.

“Hey, Laine!” a girl says from the back of the elevator.

I vaguely remember her from the acting class I took as a freshman. And though I can’t remember her name, I wave back at her as if we’re best friends.

I check my watch. Seven minutes past noon.

When the elevator finally arrives at my floor, I shove into the crowded hallway and run to the door to my lecture hall, slamming it open without wasting a second. It sounds with a loud clang, and all eyes in the room fall on me. A few students snicker, and I brush my bangs into place. I wipe at the mascara under my eyes, trying to appear at least halfway presentable.

The professor stands at the front of the small room, wearing a stern expression that’s exaggerated by his very Eugene-Levy-esque eyebrows. “I hope you have an excellent reason you’ve come to interrupt our class?”

I clear my throat and steady my adrenaline-laced breaths before responding. “I joined your class this morning, taking the last spot, I believe.” Despite the fact that I was able to add the class to my schedule, a quick scan of the room tells me that there isn’t a seat left—not one.

“We’re two weeks into the semester,” he says, turning back to the projected slide behind him—Cultural Context of The Tempest . “You’re two weeks too late. And not to mention,” he pauses, checking his watch, “seven minutes late today.”

Sorry, bud , I think to myself. You’re not getting rid of me.

I don’t think I could survive yet another semester at school after this. I didn’t mind taking my time when my tuition was covered. Thank you, Mom, for giving me the benefit of being a professor’s daughter. But now that I’ve aged out of that perk and student debt is piling up, I am far more motivated to graduate.

“Actually, sir,” I say, startling my professor. Clearly, he isn’t used to being contradicted. “NYU policy says students can join a class up to two weeks into the semester if there is still an available spot, which there is in this case. One last spot. So, if you don’t mind, I'd like to stay.” And honestly, I don’t care if he does mind. I’m here.

He looks at the front row, and someone—I think the guy with the brown curly hair—speaks up, barely loud enough for me to hear. “She’s right, technically. ”

The professor harrumphs. “Name?” he asks, raising his thick eyebrows at me.

“Laine Rodriguez,” I say in my best, bubbly, Laine Rodriguez voice. I flash the smile that has won me countless friendships over the years.

“We have an exam next week,” he says. “You will need to catch up on what you’ve missed on your own time.”

I lift my chin. “Understood!” It could be the onset of nerves, or it could be my winter layers covering me indoors, but either way, my skin crawls with warmth.

He gestures at me to sit. I glance around the room again, but sure enough, there aren’t any seats.

“She can take my seat,” the same curly-haired guy from before says.

“I need you up front,” the professor responds, going back to his lesson without another word to me.

As quietly as I can manage, I slide my jacket off and unwind my scarf from my neck. But no matter how silent I am, there are a handful of students who look back at me, studying the fresh addition to their class. I try to ignore them, but when I catch the eye of the curly-haired guy in the front row, I freeze for a moment.

Even from across the room, his expression catches me off guard. While the others eyeing me seem thoroughly entertained by my less-than-ideal entrance into the class, his gaze is soft and steady. I stare back at him and try to discern that gentle expression on his face. Apologetic, I suppose. Maybe a dash of pity.

“Miss Rodriguez?” At the sound of my professor’s voice, I straighten, my cheeks webbing with heat.

“Yes?” I say, hoping my grimace looks something like a smile.

“I suggest you take a seat and learn what you can before next week’s exam. ”

How long was I staring at that guy?

Before I can get distracted again, I plant myself on the floor and crane my neck to see the projector screen. For the rest of the hour, I scramble to copy every slide into my notebook, trying to ignore the occasional glance from the guy in the front row.