Chapter 22
SIX YEARS AGO || OCTOBER
Me
Calling your attention, please.
Dominic
Hit me with it.
Me
As per our agreement, Operation A-on-the-Midterm is now in action. I need to focus. I will therefore be cutting our library study sessions to only once a week.
Dominic
…I’m not sure you know how studying works, Berkeley.
Me
BECAUSE I don’t study as well with you!
You’re always right there, smelling good. The girls that walk past giggle when they see you, and while you never seem to notice, I find it very distracting.
Dominic
Now you know how I feel when guys walk past and check you out.
It’s a heavy burden to bear.
I stare at my phone, my brow furrowing as I read Dominic’s words. Then, without a second thought, I pull up his number—even though Intro to Engineering starts in fifteen minutes, so I probably could wait to talk to him then.
He answers after one ring.
“That doesn’t happen,” I say before he can speak.
“What,” he says, “guys checking you out as they walk past?”
“Yeah.”
A little puff of laughter filters down the line. “Of course it does,” he replies, sounding distracted. “Hey—do you have my green notebook?” The faint noise of shuffling papers reaches me. “I’m looking, but I can’t find it.”
I shift in my poorly padded auditorium seat, staring aimlessly around the mostly empty room and thinking back to yesterday. “The math one?”
He hums his assent as the shuffling sound continues.
“Check in your expanding folder,” I say, trying to remember. “I kind of think you put it in there.”
“Did I?” There’s a brief pause, until—“Oh! Here it is. Good catch.” Then, a second later, he returns. “Are you really ditching our library dates?”
“If you think those were dates, you need some practice.”
A beat of silence. “I could practice.”
His voice is normal, but the words send a spike of adrenaline through my veins—maybe even because he sounds so casual.
“Well, yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “You should do that.”
With me, my traitorous mind adds. You should practice dating with me.
“Anyway,” I go on. “Because you are mildly distracting, I need to study alone.”
He sighs, but I can picture his lopsided smile as he says, “I guess I’ll allow it. If you’re abandoning me, though, you’d better work extra hard.”
“I am working hard,” I say, glancing down at the notebook and flash cards in my lap. “I came early to class to study. It’s me and two other people in this entire room.”
“Is the guy in the front row there already?”
I know exactly who he’s talking about. “Yep.” I lower my voice. “Glasses? Snacks on celery from a baggie? He was here when I came.”
“I’ve wondered what time he shows up.”
“Are you allowed to tell me his grade?”
“No,” Dominic says with amusement, “but I can tell you that you should do whatever he’s doing.”
“Eat celery from a bag?”
“Study your butt off. Sallow should be passing out the midterm study guides today.”
“I’ll memorize everything.”
“And?”
“And I’ll come to the TA sessions you guys hold,” I say. “Happy?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he points out. “It’s your midterm, your financial aid.”
With this sentiment playing in my mind, I set up a studying schedule for myself.
I go to the TA sessions hosted by Jeffrey Gulliver, because I’m not sure I would focus as well if I went to Dom’s.
I take on half the batches of creative brief work I normally do, and I spend the extra time holed up with my notes and the midterm study guide.
Dominic doesn’t even question my late night calls anymore. He just asks what I need help with—or tells me I should be in bed.
“I could be calling because I miss you,” I say one night at ten-forty-five while I stare blearily down at the flash cards I have arranged all over the living room floor. The midterm is tomorrow, and part of me wishes I could take it right this very second, just to get it over with.
“Go to sleep, Berkeley,” Dominic says. “You need to be rested.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. “I know this stuff, right?”
“You do,” Dom says, and I can picture him nodding. “I know you do. I’ve quizzed you myself. Now go to bed.”
“I have to get an A on this test,” I mutter. “I need my GPA to stay up. And Autumn Ridge—I want to go to Autumn Ridge with you.”
“Go to bed, Reese,” he says, softer now. “Everything will be fine.”
When I don’t answer, he sighs. “Come on. Go to bed. Put on your pumpkin pajamas and crawl into bed.”
I slump backward against the couch and then stand up. “I’m going,” I say. “I’m going.”
“Sweet dreams.”
They are sweet, because I dream about him.
I take the midterm on Wednesday. When I get home, I look up how long it takes to grade a Scantron.
Not long. That’s the answer. And I will pace that entire period of time.
I pace most of Thursday. I pace most of Friday.
Because I’ve been working less in order to give myself more study time, I decline my roommates’ invitation to go to an early dinner with them on Friday evening.
I’m not sure I’d enjoy myself anyway. My temporary greatest fear is that the grades won’t be entered until next week, and I will live in a liminal hell all weekend.
What if I don’t get my grade in time to go to Autumn Ridge? We could go next weekend, I guess, but the pumpkin patch will be closed. It wouldn’t be the same.
And a greater worry—what would a B on this test do to my overall average? I have to keep my scholarship. I need to keep it.
It’s around five that I find myself flopped down on the couch, staring at the ceiling for literally no reason at all. I’m debating calling Dominic to discuss logistics when there’s a knock at the door.
I force myself off the couch so slowly that my feet drag, and I trip over the area rug and almost face-plant. I right myself with windmilling arms and push myself to the door, which I pull open with a creak.
“Hi,” I say, blinking in surprise when I find Dominic waiting on the doorstep.
“Hi,” he says with a crooked smile. He tugs his phone out of the pocket of his faded jeans, giving it a little wiggle. “Check your midterm grade.”
I’ve been checking. Obsessively. Every fifteen minutes. But…
“Is it up?” My voice is loud now, so loud that it bounces around the stairwell and then fades.
My feet freeze in place for the briefest of seconds, because what if I didn’t do well? I genuinely think I’d cry, and I don’t want Dominic to see that. I don’t like anyone to see me cry, but especially not him.
The hesitation doesn’t last very long, though. I spin on my heel, letting Dom come in on his own as I bolt back through the living room, down the hall, and into my room. I all but throw myself at my bed, where my open laptop rests.
The student portal is already pulled up, of course. But I refresh the page, waiting with bated breath, my eyes trained on the blank square until sure enough…
A number pops into that space.
The sound that rips from my lungs isn’t quite a shriek or a scream. It’s closer to a yelp, maybe—pure joy and disbelief as that little ninety stares up at me.
“I got an A!” I yell. “I did it! Dom”—I jump off the bed and hurry out of the room, tears pricking my eyes—“I got an A!”
I find him leaning against the back of the sofa, laughing, and without thinking, I launch myself at him—I fling my arms around his neck as our bodies collide, our legs tangling as the breath is knocked out of my chest.
“I did it!” I say as he lets out a little oomph, laughing harder now and even more as I jump up and down.
“You did it,” he agrees, his arms sliding around my waist and squeezing me tightly. “Ninety, right?”
“Yes!” And it’s so stupid that more tears are welling up in my eyes, but I can’t stop them. I’m just so happy. This class has been difficult, and I worked so hard—
But these thoughts come to a halt as I realize for the first time what I’m doing—that my arms are around Dominic’s neck, that we’re embracing each other in a way friends never would. And it gets worse because oh my goodness, my hand is in his hair.
His HAIR.
I freeze and then lean back, watching his smile fade as the mirror of my own. His arms loosen, as do mine, but neither of us let go.
My breath hitches in my chest as I look up at him, my wide eyes dropping to his Adam’s apple as he swallows, my heart trying to burst out of my chest.
I like him. I really like him. Not only because he’s helped me with school but because he’s him.
I love his laughs and his rare smiles and the way he works so hard.
I love the light that appears in his eyes when he’s fixing something or building furniture, and the little furrow when he’s trying to figure something out.
I love the way he teases me but also the way he listens.
Slowly, hesitantly, I tighten my arms around his neck once more.
His eyes widen further, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. “What are you doing?”
My inhale is shaky at best. “What are the rules about dating students in the class you’re a TA for?” I say.
His eyes flutter closed as though he’s in pain. “It’s a pretty strict no,” he says, the words hoarse.
“What about if someone else graded my papers?”
His fingers clench where his hands rest loosely on my hips, and whether he realizes it or not, he draws me closer as my heart races.
“Might be a little better,” he says, his body tense, “but not much.”
I hesitate and then push my question out. “Do you want to date me?”
Finally his eyes fly open, and they’re burning, searing as he exhales, tightening his arms all the way and eliminating the rest of the space between us. “What if I say no, Berkeley?” he says as his gaze drops to my lips.
I look at his face, the sheer longing in his eyes, the way he’s holding me, and I know. “I wouldn’t believe you.”
“Then why even ask?”
“Do you want to wait until the semester is over?” I whisper.
His breath whooshes out of him, and he swallows. When he speaks again, he’s so close that I can feel his words puff against my lips. “What I want doesn’t matter,” he says in a rough voice.
I lift onto my tiptoes, hesitating only briefly as I tilt my face up to his. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but maybe it’s relevant. “I’ve never kissed anyone before,” I admit.
And for the first time, faint humor flashes in his eyes.
“Good,” he breathes. He leans in slowly, brushing his lips over my forehead and then surprising me as he presses a tiny kiss to the tip of my nose, too—sweet and gentle and heartachingly tender.
Our eyes meet as something indefinable passes between us, something soft and sure but sad.
“Reese,” he says, and disappointment curls in my chest, because I know what he’s going to say. “We can’t kiss now, either.” He moves his hands to my shoulders and pushes me gently away.
I swallow the knot in my throat, try to banish the tears that sting my eyes. He’s right, of course.
So I step out of his hold and turn my head, swiping at my cheeks and giving a fake laugh. “I know,” I say, but my voice is still pathetically tremulous. “I understand.”
“Do you?” he says.
I still can’t look at him. “Of course I do.” I hesitate for a second and then make a decision.
Because if I can’t give him a kiss, I want to give him something else.
Something important, to acknowledge what’s happening right now, the things we’re saying—and the things we aren’t.
So I reach up to my necklace and fumble at the clasp for a moment, pulling it off and then holding it up.
The feather pendant catches the faint light as it twirls in the air.
“My good luck charm,” I say hoarsely. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“You worked,” he replies, sounding amused, but he takes the necklace anyway. “Is it going to make me lucky?”
I nod instead of speaking; I don’t have long before I begin to cry.
He nods too, a slow duck of his chin, and tucks the chain into his pocket. Then he strides toward the door—and maybe I’m imagining things, but he seems to be struggling to look at me too. It’s a selfish wish, but I find myself hoping he’s wrestling with his feelings as much as I am.
It’s only when his hand is on the door that he speaks again. “Autumn Ridge this weekend?”
Relief floods over me, and tentative hope for the future. “Yeah,” I say, exhaling a little laugh. “Definitely.”