Chapter 5 #2
Three students are in line, and we join the queue behind them.
Noah, dressed in a pressed black t-shirt with cuffed, front-seam earthy culottes and white Nike sneakers, merely shrugs.
I look down at my cardigan resting over my dress shirt and tie, and at the fitted khakis on my thighs.
I look the part of a college professor, while he looks the part of total fuckboy.
Noah’s reply snaps me out of my stupid introspection. “Nah. I mean, normal day, normal lecture. Not preparing for any papers or anything so no.” We reach the front of the line, and Noah takes the initiative, ordering both of our coffees and sliding the barista a ten before I can offer.
He faces me, his eyes hard to ignore this morning, catching the sun’s early light.
They’re so clear, they remind me of sweet rootbeer and rich whiskey, both things I enjoy.
I smooth a hand down the curved lapel of my wool sweater, one that Zennie got me for my birthday last year, and force my mind to go other places than the beauty of Noah Ryan.
“Did you read the sheet?” he asks, popping the white plastic lid from his coffee to blow on the fiery surface.
The coffee ripples, and my mouth goes dry.
I sip my scorching hot drink, and pretend to be utterly unfazed by the soft shove of his hand in his hair, and the way his shiny, dark locks drift over his forehead for a second before he neatly pushes them back.
“What am I saying,” he responds. “Of course you pre-read the peer review forms.” He places the lid back on, and seals it, smiling at me over the stream of steam slipping through the mouth hole.
“Did you put little colored tabs on the paper and write down the approximate time you should reach that section mid-lecture so that you cover all your bases and don’t run out of time? ”
I narrow my eyes, and fidget with my glasses. I didn’t do that, and while he’s teasing me, that’s not why I’m annoyed. “That’s not a bad idea,” I admit. “And it bugs me that you had it instead of me.”
Noah reaches into his pocket, flashing me a breath-stealing grin as he slaps a sheet of annotation tabs into my palm. “Come on. If we get back now, you can tab everything before my lecture starts.”
I take them, dragging my thumb along the different colored tabs, already brainstorming when Noah says, “so, last night, what was it really about?”
He pulls open the door to the annex, and we step inside, sealing ourselves into a quiet, dark hallway. Down the hall, students linger near a poster kept safe behind a locked plastic screen. Noah nods. “Tara’s first run at being the director.”
I don’t use first names for any of the other professors in the department aside from Noah, and I mostly only call him Noah because he calls me Cade. If he switched to Professor Mercer, I’d follow suit, even though I love the name Noah.
For whatever reason, his choice to identify Professor Shae by her first name sticks under my skin like an unwelcome needle. I scratch my wrist, then the other, trying to ease the wave of discomfort that comes with knowing the two colleagues are close enough to be on a first name basis.
Arriving at the lecture hall, I reach for my keys when Noah reaches for his, but Professor Shae pulls open the door from the inside.
Her red hair looks nearly onyx in this lighting, sunshine hitting her profile from the windows behind us, darkness engulfing her backside.
Her eyes move between us, and she gives me an easy smile that says hello and not much more.
Shifting her focus back to Noah, she reaches out, wrapping her long, thin fingers around his wrist, giving him a little tug. “You were right. I owe you dinner.”
My brows furrow as interest, confusion and a familiar pang of jealousy merge in my guts, twisting through my veins, leaving me anxiously awaiting Noah’s response.
He splays one of his hands out over the blue metal door, keeping it open, and my mouth goes dry at the sight.
Beautiful hands. Strength in each finger, thick knuckles, a smattering of dark hair.
I lose myself in his hands, wondering if he’s ever used them to chop wood, what they look like holding a bunch of first edition classics, how skilled they are when they’re inside the pants of a woman who is lucky enough to hold his attention.
“Don’t you think so?” Noah asks.
Refocusing on the two of them, I jump back in, wishing I’d been focused before. Why does she owe him dinner? What was he right about? Do they hang out? Are they friends? Are they more?
Have they fucked?
Tara. I realize he calls me Cade because of our office situation, and that professional salutations and titles just feel weird when you’re in the throes of editing terrible freshman papers.
Even though it makes logical sense as to why we’ve sheared off the titles, still, I somehow must’ve secretly thought it was unique to me.
I guess I thought that he, I don’t know, liked me?
Not like that.
But.
I don’t know.
Of course if he’s talking to her as much as we talk, after all, they text and he’s surely not texting her and calling her Professor.
It’s not a big deal. It’s not even a big deal that he calls me Cade.
I adjust the knotted tie at my throat, and touch the edge of my glasses as they wrap up their conversation, one that happened right in front of me but one I didn’t hear a word of.
“Okay well, I’ll see you around.” She rocks to her toes—which are painfully covered by a pair of kitten heels that are more offensive to me than curse words—and kisses Noah on the cheek.
“Thank you again.” She eyes me. “Getting your peer review done?” She shakes her head, the question clearly rhetorical.
“Of course you are. You inspire me, Professor Mercer, you really do. I need to get mine done before it sneaks up on me.” Another flash of her white teeth and she’s gone, clicking down the hallway as her hips sway.
Noah studies me. A tiny smirk curves the edge of his lips. I have the strongest urge to check the knot in my tie, but I don’t. I glance at his hand, still splayed over the metal door, knuckles white from sheer force. “Ready to review me?”
My pulse ticks up a beat but I nod my head, business as usual. “That’s why I’m here.”
From the moment I take a seat in the very back of the auditorium, I know I’m in trouble.
Everything about watching him teach feels like watching an ad for interest in Noah Ryan.
He’s so comfortable in front of all these students, and when I think about him in all the various settings, the truth is, he’s always comfortable.
He finds conversation easily, integrates in various social circles with seemingly little to no struggle, his intelligence radiates off him without provocative thoughts or aggressive speeches, and by and large, his easy smile attracts anyone and everyone.
Watching him talk to students about literature feels like I’m watching Jackson Pollock stand before a canvas, or Mozart stretched before a sea of ivory with his willing fingers hovering above the keys.
The metaphors may feel dramatic, but they bear the truth.
Noah Ryan is just that good at what he does.
I climb the stairs to the last row, up top, furthest from where Noah will stand.
From this distance, I feel like I’m at a concert and I’m waiting for the singer to saunter on stage so I can lose my mind.
In reality, it’s merely a popular fiction class, but my heart still thumps madly when Noah saunters on stage, looking the part of torrid rockstar, or incredibly disheveled and uniquely charming professor.
While Noah clips his microphone to the collar of his black t-shirt, I pull my clipboard and pen from my bag and get comfortable, for as much as a grown adult can get comfortable in a flip-down theater chair built forty years ago.
A female student shimmies down my aisle, eyeing the seat next to mine, but I ask her to space out, for my privacy.
The lights, on and already at Noah’s preferred 50%, flicker twice, and the room suddenly goes quiet.
It’s only now that I remember that Noah told me he uses theater tricks to get everyone ready for lecture.
I’d be surprised if that worked for Mulroney, or even me, but the way they fall into a hush all together is evidence that they respect him.
With the printed papers clipped to my clipboard, blue pen hovering above the area for the first note, I’m ready.
“Hello everyone,” he greets, his husky voice spreading through the room from the speakers mounted along the ceiling.
“Thank you for being prepared for class today.” He doesn't pace like I do, but instead, stands in one spot, not fidgeting with his hands, not checking notes.
He stands, and he makes eye contact, and talks.
His style is so bold, not relying on power points or book reading, just himself and his lesson plan.
“Today we’ll examine one of popular fiction’s most resilient subgenres: detective fiction, from its origins to its cultural functions.
” He shoves his hands in his pockets, and my eyes catch on the dark ink looping his wrist. I’ve never asked him about his tattoos, but it feels like a tawdry admission that I’m looking at his skin.
But now, I tip my head to the side, letting my pen slide over the paper as I note “clear and solid introduction to class topic” and note next to that “confident and assertive.”
Despite writing those things, I can’t take my eyes off of the ink I’ve glanced at a thousand times over the years. It’s a strip of black, curving his wrist, but the ink doesn’t meet like a bracelet but more so, trails down his forearm like an untied ribbon.