7. June #2
“I was never enrolled like I thought I was. Just showing up like an idiot. But I need a full schedule for my scholarship, and Women in Art History is full, so I had to find something else that fit my requirements and my schedule. And I needed a professor willing to let me join three weeks late.”
I suck in air because I haven’t been breathing.
Aubrey snorts. “What class?”
“Gotta go! Talk later!”
I wave and then break into a jog, leaving Cinna and Aubrey on the bench, their laughter fading behind me as I race toward Morrison Hall.
It takes about ten minutes to reach the steps, then I’m sprinting toward the doors, almost colliding with a guy coming out. Then I race through the halls, basically skidding to a stop outside the classroom.
Take a breath.
I slip through the door as quietly as humanly possible, which is not quiet at all because the door has a creak that could wake the dead.
Professor Whitman pauses mid-sentence, her eyes locking on me as she flashes a look of disappointment that only tenure can perfect.
She’s a tall woman, with silver and black hair pulled into a low bun.
And she wears a lot of chunky turquoise jewelry.
She doesn’t say anything, just lets the silence stretch long enough to make my face burn, then continues her lecture like I haven’t interrupted her flow.
Great. Making enemies with the teacher on my first day here? Check.
I scan the room for an empty seat. The class is full, about twenty students arranged at wide worktables designed for hands-on projects. Every seat is taken except one.
One seat. In the entire room.
Next to Dorien.
He looks up at the same moment I spot him, and I watch the surprise flash on his face. His eyebrows lift, his mouth parts slightly, and for one absurd second we just stare at each other like two people who’ve walked into the wrong party and realized it at the same time.
I swallow and force my chin to lift because I don’t have a choice.
I’m falling apart on the inside with pure shock and disbelief, but the alternative is standing here like an idiot until Whitman kicks me out entirely.
I square my shoulders and force my legs to move.
Soon, I’m sliding into the seat beside him.
We exchange quick nods, the kind of acknowledgement you give a stranger on public transit, not the boy you’ve known since childhood and spent the last decade pretending doesn’t affect you.
My heart is pounding against my ribs, and my palms have decided now is a great time to get clammy.
I set my laptop on the table and focus very hard on opening it, on finding a blank document, on doing anything that doesn’t involve looking at Dorien or thinking about the fact I’m going to be sitting next to him for the rest of the semester.
This is fine. This is completely fine.
I close my eyes for a second. Ugh, no it isn’t fine. This is the opposite of what I needed.
I spent my entire freshman year avoiding him, and now we’re going to be side by side twice a week for the next four months. Close enough to smell that stupid woodsmoke-and-rain scent. Close enough that if I shifted my elbow two inches to the left, we’d be touching.
I keep my elbow firmly to the right.
Dammit, four months? So much can happen in four months. A life can even change in the span of an afternoon.
Professor Whitman is discussing the philosophy behind mixed media as a discipline, something about breaking down the artificial barriers between artistic categories.
I try to take notes and focus, but my brain keeps circling back to the disaster I’ve walked into.
I literally had no other options. This was the only class that fit my requirements, my schedule, and had a professor willing to accept a student three weeks late. It was a minor miracle I got in at all.
A miracle that has now trapped me next to Dorien for the foreseeable future.
The rest of the lecture passes in a blur of anxiety.
I catch fragments: material options are everywhere, think about conceptual cohesion when selecting materials, the importance of intentionality over randomness.
Junk can become art if it’s intentional, and art can become junk if it’s done carelessly.
The professor talks in a lot of extremes.
Regardless, very little of it sticks. I’m too hyper aware of Dorien, right there, beside me the entire time.
“For next session,” Whitman says, pulling my attention back to the front of the room, “we’ll be in the studio. I expect you all to have your first projects well underway. These are due in ten days, which means if you haven’t started, you’re already behind.”
My stomach drops. What project? I don’t know anything about this class and already I need to hustle to get some project done. I knew I’d be behind, but this is a little more than I’d expected.
I am so incredibly screwed.
I make a worried noise, and Dorien glances at me sideways. I keep my eyes on my laptop screen, typing nonsense, pretending I have everything under control.
When Whitman finally dismisses us, the room erupts into the usual shuffle of bags and chatter. Students stream toward the exits. I should be one of them. I should pack up and leave and not look at Dorien and just leave.
Instead, I sit here. Dorien doesn’t move either.
We both take our time packing up, moving slowly, like we’re caught in the same weird gravity. He gathers his handwritten notes, neat columns of text in dark ink, and slides them into a leather portfolio. I close my laptop like the wrong movement will make it break, then tuck it into my bag.
The room empties around us, all except for the teacher, who is busy on her laptop. My heart is pounding. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why I’m not already halfway across campus, putting as much distance between me and Dorien as possible.
“I’ll send you my notes.”
I look over. Dorien is watching me without the usual challenge in his expression. There’s no smirk on those lips and no glint in his eyes. He’s just… I don’t know. Chill?
No, not even that.
Gentle.
“Help you get caught up,” he adds when I don’t respond.
I should say thank you because that would be the normal, polite response. Instead, what comes out is, “You’re not going to comment on how I’m an idiot for starting this class so late?”
The smirk surfaces, curving one corner of his mouth, which I’m trying really hard not to stare at. “I wasn’t going to. But I can if you want. Sounds entertaining.”
I laugh and the sound surprises us both, I think. It was startled out of me by his unexpected lack of hostility.
But where is an interaction like this going? “Um, have you been working on your piece?” I ask.
“Of course.” He raises an eyebrow. “What insane person starts a project so close to the deadline?”
I laugh again and swat his shoulder without thinking about it. My hand connects with black leather, and the contact sends electricity through me I immediately try to ignore. “You’re such an ass.”
“You asked.”
We’re smiling at each other. That’s the thing I notice too late.
We’re just sitting here, in the almost-empty classroom, smiling at each other like this is something we do.
The light from the tall windows highlights the auburn undertones in his dark hair, and when he tilts his head I get lost in the rich tones for a moment as the strands shift.
His coppery-hazel eyes are softer than I’ve seen them in years.
The green and gold blend together like colors on a palette, and I just want to use that shade to paint.
I want to fill an entire canvas with only the shade of his eyes, especially now that they have less armor.
Then I realize what’s happening.
I grab my bag and stand so quickly my chair scrapes against the floor with an ugly screech. “I should go. Thanks for the notes. Text them whenever.”
I’m already fleeing toward the exit. I need to escape before I do something stupid, like flirt, notice more colorful patterns in his eyes, or forget why I’ve spent the last decade keeping my distance.
Life can change in an afternoon; never forget that.
He follows me to the exit, keeping pace. Dammit, don’t follow me!
I can’t just break out into a screaming run, so I give up on trying to escape.
We walk through the corridor side by side, our pace slowing to an amble.
The hallway swallows most sound, one of those architectural quirks of the old buildings, so the quiet feels amplified.
It’s so strange to be this close to Dorien without the verbal sparring that usually keeps us apart.
Why is he so non-defensive today? Maybe the surprise of sharing a class shocked the sarcasm out of him? It certainly did that to me.
“Never expected you to be interested in mixed media.” His voice breaks the quiet. “You’ve always been ride or die with painting.”
“It filled a gap in my schedule.” I keep my eyes forward, watching the leaded windows cast patterns on the floor. “It was the only one available this late into the semester.”
“Ah.”
More silence. But it’s a little less awkward, more like two people who’ve accidentally stumbled into a ceasefire and don’t know what to do with it.
I want to say something and the urge surprises me. I want to ask about his project again, or what materials he’s using, or literally anything that keeps this strange moment going. I actually don’t mind existing next to each other like normal people, like we used to, a lifetime ago.
I open my mouth to ask about his project, but we’re already pushing through the doors into the main entryway of the building.
This part of Morrison Hall has high ceilings and worn leather couches where students relax or study between classes.
A few people are scattered around, scrolling through their phones, flipping through textbooks, doing the usual between-class decompression.
One of them looks up as we enter.