Chapter 2 Move-in Day
Move-in Day
Two days later, I was back on Newbury Academy grounds for the first time in over a decade.
As my Lyft wound down the tree-lined drive, the anticipation that tingled in my bones evolved into radiant joy.
The familiar smell of chestnut trees and fresh-cut grass filled my nose, and I was fourteen, falling in love with this place all over again.
The administration building beaconed to me like a long-lost friend. Inside, I extended my hand toward an unfamiliar woman on the other side of the reception counter.
“Melanie Burke, chemistry,” I all but sang. “The email said I should come here for my housing assignment and ID.”
“Ah, you must be the other new one,” she said.
She was one of those women blessed with dewy, mahogany skin and could have been anywhere between the ages of twenty and sixty, but was probably on the lower end of that range judging by the line of script tattooed on her forearm.
Taking my hand, she returned my smile, softening her perfectly made-up face.
“Here’s your key and a map. Faculty apartments are in Brookside Hall on the west side of campus.” She circled a remote building on the far shore of the lake. “You’ll be in apartment thirty-two on the third floor. Make sure you keep your key on you, because the doors lock automatically.”
“Good to know,” I said, pocketing the key and resolving to have a back-up cut as soon as possible.
She tapped a vibrant orange nail on a little camera. “Now look here, so I can get your picture for the ID.”
I smiled for my photo, then returned my gaze to the woman. “You can keep the map. I know my way around.” When she gave me a quizzical look, I added, “Class of 2015.”
She scanned me again, this time appraising. Her eyes lit with delight when they landed on my hands. “Your manicure is gorgeous. Are those decals?”
My eyes dropped to my fingernails, adorned with intricate sunflowers, individual petals in different shades of yellow, orange, and gold.
“Thanks, and no. They’re painted.”
“Incredible,” she muttered, inspecting my fingers like a connoisseur studying a Van Gogh. “Did you get them done in the city? I don’t think any place around here can do that kind of work.”
“Nope,” I said, beaming. “I do them myself.”
“Seriously?” she exclaimed and grabbed one of my hands for a closer look. “How?”
I decided on the spot that this woman was my friend. She would never replace Silvia, but I was thrilled to find someone with a common interest so quickly.
“Teeny brushes,” I replied with a laugh. “And a lot of patience. I don’t think I caught your name.”
“Theresa Jane Dixon, but everyone calls me TJ.” She released my hands with a wistful sigh. “You can find me here Monday through Friday from eight to four. And if you need me any other time, I’m in the email directory.”
I thanked TJ for the key and ID and promised to swing back by her desk the next time I repainted my nails.
Once I was back in the soupy August heat, I immediately regretted not having my Lyft wait and drive me over to the faculty residences. After-hours privacy from students would be fantastic, but right now, the considerable distance felt less like a stroll down memory lane and more like a slog.
I paused in front of Franklin Hall, home of the science and mathematics classes. The tingle was back, zipping up my spine as I regarded the stately Georgian-style building, ivy climbing its walls.
This was where I learned to love science.
I would have gone to class in my underwear before admitting it out loud, but there was no hiding my wonder when my old teacher, Mr. Stephens, created a blue flame by burning copper, or a geyser of foam by mixing potassium iodide with hydrogen peroxide and dish soap.
Ten years later, I wanted desperately to pay it forward, to share my love with the next generation. My feet itched to climb the marble steps and explore the familiar building. I would come back as soon as I finished unpacking.
Soaked with sweat and panting from the exertion of dragging two fifty-pound suitcases nearly a mile, I nearly screamed when I realized that, like my apartment in Manhattan, Brookside Hall had no elevator.
Fuck the bags. They could wait. I abandoned them in the entryway and dragged myself up the two flights to my new home.
Kicking off my shoes by the door, I made a beeline to the kitchen, quickly finding a glass in the cabinet and filling it from the sink.
I guzzled tap water and basked in the air conditioning until I felt human enough to explore the rest of the space.
The one-bedroom apartment was fully furnished, if simple, complete with a sitting area, full kitchen, and vintage desk for working.
While it had been updated with modern conveniences—thank goodness for the AC—the high ceilings and dark wood trim conveyed the simple elegance of the century-old building.
Once I added a few homey touches—I had already purchased an exact duplicate of Silvia’s pink doormat—the place would be perfect.
Unfortunately, the doormat and all of my other worldly possessions were in my suitcases.
Double unfortunately, I was still hot, and the bags were still heavy.
But there was nothing to do except retrieve them.
Key tucked safely in my pocket, I headed back into the hall, barefoot, since that was somehow less unpleasant than the alternative of cramming my sticky, swollen feet back into leather sandals.
The door to the stairwell jerked open just as my fingers touched the doorknob. I yelped in surprise.
Then, I noticed the man.
The tall man.
The tall, naked man.
Or, at least, the top half of him was naked, and I was too distracted to see what was going on with the bottom half. A surge of adrenaline flooded my nervous system.
Where the door had been a second before, there now stood a broad expanse of lightly-tanned olive skin glistening with beaded sweat.
Without any consent from higher faculties, my eyes feasted on the defined pecs, counted the ridges of abs (eight!), and traced the hard V of his hip bones where they disappeared into the top of his shorts.
With an embarrassing amount of effort, I pulled my eyes up from the bare chest to take in the slack-jawed expression on a ruddy face. Dark hair, nearly black with sweat, curled around his face and stuck to his temples, framing a pair of deep-set, espresso-brown eyes which were fixed on me.
Holy-fucking-hydrogen, he could cut glass with those cheek bones. There was a real-life Adonis in my hallway. I swallowed so I wouldn’t choke on my mouthful of saliva.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think anyone else was here yet.”
Of course, his voice was rich and deep—like I wasn’t already having trouble pulling my mind out of the gutter.
“Hello,” I squeaked, and lifted a hand to finger wave at him. Like a damned fool.
As he took me in, his face morphed through a series of expressions. Dark eyes, initially wide with surprise, narrowed until his brow creased. Then, as if someone had pressed an off switch, his whole face fell into perfect neutrality.
“Hey,” he said, voice oddly flat.
“It’s… uh… hot out there,” I said. The weather? I was seconds away from an aneurysm, and making small talk about the weather?
“Yep.”
“So… you decided to take a dip in the lake?” A joke. That was better.
“I was running.”
“But it’s hot out there!”
“Right.” He clearly thought I was as stupid as I sounded.
“Aren’t you worried about heat stroke?” I asked. He held up a water bottle that I hadn’t noticed. “Oh. Smart.”
The hallway Adonis just shrugged and lowered his arm back to his side, judging my inane comment unworthy of a verbal response.
A silence fell between us even thicker than the humidity. I could feel his eyes on me and was suddenly hyperaware of my gauzy top clinging to my body. But it didn’t feel like he was checking me out. I was intimately familiar with the crawling feeling of pervy appraisal. This wasn’t that.
He was seeing. He was judging.
The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees, and a shiver inexplicably ran down my spine. His eyes flicked over my shoulder briefly before landing back on me.
“Excuse me,” he said, after we had been staring at each other for an awkwardly-long time. “You’re blocking the door.”
“Right!” I snapped into action, taking a hasty step backward. My sweaty bare foot slipped on the polished hardwood, and I started to go down. Oh, shit!
Flailing, desperate to regain my balance, I grabbed onto the closest thing within reach—a slick forearm.
“Ugh!” he exclaimed.
“Sorry!” I gasped, my eyes finding his face once I steadied. His mask of neutrality had cracked, eyebrows drawn together and lips parted. He did not appreciate being touched. I had crossed a line.
I released his arm like a hot pan and repeated, “Sorry,” more softly.
He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again. “It’s fine,” he said, before brushing past me.
As I watched him stalk down the hall, I wondered how that whole interaction had been so painfully awkward. I was usually really good with people. The etiquette classes my parents had me in as soon as I could walk taught me to smile and sit up straight, but they hadn’t prepared me for him.
It bothered me to leave things like this, especially since the guy was my neighbor. He definitely worked on campus too, if he lived in the faculty residences. I would probably be seeing him often. I couldn’t let him go yet. Not like this.
“Wait,” I called after him, “if you have a minute, I could really use a hand bringing up my bags.”
The words were out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. A favor? He already didn’t like me, and I was asking him to do shit for me? At least it would give me the opportunity to talk to him a little more. I could fix this. I had to fix this.
Hallway Adonis paused in front of his door. “Of course, those are yours,” he sighed, tilting his head back and running a hand down his face. “Sure, Princess.”