Chapter 19
YVAINE
There was something comforting about the campus library at night. The humming silence, the shuffle of pages that told me I wasn’t completely alone, the smell of dried ink on paper.
I strolled through the maze of desks and towering bookshelves, fingers tapping anonymous book spines that I’d never explore, breathing in that calm stillness that always lingered here.
There was the perfect little hideout in the back, a semi-dark nook nestled between two shelves stacked with books on feminist figures in medicine. As I said, perfect.
I plopped down and hauled my backpack onto the desk. Before dragging out books that weighed more than small dogs, I peeked at my phone.
One message from Rudolph.
Sorry. Busy.
I stared at the message like it had a secret code hidden within. Reread it. Like my mate’s number would materialize eventually.
I’d tried calling Rudolph again on the way here, but the call had cut out, digging a deeper frown into my face. I likely looked like one of those wrinkly Shar-Pei dogs, what with how often I’d been frowning lately.
Tucking a few rogue strands behind my ear, I yanked my textbook out.
Why was he avoiding me? Him and his mood swings.
A little buzz pulled me from my spiral.
Can’t talk, only text. Late class
How are you, Bunny Doc? Missing me already?
I hadn’t noticed the smile sneaking onto my face until my fingers started tapping my lips. Rudy was my modern pen pal. And a very handy one, I should add, since he belonged to the same pack as my infamous, newly discovered mate.
Shouldn’t you be paying attention? I had a feeling you were a terrible student
I chewed my lip, reflecting. Was it appropriate to be texting another guy after meeting your soulmate?
Even if he had his own mate, and this was strictly friendship?
And she didn’t mind—apparently. Besides, I needed a little intel—find out about my mate, maybe even get his number to apologize for earlier.
I can text and listen at the same time.
I’m a man of many talents. Are you saying the genius bunny can’t do it? ;)
Multitasking? Ha! You wouldn’t be able to in Advanced Neuro 104. That class literally fried half my brain cells! And to think we were supposed to learn to understand and fix the brain in that class! How can I, when it’s so brain-consuming?
After sending, I shriveled at how nerdy my joke was. If I ever said something like that to my mate, he’d probably bolt. At least Rudy seemed to enjoy my lameness, evident by the ten laughing emojis he sent over.
I’m sure you’ve got extra gray matter to spare. Sacrifice some for the benefit of science
Whatcha doing now? Studying? Planning to go on another date?
My psychiatry books lay untouched on the desk, my laptop still napping. I didn’t recognize myself. Here at the library and not studying? Who had I become?
Who has time for dates? In the library, trying to study!
Trying, huh? Something distracting the smart bunny? Is it that guy you dated? Does he still text you?
Why the sudden interest in my dating life? I’d actually forgotten about Sillas, his text from after the event that afternoon having been left on read. Maybe because a tall, blond boy had invaded my mind ever since.
Officially, I only went out with him once, and no, we don’t text much. Also—GUESS WHAT?!
My fingers were vibrating with the need to spill everything.
Just once? Is the boy dumb? He must be, to be a wereball player.
Or did he do something wrong?
Again, another question on the subject.
I typed a reply, noting that Rudolph was also writing something.
Nothing wrong! He was sweet, smart, and held the door open for me, but we were just NMWB who tried dating, and I realized he wasn’t my type. ANYWAY, GUESS. WHAT.
And what’s your type? Let me guess, some pimpled med nerd that spends more time with his hands than real people?
Is holding doors a requirement? Haven’t you learned how to open one yourself?
Why wasn’t he asking about my news?
Pimples happen when sebaceous glands become clogged and infected, leading to red, pus-filled lesions. That’s nothing to laugh at or bully anyone about, Rudy. Also, they’re more likely around puberty, so my potential nerdy doctor wouldn’t have any anymore.
And masturbation is healthy if done hygienically.
Bunny Doc strikes again Your fantasy doc probs wears glasses thicker than his…stethoscope. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure no one bullies him about that terrible condition.
PS: Are you healthy then?
That was smooth. Annoying, but smooth.
I snorted, and a girl with glasses at a nearby desk cleared her throat so loudly that it startled me. Embarrassed, I turned back to my phone.
Doctors aren’t my type, either. Maybe surgeons, if they’re like Mark Sloan… but who doesn’t love a broody heartthrob with scalpel skills?
No reply.
I stared at the screen. Still no bubbles.
My plan to gather information about my mate had to be put on hold. With a frustrated exhalation, I set my phone face down near my book. Back to the actual brain-burning material.
Memory is a complex process that includes three phases: encoding (deciding what information is important), storing, and recalling.
Different areas of the brain are involved in different types of memory (Fig.
6). The brain has to pay attention and rehearse for an event to move from short-term to long-term memory.
Long-term memory is processed in the hippocampus of the temporal lobe and is activated when something needs to be memorized for a longer period of time.
Like the moment I met my mate, forever engraved in my hippocampus.
I could replay the scene in my mind like a movie, new details popping up every time I rewatched it.
The way his eyebrows arched, sinful lips curling, golden locks caressing his forehead, muscles rippling with every micro-movement. I shook my head, scolding myself.
You have to focus, Yvaine, and get this medical degree!
I wasn’t doing this solely for my own passion.
It was for every girl who’d been told no—told she wasn’t smart enough, steady enough, strong enough to hold a scalpel, let alone a brain. It was a statement to anyone who’d ever tried to shrink us in an operating room, in life, or in love.
We had never been small; they’d misread the scale.
I forced my focus back onto the page.
On the other hand, short-term memory, also called working memory, occurs in the prefrontal cortex.
It stores information for about one minute, and its capacity is limited to approximately seven items. For example, it enables you to dial a phone number someone just told you.
It also intervenes during reading, allowing you to memorize the sentence you just read, thereby ensuring that the next one makes sense.
That particular reading was forgotten altogether when my phone lit up the table beneath it.
Whoisthat
No punctuation. Someone was texting under the table.
Haven’t you seen Grey’s Anatomy? Mark’s a surgeon on the series. Where have you been, living under your rock?
So this dude doesn’t even exist? You’ve got a crush on an imaginary person? That’s ridiculous and annoying
Rudolph was probably frustrated he couldn’t hit Mark Sloan, who didn’t exist apart from in most women’s hearts.
Another text swished through.
And you still didn’t say. Why’d you stop dating that dude?
Sillas Wilder, right?
Meet someone better?
That seemed like a good time to switch to the actual topic and start using dear rude Rudy to gather more information about my mate, without him realizing what I was doing. Tapping my finger on my chin, I fired off a message with a tiny grin.
Maybe a gigantic, deadly hot, blond, fluffy-haired werewolf with a jaw that could slice my hand if I didn’t wear protective gloves.
Then I typed another text.
And before you ask, yes, I found my mate too! And his hotness equals Mark’s.
I resumed my studying. Before my short-term memory could even try to absorb what I was reading, texts bombarded my screen.
Gigantic? You think he’s fat? Jaw slicing your hand?!?! Why would his jaw want to do that?
That Michael Salami dude is old and 100% into dudes
I stifled a laugh.
My mate’s not fat, Rudy. By gigantic, I meant he’s so tall that I think I’ll need a ladder! His jaw’s chiseled! I was using a metaphor, though I imagine it’d still be dangerous to stroke. Also, the surgeon’s called MARK not Michael.
You want to stroke his jaw?
It’s a very strokable jaw!
And this ladder is for what?
Of all things, he had to focus on the ladder joke. I wanted to start asking questions about my mate, not answer his.
Oh, you know what.
Nope, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me, Bunny Doc?
A blush blasted my face like I’d just opened a pre-heated oven. My mind served up an image of me climbing a stepladder just to kiss my giant of a mate without him having to bend over a meter or crouch. Him leaning down, me reaching up, our mouths meeting in the middle…
Shut up, Rudy! Don’t you want to know who he is, instead of asking unimportant questions? I’ll give you a hint: You’re from the same pack!
Hey, all my questions are important, Bunny Doc. I’m very curious to know what you’re planning to do with a ladder
Also, good to know you have a jaw fetish
I sighed, scratching the side of my neck. What harm could there be in telling him my thoughts about my soulmate?
Okay, fine. Since he’s at least three stories tall, I’ll need a ladder to kiss him properly. Or he’ll eventually get back pain, and I’ll strain my neck. Neither is advisable, health-wise.
I decided to be honest, so we could move on quickly—and I could ask my questions.
But again, Rudolph didn’t answer me right away.
What a frustrating reindeer!