Written with Love

03 The Late Arrival

Annie

The girl was fidgeting. Tapping her fingers against the table, reaching to brush a lock of blond hair from her neck, lips twisting as she chewed the inside of her cheek. Each time the classroom door swung open, she'd freeze, glance up, inhale, and return to picking at the edge of one of the stickers on the cover of her notebook.

The process was almost rhythmic in its consistency. I wondered if she was waiting for someone. Expecting someone? She was clearly nervous, and I could feel the writer's side of my brain turning that information over, filing it away.

If this was a story, it would be... a crush? An ex-boyfriend? A crush turned lover turned ex-boyfriend? He (though admittedly a bit heteronormative) shattered her heart into a million pieces by sleeping with her best friend, then ground the shards of her love under his foot by meeting her mascara-streaked gaze with cold, dead eyes and telling her she shouldn't have been so boring if she'd wanted him to stay. Ouch. That's when she'd dyed her hair blonde of course, and cut it to shoulder length. Now she's terrified he'll walk through that door, all broad shoulders and dark stubble, and... how could she possibly know he'd be in this class?

Does she? Is she just guessing? Predicting? It was a high-level writing class, and there was a fairly small group of people that could walk through the door right now, but the fact that I didn't recognize this girl meant there was a larger pool of possible students than I'd thought-

The teacher. The only person she knows will have to be here, and he clearly hasn't arrived yet. She's... pregnant with his child? She hasn't told him yet. She's scared he'll leave her when he finds out because no one can know about their steamy love affair. His reputation is at stake, but so is hers, but he doesn't care. He-

I glanced up as the door swung open and the professor walked in, briefcase clutched in one hand, frizzy red hair sticking up at all sorts of odd angles. Her knee-length blue tie-dye dress swished satisfyingly around her legs as she weaved toward the head of the table, maroon lips pursed. My bad. I mentally scratched accidental pregnancy off the blond girl's list of fake ailments.

Gears still turning, I looked back toward the girl and was startled to find several more students had joined us around the table while I'd been daydreaming. There had to be about ten of us now, including a girl rummaging through her bag, a boy on his phone, and another boy, red-headed, staring past me out the wide window. I realized with a start that this was the smallest writing class I'd ever been a part of. An addictive mix of fear and excitement hit my bloodstream on an inhale, bringing reality into sharp focus.

Now all I had to do was convince these people I deserved to be here.

"Welcome," our professor started, and all the backpack rustling and finger-tapping came to an abrupt halt. "If you aren't here for Advanced Fiction Writing, you're in the wrong classroom."

No one spoke.

"Perfect. I'm Professor Lillian Hayes, you can call me Lillian, Hayes, Professor, Professor Hayes... whatever. I just don't respond to Lil,' Lilly, or, 'Hey, you.' Questions?"

More silence.

"Great. Let me..." she trailed off, patting her sides as if to check her pockets. Shifting paper stacks around on the table in front of her. She was clearly looking for something.

"Pen?" I held one aloft. I had no idea why I did it, didn't even think the word before it escaped past my lips, and my heart pounded as every face in the classroom swung my way. My skin crawled under the weight of their attention.

"Oh, yes. I have no idea where mine went. Thanks very much." I slid it toward her, holding my breath until I was sure it wouldn't stop halfway across the surface of the table. Hyperaware of the fact that I'd barely slept last night, and the bags under my eyes were probably big enough to pack a person. Each. And people were looking at me.

"Now let me see..." She had a paper in her hand, an attendance sheet, and was scanning it. She glanced up at all of us, making brief eye contact, and then back down at the sheet.

"We're missing one. Does anyone know a-"

The classroom door swung open with a bang, drowning out whatever Professor Hayes said next. Every head in the room whipped in that direction, and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief at not being the center of attention anymore.

Then, I saw him. My sign morphed into a choked gasp as it registered who, exactly, had just stumbled into the classroom.

"Sorry- I-" He started, keeling over, right there at the door, bringing his hands to his knees and taking big, gulping breaths. My silly, silly, brain couldn't help but draw a parallel in neon yellow highlighter, between this sight, and him laughing in the same position last night.

Clearly, my lust needed to work on its timing, because the sweat on his brow sent a jolt through me. The way his shirt tightened across his shoulders, molding to his taut, muscled form-

He glanced up, and our gazes locked. I inhaled sharply, flinching back from the intensity in his eyes. He looked wild. Messy. I didn't wait to see whether recognition flickered across his face, just whipped back to the professor, heart racing. That brief exchange of glances felt like touching a live wire, my skin heating. There was something sharp and hungry in me, digging its claws into my ribcage. I didn't know this feeling and didn't like it.

"You're late."

"I'm so sorry. I wasn't sure which room it was, and then I asked the desk lady, but she didn't know either, and then-"

"Well now that you know, I expect it not to happen again."

"Of course, never."

"Have a seat." She made a small note on the paper and continued to check names off, glancing up every so often and mumbling to herself.

Noah sat. I felt his eyes on me, raking across my skin. Except then, in the brightness of day, with none of the magic of yesterday's dress, it wasn't exciting. It hit me -- the mascara smudged under my eyes probably made me look like a sleep-deprived animal. The luster, and mystery, of yesterday's choices felt cheap on my tongue and I couldn't, wouldn't meet his eyes.

My confidence from earlier seemed ridiculous. I felt it slipping like sand through my fingers, a familiar tightening in my chest, but-

No. I wouldn't let this guy do that. I wouldn't let a guy be the reason I didn't stand up, speak up, for myself. He'd made it clear that he wasn't into me, so I'd move on. I wouldn't be his friend, and maybe I'd even smile to myself when it turned out, inevitably, that his writing was uninspired anyway. But I wouldn't feel bad, and I wouldn't shrink.

Someone coughed, and without thinking, I glanced toward his side of the table. Noah was still looking at me, eyebrows drawn, expression closed and dark. Then, he tilted his head in question, exposing the line of his neck. My stomach dropped.

It was going to be a long semester.