And then I saw what he meant. Hartley was standing there with no cast on his leg, and no air boot. Not even a brace. “Wow,” I said. I raised myself onto my elbows, in preparation for sitting up. Then I raised myself all the way, holding up a hand for a high five. “Nice going.”
He smacked it. “Thanks. I’ll see you in economics.” He walked out, limping a bit, and leaning on a cane I’d never seen before.
When the door shut on him, I let out a breath of air. Operation Forget About Hartley was going to be tough. But I would fight the good fight.
After my first lecture of the new semester — a Renaissance art history course — I made my way to Economics 102, reversing my chair against the wall as I always did. A minute later, Hartley came walking in. I felt him more than saw him. He slid his cane under his seat and folded into the chair next to me.
“S’up?” he asked, his voice warm.
I looked up, and was instantly trapped in his brown-eyed gaze. My stomach lurched, and I felt my neck begin to heat. My heart rate kicked up.
Hell and damn.
He was still waiting for me to say something. “Not much,” I finally stammered. Why was this suddenly so hard?
Tell him about water polo! My hope fairy was back, circling my head like a quivering halo.
No.
I was not going to tell him. The old me would have blurted out how anxious it made me — how fearful I was of embarrassing myself. If I did, Hartley would listen. He’d stare into my eyes and say just the right thing. But I was done confiding in him. Because it only led to heartbreak.
“So, the professor for econ 102 is supposed to be more fun,” Hartley said. “But I’ve heard the material is drier.”
With a deep breath, I opened my notebook on my lap. “It does sound pretty dry,” I agreed. “Trade balances and currency exchange? I can’t say I’m very excited about it.”
Just then, the professor came in, tapping the microphone on the lectern. And I was saved. I fixed my attention up front. Soon, I was drifting on the professor’s words as he began to explain the concept of deficit spending.
Why was I even here? At this very moment, Dana was sitting in another lecture hall, listening to the first lecture of a Shakespeare course. She’d invited me to take it with her, but I’d said no. Now I realized that Econ 102 was a feeble attempt to hold on to one little part of Hartley, and to our time together. With a class that I didn’t even like.
It was pathetic, truly.
After class, Hartley and I left the room, heading for Commons, as always.
“How’s Dana?” Hartley asked. “I haven’t seen her.”
“She bought herself a half-pound of chocolate covered espresso beans as a jet lag remedy. Apparently vacation was just long enough to put her back on Japanese time. And then she had to fly back here again.”
“Brutal,” Hartley sympathized.
And that’s when I spotted Stacia. “Hey!” she called. Her wave from across the street could have been said to include me or not, depending on your perspective.
When we crossed to her side, the first thing she did was to lip-lock Hartley. It was no quick peck, either. She stepped into him, put her hands on those sculpted shoulders and gave it to him. For a long minute I stopped there, awkwardly wondering what I was supposed to do while they kissed.
Just when I was sure I’d combust with discomfort, she said, “Let’s go to Katie’s Deli for lunch.”
“What?” Hartley asked, lifting his sore leg off the sidewalk, like a flamingo. “That’s an extra two blocks. Besides, Callahan and I always go to Commons after econ. Not only is it nearby, it’s already paid for.”
“But…” she whined, “I’ve been pining for an eggplant wrap for four months.”
I held up a hand. “Actually, you two can duke it out. I need to try to make it to the dean’s office between classes. So I’ll catch you guys later.” I pointed my wheels down College Street, back towards Beaumont. As I began to roll away, I looked over my shoulder and waved.
Hartley actually gave me a bit of a dirty look, and somehow it made me feel giddy. O.F.A.H. was back on track.
I headed for the Beaumont House dean’s office, just as I’d said I would. Unfortunately, I discovered that it was up three marble steps and through a narrow, hundred-year-old doorway under one of Beaumont’s gorgeous granite archways. On my crutches, it would have been entirely manageable. But I hadn’t gone home to switch. So I parked myself outside the door and called the office on my cell. I could hear the phone ringing inside, and the secretary answering. “Hello?”
“Hi,” I said. “This is Corey Callahan, and I’m right outside, but in a wheelchair…”
“Sure, Corey,” the woman’s voice was friendly. “Do you need to speak to the dean? I’ll send him right out.”
Only thirty seconds later he emerged, pad and paper in hand. Dean Darling wore a beard and a corduroy blazer, complete with collegiate elbow patches. He looked like he’d been born right here, amid the musty libraries and granite facades. “So sorry, my dear,” he said, his British accent thick and proper. “These old buildings…”