“You’re such a drama queen.” She pretends to be annoyed, but I can see she’s not. She’s loving this, basking in his attention.
They argue some more, and it becomes clear. I am quite an expert at sniffing out heartbreak and one-sided love after years of practice. Emma is in love with Dylan but he doesn’t know it, and that wary glance? She was jealous of me. Me, the discarded girl. I want to tell her she has nothing to be afraid of. I’m not a threat—maybe to myself, but not to other people.
I study them together. Dylan: messy dark hair and hazel eyes with a boyish, somewhat shy charm about him, and Emma: brown hair and eyes, sparkling with intelligence and maturity.
They’re a perfect match. I think anybody who’s in love with anyone is a perfect match. I don’t believe in crap like There’s somebody better for you out there. I don’t want better. I want the guy I’m in love with.
There goes my selfish heart. It’s thundering in my chest with anger and frustration. Why doesn’t Caleb love us?
The clicking footsteps have us turning toward the classroom. Thomas emerges, tall and unapproachable, hardly sparing us a glance. As he passes our little group, I feel the buzz of his energy waking up my body in goose bumps. He strides down the hallway to the stairs at the end and takes them two at a time.
Dylan exhales a sharp breath. “That guy is…not what I expected.”
“Is it me or is he totally boring? He’s nothing like what I was hoping.” Emma frowns, folding her arms. “I thought he’d be friendlier or something, or would at least answer my questions. I was so excited to actually learn something from him, you know.”
Dylan rubs the top of her head playfully and Emma swats his hand away. “Told you. You were expecting too much, Emmy. He’s just a guy who writes poetry.”
“Just a guy!” Emma is enraged. “You have no idea how amazing he is. He’s one of the best poets we have right now. Do you know how many awards he’s won? He’s magic.”
Dylan turns to me. “He’s really not. She’s got a little crush on him, that’s all.”
“I do not!”
Dylan’s eyes hold a twinkle at seeing Emma so riled up, and I chuckle. Guys can be so clueless. He likes her too, he just doesn’t know it yet.
They begin arguing again, and I feel like this is how they are with each other. This is their sacred ritual, and I’m the intruder. I’m about to excuse myself when a series of footsteps thump on the second floor and we all look up.
“What is that?” I ask, wincing.
“The theatre people. They have a conference room upstairs they use to practice when the auditorium isn’t free,” Dylan informs me.
“Wow.” I’m impressed. “You guys have theatre people here?”
Emma laughs. “Yup. This is the Labyrinth. We’ve got all kinds of weirdos and artsy people here.”
________________
After my detour to the north side of campus, I rush back to reality. I attend the rest of my classes in a certain daze, here one second but gone the next. It’s odd, to say the least.
By the end of the day, I’m still trapped in those flaming eyes, looking at the world through a blue fog.
He’s magic.
I don’t know why, but that word affects me so much. Once all my classes are done, I find myself at the bookstore again. This time around, I don’t want to buy a required book or create chaos. I want to get to know him through his words.
His book is called Anesthesia: Collected Poems. According to Wikipedia, this is his first full-length collection of poems. It was released almost a year ago and since then, it has been named one of the best poetry books of the year and has received a bunch of awards. Most specifically, he is the youngest recipient of the McLeod genius grant at the age of twenty-nine. He’s a big deal.
I hold the thin, leafy book in my hands. The pages are crisp white with black, bold letters. I flick through them as Lana’s “Blue Jeans” plays in my ears. My fingers trace the curly letters of his name on the front.
Thomas Abrams.
Thomas, dark smoker and blue-eyed professor.
This side of the store is almost empty. There are a bunch of stragglers in the popular fiction section, over to the left side, partially hidden behind the sprawling staircase and flanking bricked pillars.
Knowing the coast is clear, I bring the book to my nose and smell the clean, sharp pages. I take a large sniff and strangely, catch a scent of warm smoke. I sway with the rush of warmth skating down my spine and the rhythm of the music echoing in my ears. Beginnings of a moan surprise me and I whip my eyes open.
There he is, as if conjured by my own imagination.
The eyes that have been haunting me, following me everywhere today, bore into me and slowly sweep down to the book currently covering the lower half of my face. I feel a tug in my stomach, behind my navel, as though someone is pulling on the silver ring adorning my belly. I clear my throat and lower the book, taking my headphones off.
“I love the smell of books.”
He doesn’t look like he believes me. His contemplative stare makes me aware that I’m wearing layers upon layers of clothing. Too many layers. Too much heat.
I put the book away with trembling hands and shrug. “You can say it.”
“Say what?” He cocks his head, as if analyzing me.
Kara does the same. She tries to figure me out and I hate it, but hate isn’t the word I’d use to describe what I’m feeling right now. It’s something else. Bolder. Thrilling. Unknown.
“Whatever you’re thinking. I can see it on your face—you think I’m crazy, think I’m an idiot for smelling a book.”
I’m waiting for him to acknowledge it, to say, Duh, you’re right, though I don’t think he’d say it exactly that way.
“That’s…impressive.” He nods, his mouth curling into a one-sided smile. “You can read me like a book—though I’d rather you not smell me.”
A surprised chuckle escapes me. “You’re funny.”
“Guilty. One of my many talents.”
“Right. What are your other talents? No wait, I know—teaching, right?”
“Yes. I was born to teach,” he deadpans, his face made of smooth stone except for the deepening crinkles around his eyes.
“Ah, delusion. Got it. You’re insanely talented.”
His beautifully carved jaw tics. “Are you insulting my teaching skills, Miss Robinson?”
My name sounds like tendrils of chocolate in his rich, deep voice. I feel it drenching me in a sticky, excited buzz. How is it that he makes me hot while at the same time giving me shivers? How is it that he does any of these things at all?
“No, Professor Abrams. I wouldn’t dare. You kinda scare me.”
Truth. Absolute and utter truth. He scares me, because he has a strange effect on me, mystical and unprecedented.
“Good. I am scary. Never forget that,” he says approvingly, ready to leave, but then he turns around to face me. “Do you know it’s illegal to mess up the order of the books?”