The double dating debacle runs through my mind. I’m such an idiot for thinking Cruise would ever want to be my date. But he sort of was in the end, and that’s all that matters. I can still feel his fingers relaxing over mine, warming me with his palm, the current that ran through us, alive and anxious. Cruise and his affection seem as innocent as a downed power line thrashing in a pool of water. Loving Cruise would only hurt in the end, cause irreparable damage if I’m not careful. But I’m not all that interested in being careful anymore.
I tumble out of bed and find a note on the kitchen table.
Have an early meeting. See you in class.
I’m pretty sure he meant at school. I doubt I have any classes with a graduate student.
I rush through my morning routine and put on the warmest clothes possible. It looks like a nuclear winter has set in out there. God, I hope those classrooms at Garrison have the heaters turned up full throttle.
I step outside and the icy wind knifes through all four layers of clothing like a sickle hacking through weeds. My skin enlivens from the blowtorch effect. This is what I imagined love would be like, the beauty of the landscape luring you in then the surprise of the flames as you burn under the guise of your own foolishness.
And, as foolish as it sounds, I wish Cruise would step into that fire with me. God knows I’m looking forward to the burn.
I’d do anything to melt with Cruise.
Garrison University is a superhighway of bicycles, bodies, and brick buildings as tall and ornate as cathedrals. A tower sits in the center, erect, proud, and well, in every way a monument to all things phallic. A giant metal-framed globe sits on top, declaring it the tallest structure on campus. I gaze at it an inordinate amount of time and wonder how frightening it would feel to be perched on top of its skeletal frame, how fragile the world would look from that vantage point.
I move through the crowd and soak in the people, the luxurious landscape that puts to shame the tiny junior college I went to back home. The stone benches with students sitting beneath the trees, expensively dressed girls with tall leather boots, warm wool coats and supple leather handbags. I keep forgetting most everyone at Garrison is a child of privilege, save for the few like me who managed to score a scholarship. But I’m here. I’ve escaped the soup kitchen that was my mother’s home, the dreadful beat box neighborhood where she landed us time after time. And now, Morgan and I are both quasi independent, freeing my mother of the lead shoes we had been for the better half of two decades. Here I am at Garrison, officially on my own. It feels as if the very next step I take will usher me over the threshold into adulthood.
I love it here. I can finally breathe.
Then there’s Cruise, who perhaps is the best thing Garrison, Carrington, and Massachusetts as a whole have going for them, at least in my eyes. Everything in me soars at the prospect of seeing Cruise today, as if living together could never be enough.
Bodies begin to thin out, and the bicycles whirl by more spastic than before, so I hustle over to the liberal arts building for my first class of the day, gender relations. I hike my way to the second floor of an over-bright building. Everything looks new and immaculate inside with its glossy white walls and floors to match. The walls are devoid of the graffiti and informational posters I’ve grown accustomed to at my last school. The hint of fresh paint lingers in the air—the scent of pine cleaner layered just beneath that.
Room 228A. This is it.
I peer inside. It’s nearly full with row after row of students crammed behind tiny desks, the same ones they had at my old J.C. I’m not sure why this surprises me.
A girl swoops inside, and I slide in after her taking a seat in the second row. I hate sitting anywhere near the front. It’s the not-so-fun zone because everybody knows your odds of getting picked on go up astronomically. My backpack hardly fits at my feet, and I find this more than slightly irritating. For some reason I thought the forty thousand dollar price difference would add some square footage to my seating area.
The professor stands with his back turned to the class. He’s tall, dressed in a tweed jacket and brown cords—looks nice enough. He busies himself writing something on the chalkboard. Chalk. For sure I thought they’d have those interactive whiteboards gracing this institution of overpriced learning. My mother used to joke you could replace the S in Garrison with a dollar sign. It’s nothing but the best at Garrison, she would chime. But even my J.C. had the slightly more appealing whiteboards to tool around on.
The professor remains diligent in his primitive communication endeavor as a trail of dust snows down from his fingertips. God, he looks gorgeous from behind. He sort of reminds me of Cruise the way his hair narrows to his neck in neat waves. In fact, the way he just jerked his shoulder reminds me of a muscular twitch I’ve seen Cruise demonstrate on more than one occasion. I would know. I’ve been watching Cruise Elton like a freaking hawk these past three weeks. I memorized his nuances, studied them like it were a new field in science, his breathing pattern could keep me mesmerized for years.