Somehow I make it to my class with Professor Shipley, whom I really like. Even though the entire time she’s going on about gender in war films, I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to have Brigs there. What’s he like at faculty meetings? Do he and Professor Shipley ever have lunch to discuss the students, or perhaps dinner to talk about film? Do they go to the movies together? Even though Professor Shipley is in her forties, she’s got this vibe about her, always dressing in capes and long, wide sleeves, her dark hair streaked with grey flowing all the way down to her waist. I could see the two of them hitting it off. If anything, she has to be intrigued by the enigmatic Brigs McGregor.
And then it happens.
Right after class.
I walk down the hall, heading to the bookstore to pick up yet another book I forgot to buy, my mind briefly wondering about the book that Brigs was writing, the one I helped him with.
I’ve always feared that my mind could conjure up the wrong things, like how thinking about a plane crash while on a plane might cause one, and now I know it’s sort of true.
Because I see Brigs walking down the hall in my direction.
He doesn’t see me yet, or maybe he’s pretending.
His head is held high and he strides forward with easy confidence. He’s wearing wire-frame glasses he sometimes uses for reading. A well-tailored navy suit hugs his body, his shirt unbuttoned just enough, no tie. I can see the looks on girls’ faces as they pass him by. He stands out—distinguished, quite obviously a professor, but also incredibly, devilishly sexy. None of the other teachers wear suits, except for Professor Irving (though his look like they’re made out of a couch). There’s just this magnetism about Brigs that turns heads.
He’s turning mine right now.
And then he’s gone, without our eyes even meeting once.
I’m not sure how I feel about it. I stand there in the middle of the hall feeling relieved at how easy that was. How I saw him again and survived. Didn’t collapse into a puddle or lose my head with another panic attack.
And yet, I’m also bereft. Because it feels absolutely wrong to watch this man walk past me and let him go without saying anything, pretending he’s a stranger.
A stranger I used to love.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brigs
It’s been days since I’ve seen Natasha. So long that it feels like a dream.
But on Thursday, when I have the second part of my Analyzing Comedic Film Performance class, I see Melissa again. Proof that the Natasha I saw in the hall on Monday really existed.
I don’t say anything to Melissa about her though. I want to, but it doesn’t seem like the time or the place, and when class is over, I’m occupied by other students.
When Friday rolls around, however, and I’m in the lecture theatre, teaching Early Cinema to the undergrads, Melissa is front and center. Literally. She and the two other TAs, Ben and Henry, sit in the first row, observing me very carefully. It took me a while to get used to having TAs when I was teaching in Edinburgh, and this is no different. In fact, Melissa seems to be overly attentive, hanging on to my every word, which should be flattering but it’s striking me as wrong.
My concern seem justified when class ends and she comes over to me as I’m putting my notes away.
I peer at her over my reading glasses, trying to sound as professional as possible. “Good afternoon, Melissa.”
She tilts her head at me, brushes her hair off her shoulder, and smirks. “Nice class. It’s going to be a breeze being your assistant this year.”
I raise my brow. “I’m glad you think so. I’ll try to take it easy on you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to take it easy on me,” she says. “I like it when things are hard.”
Was that an innuendo? She didn’t say it like one, but still. I think I need to tread cautiously with this one.
I clear my throat and pick up my briefcase. It’s taking everything inside me not to ask about Natasha. “Can I help you with anything?” I ask, since she’s just standing there staring.
“I was wondering if I could talk to you,” she says. “In private.”
Is it about Natasha? I want to ask. But it could and most likely is about anything but.
“Sure,” I tell her. “Come with me to my office.”
We leave the lecture theatre before it starts filling up for the next class and begin a long awkward walk down the hall and up the stairs.
“So,” I say, grappling for something to talk about other than what I really want to talk about. “What are your plans for after graduation?”
She laughs, high-pitched, like some Disney princess. “I have no plans at all except to keep on doing what I’m doing.”