“No. God, no, he’s not bothering me. I mean maybe he’s a perv.” I bite down over my lip. “But I mean that in a good way. Anyway, never mind. It was stupid of me to ask. But speaking of asking.” I sink in my seat a little. “Do you think there’s any way I can get a job at the Black Bear? I’ll wait tables, wash dishes, mop the liquor off the counters with my tongue. I’m pretty desperate for cash.” To say the least. There’s a reason I scour thrift shops for clothing. Up-cycling isn’t just for fashion, it’s to keep me from pulling a Lady Godiva every single day of my life.
“Sorry.” Baya freezes with a grimace. “In fact, I think all the bars are at capacity. You might want to check in again before summer. We usually lose half the staff.”
“Summer? I’ll be a professional dumpster diver long before then.”
“Oh, I know”—Laney’s bright pink nails click over the table—“Ryder mentioned they’re having to hire temps at the office all the time. Maybe he can squeeze you in at Capwell Enterprises part time? Ooh.” Her expression sours as if she’s just realized something horrible. “It’s a weekday gig.”
“That’s totally fine. I only have classes Tuesdays and Thursdays. I sort of arranged it that way. It’s my last semester before I head into the business program next fall, and that’s five days of suffering a week. I thought I’d take it easy for now.”
“Awesome!” Laney brightens. “If you’re up for it, I’ll pass your info along. He might be able to get you to speak with human resources later this afternoon.”
“Thank you!” I jump up and pull them both into a hug. “You have no idea how grateful I am.” I check my phone. “Perfect. I’ve got two minutes to get to my first class.”
“Me, too.” Baya scoops up her things. “What do you have?”
“Pre-Business, Entrepreneurial Management.”
“So do I!” She hops a little too exuberantly.
“Let’s get out of here. I’d hate to be late for the first class.” I wave to Laney. “See you at the Black Bear.”
“Wait”—she calls—“give me your number!”
I shoot her my number and take off into the crisp winter air. A new semester. A new beginning.
Baya and I stride over toward the business department. The bare branches of the maples reach to the sky with their skeletal frames. The lavender pink sky fills in the background with its early morning blush. I can see the new buds, still tight in their cocoons, promising something brilliant and wonderful just around the corner. It’s as if the entire world is promising something better, something new. Spring semester has thrust itself in our face like a delicious pie we should take careful savoring bites of.
But all I want to take a bite out of—all I can think about—is Wyatt James.
The man who told me no.
* * *
Entrepreneurial Management holds the promise of being long and droning. But thankfully, there’s not a hint of Will anywhere to be seen.
The doorway darkens with a tall, beanpole of a familiar boy, and I sink in my seat.
“Spoke too soon.”
“What?” Baya whispers sliding in close. “Is that—?” Her eyes flick from him to me. “Is that the cheat?”
“That would be the twerp in question.” I cringe as he heads in our direction.
“Morning ladies.” He sits down in the row in front of us, that familiar cologne of his wafts over as if it too were waving a friendly hello. It’s sweet, too overbearingly sweet. I’ve told him that on several occasions. I made it a point to purchase an entire variety of far more olfactory worthy scents to bathe my man in, back when he was my man, but he was quick to reject them citing the fact Delusion was an expensive gift from his mother. In hindsight, the only delusional one was me.
Neither Baya nor I return the greeting, instead we focus our attention on the professor who just cleared her throat for attention.
Professor Nicholson is a young, beautiful woman with her hair pulled back in a tight ballet bun and librarian rectangular glasses, sort of a cliché in and of herself because you can tell she’s drop dead gorgeous beneath all those academic layers. Here she’s simply a caricature of her real self. It’s funny because I’m almost certain I’d never have that thought about a man. A man could never be a caricature of himself in a university setting. We would never say I bet he’s drop dead gorgeous when he’s not hiding under all those layers of academia as if his glasses, his pocket protector, were simply props for the classroom. Women seem to have a lot more alleyways that lead back to stereotypical conjectures—the slutty librarian—the naughty teacher. It’s as if we can never fully be one without society wanting to peg us as the other—but only if you’re beautiful. Beauty is never the curse, it’s the sexualization that comes with it.