The Unrequited Page 3

But somehow, I keep the broad line of his shoulders in sight. It’s hard not to, really. He’s taller than most people, his back broader, and I bet when that black sport jacket is peeled off, that back is an expanse of thick cuts and sleek lines, much like his face.

  The chilled breeze ruffles his hair and scatters the smoke billowing out of his cigarette. I can taste it in my mouth, taste the ashy smoke and languid relief that only nicotine can provide. This man makes me want to buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke my day away. He makes me want to whip out my fake ID and get liquored up.

  That reminds me—I am a good girl now.

  So what the fuck am I doing? I’ve got class, and I should be scrambling like everyone to get to it.

  But we want to follow him, my heart whines.

  Fine. Just this once.

  I keep following my smoker. We cross the quad and he climbs the steps leading up to the bridge that stretches over the two sides of campus. I hardly ever take it since all my classes are on the south side, where I live, but we’re going to the north side, I guess.

  The other side of campus is quieter. Cobblestone pathways and benches are almost empty. There are hardly any stragglers here. Even the air is sharper as it blows through my loose hair and swishes around my red-checkered skirt. Here, the leafless trees are dense as they line the path, making it seem like we’re walking through woods.

  At last, he stops in front of a building and I stop a few feet behind him. The golden letters on the red-bricked high-rise building say McArthur Building, and on the side in a smaller cursive font, it says The Labyrinth—whatever that means.

  I enter the building behind him and sounds bombard me from every side. Murmurs, laughter, footsteps. A phone rings somewhere. A drawer is snapped shut. A door thuds closed. It is a hub of activity in contrast to the quietness outside, as though every soul on this side of campus resides within this archaic building.

  The floors gleam under my feet and the unpolished brick walls give the space a homey feel. I want to look around and see what exactly this place is, but I don’t dare take my eyes off him. He walks down the hallway and enters the very last room.

  I follow him and as I’m about to enter the room, it happens.

  He turns and looks at me.

  His mysterious, otherworldly blue eyes are on me, and I’m rendered paralytic. I can’t move. I can’t think. His stare lulls me into a foggy stillness.

  He leans against something…a table. The windows in the wall behind him let the sunlight in, which dissolves as soon as it touches his body, making him glow. He takes a sip of his coffee and watches me over the rim of the mug. Somewhere along the way he got rid of his cigarette, and oddly, I mourn the loss.

  “Hi,” I say breathily.

  “Are you going to take a seat?”

  His rich, mature voice slides over my skin, causing a slight sting, like that of an aged liquor.

  “What?” I ask stupidly, thoughtlessly.

  “Take a seat,” he says again, sighing.

  “I don’t…”

  He stands up straight. “Take. A. Seat.” He enunciates every word like I’m an imbecile. “Or get the fuck out of my class.”

  Class. That word pierces the bubble around me, making me wince. I break his gaze and look around. Sure enough, we’re in a class with twenty or so people, and they’re all staring at me.

  I look back at him, frowning, and study his features. The aged, mature features. The lines around his mouth and eyes. His confident manner. The fact that he is intimidating when he wants to be.

  He doesn’t look like a college-going guy…because he is not.

  This blue-eyed smoker is a professor.

  “You’re…a professor.” I repeat my thoughts out loud; I don’t know what else to say.

  A tight, barely tolerant smile. “What gave me away?”

  Plenty of things, actually. I open my mouth to answer his question but my heart whispers, He’s kidding, you idiot. Sarcasm alert.

  Right. I close my mouth but open it again. “I-I didn’t realize that when I followed you here.”

  “You followed me.” He’s studying me with shrewd eyes. I wonder what I look like to him—not like that blondie, I hope. Not like anyone else either.

  “No,” I answer immediately, without a thought. Did you steal Caleb’s underwear? No, Mom. “Of course not. I mean, I didn’t mean it that way. I just… I didn’t realize this is a class.”

  “It is, as you can see.” He puts down his coffee mug, ready to dismiss me. “So either take a seat or get out.”

  “Right.” I nod. I’m on the verge of leaving, putting this whole thing behind me, but my legs move forward instead of backward, and then I’m walking through the rows of red plastic chairs. An uncomfortable prickle needles the back of my neck and I know he is watching me.

  I take a seat in the back, look up at him—the professor—and find him unzipping his coat. He takes it off, revealing a starched grey shirt over black jeans. As he drapes the jacket over the chair, his movements are deft and fluid, like a melody. I was right—he’s like a song.

  The realization brings heat, and I feel hotter than I’ve ever felt in winter. My skin sizzles and my breath skips. It’s so odd. Drops of sweat bead and trickle down my spine.

  With trembling hands, I take my white beanie off and shake out my messy hair. Next to go are my fuzzy scarf, my gloves, the purple fur coat, and at last, the black cardigan, leaving me in a full-sleeved white top and red-checkered skirt. I pile everything in the next chair and take a deep breath.

  As I look up, my eyes clash with the tiny blue balls of fire. The professor stares at me with a raised eyebrow and hands in his pockets. By the looks of it, he—along with everyone else—has been staring at me for a while now.

  “Cold hates me,” I mumble and shrug, jerking my shoulders up.

  He shakes his head once and runs his gaze over the class. The students sit on the edges of their seats as they wait for him to speak. I lean forward too. What class is this?

  “Well…” He rocks on his heels. “I’m T—”

  “We know who you are,” a girl says from the front row, and the entire class breaks into excited murmurs.

  Yeah, but I don’t. What’s his name?

  “Okay then.” He seems to be a little taken aback at their enthusiasm.

  “I loved your latest collection,” she chirps. “I mean, we all did. We even had an Anesthesia night after finals. We read the entire thing. I got the title piece. It’s hands down the best poem in the book.”

  Wait, what? He is a poet?

  The guy next to her interrupts her. “I beg to differ. I think I like The Nighttime the best. It’s got a certain mystery to it. It starts in one place and then, boom, the ending completely blows your mind.”

  “Yeah. See, that’s the thing. I think it’s deceiving the reader. I hate deceiving the reader. I think it’s just cheap tactics, you know. That’s why Anesthesia is the best one. It’s simple and pedestrian and just so powerful.”

  “Yeah, it is simple, but Nighttime has…flair to it. It’s dramatic. Sometimes drama is important—big gestures, you know, that kind of thing.”

  They argue some more. Words like syllables, stressed syllables, flow, form, rhythm—things I’ve never even heard of—are thrown around. Meanwhile, the professor watches them with a certain shock. It’s comical, really. Finally the girl gets tired of it and addresses him. “What do you think, professor?”

  He shakes his head as if waking up from sleep. “Think about what?”

  “Drama or simplicity, what do you think is better?” This comes from the guy.

  The professor folds his arms across his chest and squints his eyes, as if he’s thinking about the answer. If yesterday’s incident is any indication, he is pretending to indulge them.

  “That’s a tough one. I might need something a little stronger than coffee to come up with an answer, and unfortunately, it’s frowned upon to drink in a class. So, why don’t we begin with something
a little ordinary? Like names, perhaps?” He lifts his chin to the front-row girl. “Do you want to start us off?”

  “Uh, okay.” The girl wasn’t expecting that. “So, uh, I’m Emma. Emma Walker.”

  Just like that, the spotlight falls away from him as people start introducing themselves.

  He adjusts the cuffs of his shirt, fiddles with the buttons with his thick, long fingers. I feel especially drawn to them. He is a writer. He writes, with those hands. They are little gods, aren’t they? They create things, words, poems. For someone like me, that’s extraordinary.

  I’ve got zero knowledge of poetry, but he makes me want to crack open his book and read. Huh. No one has ever made me want to do something as innocent as reading while simultaneously, making me want to get high and drunk.

  Who is this man?

  He’s like candy-coated toxin.

  I’m so caught up in my musings that I almost miss the golden glint of a ring on his hand. For a split second, I’m confused as to what it is. Then I realize it’s a wedding band.

  The blue-eyed professor is married.

  My heart slows down for a few beats, making me dizzy, and then it picks back up. Thundering, galloping; it’s anxious. I almost want to rub my palm in circles where it’s making a fuss inside my chest. It’s bizarre. What do I care if he’s married?

  Biting my lip, I look up and find his gaze on me. It’s one of those things where you accidently meet someone’s eyes. It’s not deliberate. It’s not like he was watching me watch his hands. And yet, my skin crackles with the tiny bit of electricity that is left behind after a gaze touches the body. I shift in my chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs.

  Before long, it’s my turn to talk. “I’m Layla. Layla Robinson.”

  His focus stays on me a beat longer than it did on other students. “Why do you want to take Introduction to Poetry, Miss Robinson?”

  Great. The first thing he asks me is the one thing I have no clue about. Maybe I can say my therapist/guidance counselor suggested I try something new and here I am, but I don’t want him to know I’m crazy.

  We are not crazy, my unhelpful heart chimes in.

  I sit up straight and clear my throat. “Well, because it’s interesting. I like poetry.”

  “What do you like about it?”

  My breaths bubble up from my chest but don’t reach my mouth. I can’t exhale a proper puff of air as I contemplate his question. I’m under scrutiny, and I hate it. I feel everyone judging me, picking me apart. It feels like home, and I want to disappear.

  But, like always, I keep my chin up and my eyes unblinking. The question churns inside my brain and I have an epiphany.

  “The words,” I exclaim.

  “Yes?” He raises a sarcastic brow. Asshole.

  “It’s like lyrics without music.” I forge on. “It’s so easy to lose yourself in the beat of music, but lyrics keep you grounded. It keeps your mind active, you know. You have to pay attention, listen to it over and over to get its meaning, to read between the lines.” I nod, agreeing with my own analysis. “Yeah. That’s why I like poetry. Because of the words. They ground me.”

  The silence is absolute. No one even breathes, or maybe it’s just me who doesn’t. I’ve never thought about lyrics in that way, but maybe it’s true. Words. Lyrics. Poetry. Aren’t they all the same?

  The professor has the same look on his face as he did while he watched the cigarette and the book. His control is tick-tocking and I’m afraid. I’m…thrilled, which is a very strange reaction to have.

  Then he turns his gaze away. “Let’s discuss the syllabus, shall we?”

  A relieved breath whooshes out of me. This man has some serious self-control, if you don’t count the cigarettes. I should take lessons from him. I should register for this class. At least Kara will be happy.

  He moves around the desk and fishes out a stack of papers from the drawer. It’s copies of the syllabus. He keeps one and hands the rest to Emma in the first row. For the next few minutes, the room is filled with rustling of papers and scratches of pen.

  The sheet reaches me and I see it. His name. On the top right corner of the page with his office number and hours, and his extension.

  Thomas Abrams.

  Thomas.

  Professor Abrams.

  I bend down and retrieve a pen from my bag and underline his name. Once. Twice. Three times in purple glitter ink. Then I draw a circle around it. I tell my hands to stop, but they don’t. They dig the nib of the pen in, even more furiously at my protests.

  Once we all have a copy, Professor Abrams proceeds to read out the important parts. This class is part workshop and part lit, meaning we will have to write our own poems and have them critiqued, along with reading poems by some famous people. Honestly, I don’t know the names of half of them—Dunn, Plath, Byron, Poe, Wilmot.

  Professor Abrams’ voice has very little inflection to it, making me think he doesn’t have much interest in the syllabus. He frowns at certain places especially, like when the syllabus outlines the homework to be given and the grading system.

  There are a few moments when Emma tries to engage him in a conversation, but he evades smoothly. I can feel her frustration from where I sit in the last row. Either Thomas Abrams doesn’t care, or he has no idea how to be a teacher. I’m guessing it’s a little bit of both.

  Before long, the class is over and we have our first assignment: write a one- to two-page essay on our reasons for choosing this class and authors that inspire us. The assignment is enough to send me dashing and never return to this side of campus.

  As I’m exiting, I pause at the threshold and look back. Professor is fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt again, and sunrays reflect off his golden wedding band. Rolling his shoulders, he puts the jacket on and shakes his arms out. Still graceful. Still fluid like a song. Still potent enough to make me shiver.

  Before he can catch me staring, I walk away and almost collide with someone out in the hallway. It’s the guy from the front row; I forget his name. He’s got messy hair and black-rimmed glasses. He is cute in a nerdy sort of way with the hood of his jacket crooked around his neck.

  “Hey.” He greets me like he knows me.

  “Hey?” I cock my head to the side, trying to remember if I know him.

  “You’re Layla. Layla Robinson.”

  “I am.” Did I do something to him?

  “I’m Dylan Anderson. We had history together.”

  “We did?”

  “Uh-huh. Professor Allen? He used to pick at his nose while writing on the board?”

  “Oh yeah. Oh my God, how did I forget that?” I shudder. “Ugh. That was the worst.”

  Dylan laughs. It’s a goofy, awkward kind of laugh, and I love it. He turns to the girl who sat beside him. “This is Emma Walker.”

  “Hey.” I raise my hand and wave at her.

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Her greeting is wary, and I don’t understand why that would be. “You were in history too?” I ask her.

  “No. I passed on that after Dylan told me about the professor.”

  “Yeah. You coward.” He elbows her playfully and coaxes a reluctant smile out of her. “She’s a big chicken when it comes to taking risks. We’d decided to do the class together, but then she abandoned me.”

  “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.”

  ________________