"Are you going to tell me what you're working on?" he asked.
I turned to walk up to my seat. "Who says I'm working on anything? Maybe if you didn't give us so much homework ..."
The students nearest me snickered and called out their agreement. I felt a tug in my chest. It always felt awful to separate us back into our roles. He was a professor and I was a student, except when he smiled and the outside world receded.
I missed most of his lecture that day, but I knew it wouldn't bother me to watch him again on the recording my laptop made. My notes were a jumble of attempted phrases and minute descriptions, a mess of writing that had nothing to do with journalism.
As long as no one noticed, I was recklessly following my own instincts. If anyone saw me acting so free-spirited and irresponsible, I knew the unsaid comparison to my mother would drive it all away. Writing a creative short story felt wild, impractical, and wonderful as long as I had it all to myself.
With that thought in mind, I scooped up all my things and crammed them into my book bag. The other upside of my secret project was it helped me to avoid thinking about Ford. Sure, one of the characters resembled him in flattering ways, but writing about him was safer than flirting with the real thing.
"Hey, Clarity!" Thomas jogged to catch up to me in the foyer of Thompson Hall. "How about a coffee? Unless you're heading out to get some fresh air. Want some company?"
It was a beautiful, November day, with bright sunshine that held the last dregs of summer's warmth. Everyone was flooding out of the building and onto the lawns to feel the sun on their faces. All I wanted to do was scramble back down to the library basement and be left in peace.
"Sorry, Thomas, I've got to study. See you around," I called as I headed across the courtyard to the library.
I took a different route just to make sure Thomas didn't follow me. He was shy, but persistent, and I wasn't sure how far he would pursue me. I was just translating that thought into a memory for my main character when I came around the corner of the archive stacks and almost screamed.
"What are you doing here?" I hissed instead.
Ford leaned his head back on the hidden armchair and smiled. "Isn't it obvious? I'm waiting for you."
"How did you know I was coming here?" my whisper cracked with irritation.
Ford stood up and motioned for me to take the arm chair. When I shook my head and crossed my arms tight across my chest, he sighed and explained, "I questioned your friend, Thomas. I'm sorry to say, but he's the best kind of source: anxious to talk if he likes the subject. You do know he likes you, right?"
"Leave poor Thomas out of this. Why are you here, Ford?" My breath caught. I always called him by his first name in my head. That's how we first met and I felt I had some claim to his given name as long as I didn't say it aloud.
Ford paused at the sound of it too. A smile played around his lips, only to be swallowed away. "I'm just curious. Thomas, on the other hand, is worried. He thinks you're working too hard. But, if the smile I saw as you came down those steps is any indication, you like whatever you've been working on."
I ground my teeth and scowled. "I did until you came along and interrupted me."
Ford gestured to the open armchair. "Please, don't let me get in your way. Like I said, I was just curious."
I inched past him, refusing to inhale the intoxicating scent of his soap. The last time I caught a whiff of sandalwood in a candle store, I had gotten weak in the knees. I stopped and we were caught, the backs of my knees hard against the seat of the armchair and Ford pressed against the wall. We were inches apart.
"Yes?" he asked and the word was barely more than a whisper.
This was what I had wanted all along. I wanted someone to find me, someone to be curious enough to check on me. I wanted someone to discover my secret project and Ford was the exact person I had wished it would be. Not just because being near him felt like a fast car ride with all the windows down, but because he could give me an honest opinion.
I flopped into the armchair and surrendered. "It's a short story."
Ford's eyes brightened and he dropped down to squat comfortably next to the arm of my chair. "And you're hiding it from your father because it would make him too happy?"
"He'll never give me an honest opinion," I said. "All he'll do is gush about the joys of creativity and how he wished he had pursued his art."
"So you're looking for an honest opinion?" Ford laid a hand on the armchair and I had the insane desire to rest my cheek against it.
"Yes." I distracted myself from his proximity by reaching into my book bag and dragging out the spiral-bound notebook. "I haven't even typed it up yet, but there's a clean copy in the back of this."
He didn't laugh in my face, just studied it with a disconcerting level of interest. "Just a general opinion or actual feedback? How specific? Like down to word choice, or just my overall impression?"
My hand shook as I shoved the notebook at him and it was hard to tell what was sparking my nerves. Our fingers brushed and the lightning sensation of his skin along mine shot right to the balls of my feet.
I cleared my throat. "Be specific," I squeaked. "Tell me what I need to improve on."
Ford stood up and flipped open the spiral notebook. Then he leaned against the wall and his eyes flashed across the page.
I dropped my book bag and leapt up out of the armchair. "Not now!"
"Why? No time like the present, right?" Ford asked with a wicked smile.
I flapped my hands at him. "Not in front of me. I'll die. Just take it and read it when you have the time. Maybe you can give it to me next class."
Ford chuckled and used the notebook to fend off my buffeting attack. "Next class is after Thanksgiving."
I raked both hands through my hair. "Oh my god, I have to go buy a turkey!"
"Wait, now?"
"Yes, now, before the store runs out of the right size." I gathered up my book bag. "My father's gotten it into his head that he wants a real Thanksgiving gathering this year. I spent half of last night trying to figure out what fruit looked best in a cornucopia. How insane does that sound?"
Ford laughed, then stopped on a long, barely audible sigh. "Actually, that's sounds wonderful."
I watched his face and saw the shift from amused to wistful. "Why? What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" I asked.
"Nothing," Ford shook his head. "It's no big deal. Liz is volunteering in the city and doesn't want to be away from school long enough to drive up here for the weekend, which I totally understand. Still, the microwave dinner selections for Thanksgiving were pretty bleak."
My pulse jumped into a riotous jig but I managed to speak calmly. "My father is determined to have a big Thanksgiving meal. And he still wants to thank you for braving the frat party check with him the other night. I'll have him call you, but you should plan on coming to our house for Thanksgiving."
"Are you sure?"
I rolled my eyes, "My father will be happy you're there."
"Will you be?" Ford bit his lip as if the question had escaped.
I couldn't breathe so I nodded until I could manage to say, "Just don't say anything about my short story."