Page 2 of The History in Us

Katie– twenty-four years old

“Katie Carter.”

The sound of my name startled me, and I looked up from reading the syllabus. As part of the one-percent colleges didn’t wish to discuss—the ones who didn’t get their ideal job fresh after commencement, I commenced again. I re-enrolled at Northeast University as a graduate student, and here I sat in the elective course History of Chicago 414. It didn’t match my undergrad major specifically, but Dr. Johnson recommended I take it, knowing my secret dream.

“Katie Carter?”

The question in my professor’s voice called me out of my reverie, and I looked up from the ultra-thin, university desk. I didn’t respond with the typical here. I waved my hand instead. I’m not one to draw attention to myself. An observer by nature, I’m quiet, and it’s part of the reason I selected the seat in the back of the room. When you spend a portion of your life in silence, you use other senses to learn things. I had developed the ability to watch and listen.

My eyes returned to the syllabus, and I skimmed the requirements, uncertain how this course would contribute to my dream of writing mythical tales of fantasy with strong girls in shining armor. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved fairy tales, but I liked my twist even better. Girls with swords. Princes who needed saving. Worlds that deserved a hero.

As an humanities major, my former creative writing professor recommended this class. My eyes scanned the assignments.

Interactive blog discussions.

Field study, i.e. field trips.

Partner research project.

Ugh. I hated projects with other people. As the soft-spoken one in a group, my ideas were often ignored. My partners would smile hesitantly, like I was an imbecile when I interjected, and then dismiss me. I didn’t like confrontation, so I often let others speak over me and then redid their portions to improve the group grade.

“My name is Professor Wayne Erickson. I know many of you are here because you’ve heard this class is easy. It fulfills the elective for your liberal arts graduate degree and you think touring Chicago might involve bar hopping.” The older gentlemen’s smile twisted while his tone teased. Blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses peered out at the class of no more than twenty. His eyes narrowed behind the lenses.

“Well, it isn’t a breeze, even if we are studying the Windy City. It involves tons of field work, and no drinking. Welcome to Prohibition in my class.”

Somewhere to my left, someone snorted. “Well, there goes my grade.”

“Nate Reynolds, is it?” Professor Erickson glanced down at his roster.

“Yes, sir.” I glanced subtly over my shoulder, not intending to stare. I’d encountered Nate a few times in my college experience. Entitled attitude, too-perfect hair, dreamy eyes that froze my tongue whenever he looked at me. He was magazine model swoon worthy, and just as arrogant as one would imagine a prince to be.

“Is there a problem?” our professor asked, peering at Nate over the frame of his glasses.

“No, sir.” Nate smirked, sliding down in his seat.

“Good.”

Nate’s head rolled to see if anyone noticed him, typical of an attention seeker. He winked at me, and I blinked, breaking my star-struck gaze. His chin tipped, acknowledging I’d been caught staring, but he recognized the attraction to him. And that was the most attention Nate had ever paid me. I turned away quickly, feeling the heat of my skin as an after-effect. This man should come with a label: warning, may cause side-effects of racing heart, sweating palms, and pinking skin. My shoulders fell as my finger ran the length of the spiral on my notebook. I willed myself to get a grip.

“I like to begin each semester with an ice-breaker. Turn to a fellow classmate and learn three things about each other that you can share with the class as a whole in a few minutes.” People around me groaned. It was a standard get-to-know-you introduction, better suited for high-schoolers than graduate students.

“I’d like to remind you, participation is ten percent of your grade.” Professor Erickson’s teasing warning prompted people to turn to those around them.

I hated these things. I wasn’t good at small talk in general, let alone speaking with strangers. It rattled my quiet persona. Keeping my head lowered, I looked left then right through my veil of dirty-blonde hair. I didn’t recognize any other faces in the class, and I didn’t dare make eye contact again with Nate.

A gentle tap on my shoulder caused me to spin and come face-to-face with the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. My breath hitched and I gasped, embarrassing myself as my mouth dropped open, but it couldn’t be helped. Behind me sat a set of barn-roof brown eyes barely covered with dark-rimmed glasses. Eyes that hinted at a memory. Could it be? His white-toothed smile fell instantly at my surprised response, my mouth gaping too wide, but I hadn’t missed the dimples that parenthesized the corners of lush lips. Lush, red lips surrounded by dark scruff. It couldn’t be him. Lips that had once tasted mine.

Blinking a few times, the recognition on my part came into focus. I knew this man, although he looked very different from the boy I’d encountered in my past. I blinked again, narrowing in on his eyes—deep, murky, haunting pools of chocolate. A few things were evident immediately: his expression said he knew he was good looking, deeper inspection proved those eyes hid dark secrets, and finally, he had no recollection of me.

I don’t know why I didn’t expose myself and remind him of our past indiscretion, but I didn’t. If small talk was difficult, any speech with this breathtaking creature of masculinity was going to be impossible. His head twisted left and he cracked his neck before returning those delicious eyes to me. His face wasn’t chiseled, not sculpted either, but rounded, like it was made for teasing. His dimples enhanced the jovial appearance. With the sudden sour expression, though, finding me as his partner must have seemed like a cruel joke. His appearance transformed before me. As much as his face seemed playful, his eyes held mischief.

“Hey, so why don’t you interview me first. My name is Levi. Levi Walker.”

My heart stopped beating. His voice rumbled, filling the space between us. A distance that spanned not a few inches, but years of memory. The simple statement stretched toward me, like his mouth once had, and I flinched. It didn’t seem possible, after all this time, and yet, here he sat. Levi Walker. My eyes squinted as if I could better assess the man he’d become through the slit of a memory.

I’d known a Levi Walker once. Once. Not likely a common name, the man behind me was no longer that boy from ten plus years ago. This was a man, close to thirty. His chest solid in his Ben & Jerry T-shirt, his arms brightly tattooed, his face held too still, his jaw clenching. It just couldn’t be him, I told myself while every fiber of my being hummed. Again, I don’t know why I didn’t introduce myself, why I didn’t blurt out my recognition of him, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the thought that I didn’t really know the man behind me. Maybe it was his eyes, which roved over my face before drifting to my notebook, where I unconsciously tapped my pen against the blank page.