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Rhys
THE GATLINGTON CAMPUS at night was like something out of a dreary period drama. Fog snaked over my shoes as I walked briskly down an ill-lit bike trail lined with sycamore trees. The damp air hugged my skin and left a silver sheen on my brown leather jacket. I almost believed I was in danger of something jumping out of the fog-covered pathway and dragging me off into the night, but I’d been to scarier places. Darker places, older places, places with sordid histories that predated this country entirely.
The thing that scared me most about Gatlington was its student body, and right now, the campus was alive with music, parties, and a deep electronic thrum that ran through the trails weaving through the neighborhoods of townhomes, dormitories, and the infamous Greek Row.
That was a place I avoided if I could. Even in the few weeks I’d been in residence, Greek Row had proven to be loud and rowdy. I’d been warned by my fellows at Oxford and on various research expeditions about the university culture in America, but seeing it and hearing rumors about it were two entirely different things.
I shifted the bags of groceries I carried on each arm and continued my journey across campus. Gatlington stood right in the center of a small college town in upstate New York. The trees here were already turning a pale gold, and the air was sharp and chilled despite it only being September.
Still, after a long day spent going over every single syllabus for all eight of the classes I’d be teaching per week, a long walk through the cold dark was just what the doctor ordered.
I came to a fork in the path; one side splitting off toward the commons, classrooms, and lecture halls, and the other leading deeper into the maze of trees that separated the main buildings of campus to the neighborhoods were the students and staff lived. Some of the staff, of course, lived off-campus, but there was a small area of cottage-like buildings tucked behind one of the lecture halls designated for staff use only.
I had my own place for the first time in my life. Normally, I’d be bunking down in a canvas tent with six other men, all of us sleeping either on cots or on the ground with our rucksacks as pillows and no blankets to be seen. Or in my university years, I’d share a dorm or a flat with a roommate, sometimes more than one.
I wasn’t used to the quiet brought on by living alone, but wasn’t that part of the reason I’d taken this job in the first place?
Quiet. A slower, more sedate way of life. A year outside of the confines of research and discovery.
Eventually, the path widened, and the first inklings of flashing lights peeked through the thick fog. Greek Row rose up through the coils of mist, lights dancing and music wafting toward me in a wild frenzy of noise and color. I stopped for a moment and looked at the houses that made up the single block, six or so stone and brick mansions bearing the flags of the fraternities and sororities who called them home.
Whitney Dahl belonged to one of them... what was it? Theta Nu Delta? I narrowed my eyes, wondering which house she’d ruled as queen during her undergrad years, but then kept walking, not wanting to come across students openly breaking campus rules and most definitely not wanting to continue thinking about my student.
That’s what Whitney was—a student. Not something to drool over and spend all my free time thinking about. Still, after Professor Montague had filled me in on Whitney’s history at the school, I had more questions than answers about the enigma of the woman who’d be taking one of my graduate classes this year, the same class that had been the reason I’d taken the university’s offer to come teach for a year.
Shaking the thought of her from my mind, I continued briskly down the path but halted after only a few steps when I heard the sound of crunching twigs as someone, or something, cut through the trees and onto the bike path in front of me. They hadn’t seen me and were walking hastily through the dark toward the center of campus.
My heart rate returned to normal when I came to the conclusion it was just a student headed to the library, which was open all night, year round.
But then a rough snap cut through the air, and the person hissed in surprise as the shoulder bag they had slung over one shoulder broke apart, the strap coming completely undone and the bag falling to the ground.
I broke into a jog and reached them in a matter of seconds, stooping to pick up the notebooks and pens that had scattered on the ground and disappeared under the thick layer of fog.
“Not a great night to drop anything this small,” I said lightly, feeling around until my fingers grasped the last of the pens and highlighters.
I rose and handed the person the pens and got a good look at their face for the first time. Whitney Dahl slipped the pens into her shoulder bag, which she now had to cradle in her arms. Her eyes met mine, illuminated by the soft amber glow of the streetlight pouring through the trees. Shadows danced over the angular curve of her cheekbones and sharp, proud nose.
“I keep dropping everything today,” she said after a moment. She sniffed, the tip of her nose a bright pink from the cold. “Thanks.”
“It’s not a problem.”
I straightened up and looked down at her, remembering the incident in the commons today after class. A man, who I assumed might have been her boyfriend, had manhandled her in public. I’d seen the whole thing, and so had many others, but no one had made any moves to do anything about it. I’d been speaking with another professor, and he’d turned his head to follow my line of sight.
“Christian Brockford,” Professor Hendricks said with a shrug, turning his attention back to me. “He’s one of my business majors. Wants to go into law, from what I understand. He has a single brain cell, and its only function is to call his dad whenever he doesn’t get his way.”
The memory of the conversation faded, and Whitney came back to the forefront of my mind. She watched me closely, looking up at me with what could be described as suspicion, but when I met her gaze, she simply gave me a tight-lipped smile.
I had to fight against the sudden instinctual urge to brush the glitter that dusted the top of her head and stuck to the long locks of dark hair that fell over her shoulders. She was dressed in an oversized crewneck sweatshirt and leggings that showed off her long, graceful legs. But like her hair, there was a fine coating of glitter on her clothes. Over the top of her head, the party still roared in the distance, music cutting through the tense silence between us.
She noticed where I was looking and laughed low in her throat. “It’s not like this all the time. It’s just a... first day of school celebration.”
“Then why aren’t you there?”
Her green eyes flicked up to mine. She shrugged, toying with the broken strap on her bag. “I was for a minute. I figured studying is a better use of my time.”
She continued to pick at the broken strap as we stood there facing each other. I pursed my lips and motioned for the bag. “Here, let me carry it. I assume you’re walking to the library?”
“I am.” She handed me the bag, and I did my best to stifle a grunt of surprise at the weight of it. No wonder it broke. At least six textbooks were stuffed inside.
