Page 18 of How Freaking Romantic

I somehow manage to navigate my way up to the fourth floor of Vanderbilt Hall on Tuesday while carrying my backpack, my laptop, my phone, and a bottle of the cheapest red wine they had at the liquor store around the corner.

That feat alone would justify the purchase, but as I step off the elevator, I remind myself why I bought the wine in the first place: this morning, buried between the text updates from Maggie and Travis about their long-awaited arrival in Miami, was an email alert. I heard back from a law firm.

Unfortunately, it was a form email telling me that they are in a hiring freeze and not looking to take on anyone at this time. Hence the six-dollar red blend in my hand.

Nathan is already waiting outside Frank’s office. His attention is on his phone, brow furrowed as he studies the screen, so he doesn’t notice me until I step past him to unlock the door.

He looks up and takes in my frown, then the wine. “You brought lunch?”

I throw him a sardonic smile. “No. After waiting eight weeks to hear back about a job, I got an email from Mitchell and Roch today.”

“And?”

I step inside, then fall into my usual chair and hold up the bottle. “I’ll give you a hint. This is not champagne.”

He sits down in the seat beside me. His expression is pensive, and I know he’s searching for the right words to say, so I wave them off before he can find them. “It’s fine.”

And it is. At least now I can move on from my debilitating anxiety over whether the emails even arrived to their recipients to fully embrace the crippling self-doubt as to why the other eighteen firms haven’t bothered writing me back at all.

No, the only thing that really bothered me was how quiet my apartment was after I read the email.

I usually have some music playing or the TV on, anything to distract me from the solitude.

But this morning I had been so anxious to open the email that I neglected the regular order of things, so silence waited as soon as I closed my computer again. A reminder of how alone I was.

Nathan slips his phone into his jacket pocket and clasps his hands together. He’s wearing a gray suit today, but no tie, just a blue oxford shirt. He watches me for a minute, like he’s picking his words carefully, then says, “Have you heard back from Land and Associates yet?”

“No, why?”

“Because at the bar event, I said I’d introduce you to Marcie Land.”

My mind flickers back to that night so many weeks ago, the memory of our conversation in the car on the way to my apartment.

“No, you said you would have introduced me if she had been there. But she wasn’t.”

“But she will be at a fundraiser for Safe Harbor this Thursday.”

I recognize the name of the charity, but I’m still unwilling to connect the dots. “Okay.”

“At the Yale Club. Eight o’clock.”

He waits. So I wait. It’s a long moment of waiting while we stare at each other.

“And?” I finally ask.

His brow furrows. “Are you being purposely obtuse?”

“What do you mean?” I deadpan.

He narrows his eyes on me as that mix of amusement and derision seeps through his expression. “I’m asking if you’d like to come as my plus-one so I can introduce you.”

My heart stumbles in my chest. I should say no.

I should laugh and go find a corkscrew so I can open this bottle of wine.

Because even though I want to go, even though this is the kind of opportunity I have been dreaming about for months, spending time with Nathan outside of school hours feels dangerous.

But instead I find myself saying, “This would not be a date.”

“Obviously,” he replies solemnly.

“I arrive alone, I leave alone, and I’m under no obligation to talk to you.”

“Understood.”

I contemplate another moment, trying to mine more disclaimers. But I finally give up and let my head fall back as I groan, “This means I have to network, doesn’t it?”

“You never know,” he says. “The Yale Club might have some large potted plants in the corners.”

I don’t hold back my laugh, letting it make my body shake for a moment before I lift my head again, ready to call him an asshole. But the words dissolve on my tongue when I catch his expression, that almost grin teasing his lips as his gaze travels up the line of my neck to my eyes.

Then my phone starts vibrating inside my bag. The low rumbling sound seems to snap Nathan from his trance and he turns away.

I pull the phone out and see Travis’s picture on the illuminated screen. Travis rarely calls on a good day, let alone when he’s on vacation. The only reason I can think of now would be an emergency, and suddenly I’m remembering that Travis was going to reach out to Josh about that pill.

“Sorry, I should take this,” I say.

Nathan nods, already standing up. “I’ll meet you at Furman.”

He’s out the door by the second ring, and I quickly answer.

“What’s wrong?” I answer.

There’s yelling, laughing, and I swear for a moment I hear a steel drum playing the Cure.

Then Maggie’s voice explodes on the line. “BEA!”

“Hey,” I reply. “Why are you calling from Trav’s phone?”

“He’s using mine to talk to my grandma.” She laughs, and in the background it sounds like someone is organizing a cheer. “Bea, you will never guess what just happened!”

“What happened?” I ask.

“We got to the hotel and dropped off our bags, and Travis kept insisting we go down to this restaurant, and I was so confused because we ate on the plane, but we went and my parents are here and his parents are here, and then he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him!” Another scream, this one right in my ear, rattling my skull.

“What?” I ask, stunned.

“We’re getting married!”

Something heavy falls in my chest. Maggie and Travis have been together for so long, I never thought they would get married.

It was one of the consolations I clung to when they’d closed on the bed-and-breakfast. They could buy a house together, move away, but at least they weren’t married.

Our nucleus would remain intact, safe from further fractures.

“Bea?” Maggie says, raising her voice above the commotion on her end. “Are you there?”

I stare at Frank’s cluttered bookcase. It takes me a moment to say, “I just… didn’t think you wanted to get married.”

“Oh, come on, Bea,” she says. I can actually hear her rolling her eyes. “Marriage is not a bad word.”

I shake my head, trying to swallow down the panic. “I know. I’m sorry. I just can’t believe it.”

“I know! You have to be a bridesmaid, okay? You don’t have a choice!” Another squeal. “I have to go. I love you! I’ll text you pics of the ring!”

“Bye, Mags. And congrats—” But she’s already hung up.

I should really head to class—I’m already a few minutes late—but I don’t.

Instead, I take my time walking around the block, trying to smother the unease roiling my stomach, the amalgamation of all the worries and anxiety that have been building for weeks.

The loneliness, the job search, the pill still rolling around the corners of my brain like it did in that box.

Maggie and Travis’s engagement is another marker of how much has changed in the past few years.

By the time I make it back to Furman Hall and the lecture room on the fourth floor, there’s only ten minutes left of class.

I could go in, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself.

Still, as I lean against the wall in the hallway where I can see into the room through the door’s glass window, I realize I don’t want to leave, either.

Nathan is standing in front of the class, leaning his long frame against the lectern and listening to a question from one of the students in the front row.

He’s taken his suit jacket off and pulled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal his forearms, the muscles dancing under his skin as he spins a dry erase marker between his fingers.

He’s good at this. A month ago I wouldn’t have dared admit it, but as I watch him nod and smile and answer, there’s no denying that he’s got everything needed to be a good professor: patience and kindness and intelligence and—

Stop it , a voice hisses in the back of my mind.

I shake my head and begin to turn away, but just then he looks over and meets my gaze through the door.

I thought I had done a good job shoring up my defenses, but with that brief look—just a half second before he breaks eye contact and continues addressing the class—I know he can see right through me.

There’s commotion in the hallway as doors to other classrooms open. A moment later the door to our lecture room opens, too. Students filter out and conversation fills the air as they turn toward the elevators and stairwell.

I should leave. Go back to my office, open that wine, and finish grading last week’s assignment. But then I hear my name.

“Beatrice.”

I look up. Nathan’s standing in the doorway, watching me intently. It’s that impassive expression I’m used to, but there’s a hint of concern mixed in there, too. Then he nods to the stairs and starts walking with the confidence of someone who knows I will follow.

And I do.

Damn it.