Page 3 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Javi

Eleven Years and Seven Months Before the Wedding

Atall and shapely burglar is lurking near the entrance to my dorm.

I should wash off the sweat from my morning run and head to class, but I’m nosy by nature, and after a year on this boring campus, even an attempted crime seems interesting.

I fish out my phone, intending to call school security, but something—intuition, maybe—stops me.

I might be jumping to conclusions. To be fair to them, the person’s just standing there.

To be fair to me, they seem suspicious as hell in their look-at-me-I’m-about-to-steal uniform: black skinny jeans, a pair of dark sunglasses, and a fitted black sweatshirt with the hood pulled so tightly over their head it covers most of their face.

Isn’t the point of that getup to blend into your surroundings at night?

How’s that supposed to help when it’s dawn?

Which makes me wonder if I’m misreading the situation. Since I’d rather be right than rash, I decide to observe them for a minute or two.

The person’s alternating between peering across the damp lawn and checking their watch.

Likely waiting. For someone or something.

They’re probably a scout, but even if not, they’re definitely suspect.

Suddenly they’re frantically gesturing with their hands, and that’s when I notice an SUV idling in the student parking lot across the quadrangle. I bet that’s the getaway vehicle.

Seconds later, Petey, the junior who delivers the school’s newspaper, pulls up in his Camry.

The burglar ducks behind a hedge of bushes just as Petey passes them.

Unaware he’s being watched, Petey drops a stack of papers on the building’s redbrick steps, then slips back into his car and drives away.

The burglar jumps up, scrambles to a tree, and crouches in waiting.

What an amateur. And what the hell is the goal?

Are they trying to slip inside the dorm?

Before I can make a solid guess, the person scurries to the building and lunges for the stack of newspapers.

Hmm, not at all what I expected. And absolutely my cue to scare the living shit out of them.

I sneak across the street and tiptoe behind them. “Hey, one of those papers is mine!”

The thief startles, the stack of papers crashing to the ground. “Merda!”

The curse word throws me, as does the silvery voice, but I recover quickly. “It’s mierda ,” I say. “Not only are you bad at stealing, but you’re also terrible at Spanish.”

“It’s merda , asshole,” she growls, “because I’m not speaking Spanish.”

“And just like that, you’ve given me enough to pick you out of a lineup.”

“Ugh, get lost,” she says, bending to pick up the stack. “This is serious business, and none of it is yours.”

“Give me my paper, and I’ll pretend I never saw you.”

“Get out of my way, and I’ll pretend you’re not nosy as fuck.”

Undeterred, I hold out my hand. “Paper.”

“Sorry,” she says, cradling the stack like a baby. “No one gets the paper today.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s sexist trash, and we’re trying to make a point.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“The female students at this school.”

Well, that confirms who I’m dealing with. And honestly, I’m sympathetic to the cause, would even consider joining it, but the last thing I need is another person using and dropping me like my brothers did, so I go with “Don’t care. I want to read it.”

“Ah, you’re worried about missing your horoscope, aren’t you? No problem, I can tell you what it is.”

“This’ll be good,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

She takes a big step forward, invading my personal space, and lifts her chin in challenge. “Remember: Not every curiosity needs to be satisfied. You’ll escape certain death if you mind your business today.”

I look down at my nemesis, standing my ground despite how twitchy I feel being so close to her. “Cute. And useless as hell because you don’t know my sign. Now give me my copy.”

“No.”

“Why not fight fire with fire?” I ask. “Write something that isn’t sexist trash.”

“Not my job. Besides, Dylan Gardner’s column is a disgrace, and they shouldn’t be pedaling his bullshit in the first place. It gives the guy credibility he doesn’t deserve.”

“That might be true, but you’re just going to piss off everyone, including me.”

She gives me a slow smile, and my knees wobble, which obviously has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the aftereffects of my morning run. “Well, we want their attention,” she says, “so mission accomplished, then.”

I stare at her lips and lose my train of thought. What was I going to say? As I fumble for words, she hightails it toward the SUV in the lot. Within seconds, she and her accomplice are gone.

What the hell was that?

And why is my heart thudding?

***

I slip into my usual seat near the door to the lecture hall seconds before Professor Amar strolls to the front of the room.

Amar’s a hard-ass, and if this civil liberties class weren’t a requirement for my political science degree, I would skip it altogether.

He’s brilliant, though; I’ll give him that.

The stadium-style seating allows me to scrutinize everyone.

In the middle are the jocks, wearing their team jackets in case there’s any doubt where they fit in the social hierarchy.

None of them has a laptop or tablet in sight, probably because they, too, are only here to fulfill a requirement.

Up front and to the right are the poli sci ass-kissers clamoring for the professor’s attention.

One of them, Lance, monopolizes most of the discussions.

Worse, he’s an elitist dick who wants everyone to know his mother’s an ambassador to Belgium or some shit.

A group of women who habitually shuffle off together to use the restroom take up most of the seats on the left.

Which leaves the balance of the room occupied by people like me.

Individuals. Loners. We don’t need to attend class as a group activity, and we’re perfectly fine navigating college on our own.

Seriously, I’m not here to make friends.

No, I’m here in the middle of some random Philadelphia suburb because it’s the farthest place from my family that would give me a full scholarship.

“Sometimes life and pedagogy intersect in a way that’s truly inspiring,” Professor Amar tells us.

A few hands shoot up, and Amar grimaces.

“Pedagogy refers to how we teach,” he adds. “The art and practice of imparting knowledge.”

The hands disappear.

Damn, we’re only a month into the semester, and this class is already torturing me.

“You see, my dear scholars,” he continues, “an interesting situation occurred this morning, and it directly relates to what we’ve been learning in class.

As I understand it, a group of students took it upon themselves to seize more than six thousand copies of the Belmont Gazette , our school’s newspaper, arguing that one of its columnists was misogynistic and sexist and made approximately half of the student population feel unsafe and uncomfortable. ”

I sit up, intrigued by where the discussion is headed, especially given my encounter with the paper swiper just a few hours ago.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” one of the male jocks shouts, pretending to shiver in fear. “Men feel threatened on this campus.”

His buddies laugh while the rest of the class bristles.

“Silence,” Professor Amar says. “No more outbursts or you’ll get an automatic zero on next week’s quiz.”

That shuts up everyone .

“My point ,” Professor Amar explains, “is that this conduct implicates one of our most prized civil liberties: freedom of speech. But whose liberties are impacted? In an effort to curtail the sleuthing and finger pointing, the president’s office has issued a statement indicating that none of the people responsible will be punished.

Instead, Belmont College will use this incident as an opportunity for dialogue and to examine whether the column at issue should be protected.

So, is it censorship, rightful protest, or plain old theft? I’m interested in hearing—”

The door to the lecture hall flies open, and a girl stumbles inside. “Merda!” She stops short and scans the room, likely noticing all eyes are on her. “Uh, so sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt!”

Professor Amar’s eyes narrow at the newcomer. As do mine. Because I recognize that voice—and now I have a face to attach to it.

Well, well, well, if it isn’t the paper swiper in the flesh.

She lets out an embarrassed chuckle. “Truly, I apologize. I, uh, tripped.”

“I’d love for you to trip on my dick,” one of the jocks shouts.

Professor Amar’s head snaps in the guy’s direction. “Get out of my class. And see me during office hours.”

The guy wisely chooses not to plead his case and storms up the stairs toward the exit, passing our latest arrival on the way.

“That would be like tripping on a twig,” she says to him, smirking as she sweeps her gaze from his face to his crotch.

Heat stains the jock’s cheeks, but he doesn’t respond.

Damn, not all heroes wear capes; some of them wear burglar uniforms, though what she’s wearing now—a royal-blue T-shirt, a pair of jeans that molds to her figure, and the whitest all-white Adidas I’ve ever seen—is a definite upgrade.

She’s gorgeous. Sun-kissed brown skin. The front of her hair done up in braids while thick, luscious curls fall around her shoulders.

And she has the most striking brown eyes I’ve ever seen.

I squirm in my seat, drawing her attention.

She does a double take when she notices me, then grins like the Cheshire cat before she drops into the spot next to mine. Christ. She smells good too. A peaches-and-vanilla combo that wafts around her and wraps itself around me. I shut my eyes. It’s that intoxicating.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she says, leaning over to whisper in my ear. “Had no idea we were in the same class.”

“Do I know you?”