Page 31 of When Hearts Collide

Today is the latter. It’s Mom’s birthday. She would’ve been fifty-eight years old if lymphoma didn’t take her away from us.

There are some things I guess you’ll never get over, no matter the years that have elapsed. I’m sure if Mr. Roberts is still alive, there’ll still be a hole in his heart for his dad. A hole that has never healed.

“Give her a kiss for me, sweetheart.” Heartbreak lances Dad’s voice, even after twelve years, the pain still sounds fresh and raw.

“I will, Dad. I love you.” Swallowing the sharp needles in my throat, I disconnect from the call.

I stare at the beautiful shrubbery next to me, taking in the bright orange-red tubular blossoms of the California fuchsia, a sight that’ll normally bring a smile to my face, but today, I just feel bereft.

A gentle breeze carries the scent of wildflowers as I sit in this small, private oasis, one of the many courtyards on campus. The small gust burrows deep into my bones. Instead of feeling comforted by the tranquil breeze, I feel cold instead; the chill causing me to shiver.

With trembling hands, I pick up the hot chocolate I purchased from the campus coffee shop earlier. I take a sip and grimace at the fake saccharine taste, one reeking of artificial chocolate flavor and sugar.

It doesn’t taste the same as Mom’s chocolate.

Do I still remember how it tastes, really? Or am I just hanging on to a faint imprint of the past, each memory a string slowly thinning on a rope as I hang over the edge of a mountain, trying to hold on for dear life?

Will I forget her someday?

My nose burns as I look across the courtyard, where I see the small blurry shapes of students walking to and from class. Girls laughing in groups, their eyes glued to something on their cell phones. Guys breezing by without a care in the world on their skateboards, backpacks haphazardly slung from their shoulders.

LA is beautiful in the fall, especially now, so close to Halloween. The leaves are turning brown, and other than the occasional bouts of rain, one can still wear flip-flops, shorts, and T-shirts out and about, unlike back home in New York where folks are bundled up in jackets and scarves.

I blow out a breath and brush aside my melancholy before checking the time on my phone. I need to catch Professor Anderson before his office hours end.

After quickly gathering my things, I stand up and hurry toward the stately red brick building with quaint black shutters—the faculty building for the business and accounting professors.

Minutes later, I stand in front of the closed door of the office used by adjunct professors and guest lecturers for office hours. My pulse kicks into an unsteady rhythm as my palms grow sweaty.

I can do this. He’s just a man. A regular person.

But a regular person doesn’t make my heart sprint circles in my rib cage whenever he stares at me in class. A regular man doesn’t invade my dreams at night, dreams involving him standing in the pouring rain, all coiled tension and leashed energy, dark eyes teeming with intensity and unsaid emotions.

And heartache. Something I can feel like a punch to the chest.

In my dreams, we’re always standing a few feet apart, the rain drenching my hair, my face, my clothes, but my feet are encased in cement blocks, and I can’t move, walk toward him, or put my arms around him to offer him my warmth.

When I wake up, my body is drenched in sweat.

Fevered dreams of an unattainable man.

Misplaced emotions, Millie. You’re looking for someone to protect you, and a mysterious, tall professor is the perfect target for your imagination. It’s not real.

Squaring my shoulders, I raise my hand and rap on the door.

Knock. Knock.

“Come in.” A terse command. A deep voice. Goosebumps bead on my forearms.

I rake in a fortifying breath and open the door, finding the literal man of my dreams frowning at a stack of papers in front of him, brandishing a red pen like a weapon. His desk is sparse, with nothing on top other than a laptop and a ULA mug with a bunch of pens and pencils jammed into it.

His dark hair is disheveled, his blue tie tugged slightly loose around his neck. A thick lock of hair has fallen over his face. My fingers twitch. I wonder how his hair will feel against my skin.

His white shirtsleeves are rolled up, once again offering a tantalizing view of his muscular forearms. A dark navy suit jacket hangs on the coat rack in the corner of the small office. A seductive scent of the woods mixed with citrus permeates the room.

His frown is now a scowl as he slashes angry red marks on the paper, his head shaking in apparent displeasure. He plucks another paper from the pile, his eyes roving over the document in concentration.

It’s like he’s lost in his own world, completely forgetting someone just stepped into his office.

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