Page 18 of Forging Legacy

“What kind of bartender would I be if I wasn’t here for you when you needed to vent?” Thora grins and sets a pitcher under the tap.

I say goodbye and leave the bar to bury myself in classwork. As I head home, I try desperately not to think about my moodiest student. I take a deep breath, pushing thoughts of Wyatt from my mind and shaking away the echoes of his intense gaze and the warmth of his touch.

Monday morning arrives, gray and frigid, matching my mood as I make my way to campus and the algebra lecture hall. “Is Dr. Yoon here yet?” A student is waiting outside the lecture hall when I arrive early to set things up for the exam. Their eyes dart from their watch to me and back, cheeks flushed.

My arms are full of test papers, so I try to communicate with my eyes that I need help opening the door. They do not get the hint. I sigh. “No, they will be arriving in a bit. Could you grab the door for me?”

“Oh. Sorry.” The student opens the door and follows me down the aisle toward the lectern, asking what will be on the test and whether they can look over the paper before we begin.

I set the stack on the podium, letting my forearm cover the papers. “I’m really sorry, but it’s a timed test. I can’t let you look before the exam begins.”

Their demeanor shifts—jaw set, body stiff. I can tell they’re frustrated. I see a spark in their eye, and my heart rate increases. Are they going to hulk out over this? I try to think of how I’d respond at work to a customer who gives me the willies. Tending bar, I usually have a bouncer I make eye contact with, and I don’t have to explain a damn thing.

Here, I’m apparently on my own with a kid who seems on the verge of a mental health crisis. They’re about to begin a tirade of injustice when I see a dark figure looming behind them. Wyatt is early, striding down the aisle like he can sense my discomfort from the back of the room.

“Can I borrow a pencil?” He asks me this, even though I can see at least three mechanical pencils sticking out of his shirt pocket.

I swallow, relieved, as the frustrated student huffs their way to a seat in the front row. I nod and reach into my bag for a pencil. Wyatt’s fingers linger on mine as I hand over the yellow wood. I make eye contact—a huge mistake—and a flush creeps up my neck. I remember the charged moment at lunch, the near kiss, and I think about how artfully he handled the situation just now…appearing to rudely interrupt while actually rescuing me from a frustrated, panicked undergrad.

I like the idea of having someone swoop in, someone looking out for me, even with little stuff like this. But this is a very dangerous thing to yearn for, and I have two decades of experience with the realities of trying to count on someone else and eventually giving up on him. My mom and I are solid, but I still see the impact of how my dad messed her up—messed us both up.

Dr. Yoon enters the auditorium to a flutter of the student’s questions, and Wyatt releases my hand. With a nod, he shuffles to the back of the room and sinks low in his chair, tugging that hat low over his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s nervous about the test. He shouldn’t be. By the time we left the library, he had a great grasp of the material.

I try to listen as Dr. Yoon firmly sends the anxious student to their seat. I need to learn to set boundaries like this if I’m going to enter academia someday. At the very least, I’ll be navigating students like this in graduate school. But I can’t concentrate, and Dr. Yoon actually snaps their fingers to get my attention when it’s time to distribute the papers.

My hands tremble slightly as I pass out the tests, especially when I get to Wyatt’s row and see his dark eyes following on my every move. I take a deep breath and remind myself to stay focused as I hand out the last of the papers.

Dr. Yoon taps on the microphone at the front of the large room. “You may begin.” There’s a brief roar of papers being flipped over, a flurry of pencil scratches, and then all I have to do is pace the aisles, making sure nobody is visibly cheating.

I try to keep a watchful eye on the students, but I find myself glancing at Wyatt more than I ought to. I notice things like how sexy he looks with his brow furrowed in concentration. How he taps his pencil when he’s thinking. How he flexes his fingers along his thigh with the hand not holding the pencil.

The hour crawls by in a tumult of my racing heart. I’m sweating when Dr. Yoon finally announces there are five minutes left. I take my place beside the podium, and the students who have finished early file up to submit their tests. “Make sure you put your name on the front page,” I say repeatedly, and a number of students retract their paper to label it after the fact.

The class period ends, and the final students make their way up front. Wyatt lingers behind, approaching me with his paper. “Thanks for all your help,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates every tendon in my body. I nod and look down to see he’s holding out my pencil. When I close my hand around the tip to take it back, he squeezes the eraser end and grins.

A warmth spreads through my chest before I can stop it, before I can remind myself that I’m trying to leave the damn country, and the last thing I need is to feel any sort of anything for a guy, especially one who is off limits.

Wyatt leaves the lecture hall, and I get to work stacking the test papers. I turn to hand them to Dr. Yoon, who is packing up their messenger bag. “Here you go.”

They glance at me. “I usually have the TA’s grade the exams and only come to me with questions.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip. “I’m not sure I know how to distribute these to the group?”

Dr. Yoon frowns, pausing as they pack up their things to leave, and I realize just how little preparation I’ve had for this TA gig. Dr. Yoon shifts their weight from foot to foot, clearly in a hurry to leave, and seems frustrated to have to explain the basics to me. “Aren’t you all on a group chat? An email thread?”

A lump forms in my throat. I hate feeling unprepared. “I’m not on one of those, no. How can I get the list of names of the others?”

They sigh. “I’m sorry. I have a committee presentation. I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Fern. You’re very bright.”

They rush from the room, leaving me with the stack of tests. I close my eyes and take three deep breaths. I will go to the math department office and ask one of the admins for advice. Admins always know everything. This will be fine. They’re right—I’m resourceful.

Wyatt is slumped on a bench, staring at his phone, when I open the door. I huff out a laugh. Of course, he’s here. I sink onto the bench next to him, and he smiles at his phone as he continues typing. “Can’t get enough of me, Montgomery?”

“Yep. That’s me. Obsessed.” I shuffle my bag around so I can put the stack of papers inside. “How do you feel after the test?”

“You should grade mine right now and tell me how I did.” He slides his phone into the pocket with his pencils, looking at me expectantly.

“Ha. How about no. I am absolutely not getting involved in grading yours.” I feel a flutter of anticipation, wondering if he’ll touch me. Wanting him to touch me. Knowing he shouldn’t.

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