Page 13 of Don't Fall

“I’m serious. And since we’re on the topic of awkward and embarrassing experiences I’ve had today, I also accused him of stalking me seconds before we both entered the classroom.”

Jules starts laughing. Drea, who values our friendship a little more, does her best to suppress the grin I know is desperate to escape. Hell, I’m about to start laughing at the whole disaster myself.

“What are you going to do? Drop the class?”

“No!” Though that clearly had occurred to me. “Truth is, he’s really good. The lecture he gave today was insightful and interesting and even though I hardly took any notes, I remember almost all of it. Like, he taught it in a way that it just clicked, you know? Plus, I need the credit, so...”

Jules is clearly torn between wanting to get back to Channing and feeling the need to add to this conversation. “Um, that’s really cool and all, but don’t you think the school might frown upon a professor and his student rooming together? I’m just guessing they have policies against that.”

Drea shrugs. “Would they have to know?”

Staring at my sad piece of pizza, I start thinking out loud, “I’m sure they already do, they just don’t know they do. But we’re both in their system. And we obviously would have put down the same address, even before we realized we both intended to live in the same place.”

“So, now what?” Drea seems disappointed. Like, she thinks my fucked up living situation has all the makings of a romance novel or something and suddenly this plot twist isn’t giving her the ending she was hoping for.

“I know,” Jules chimes in with an unexpected amount of enthusiasm, (well, unexpected until I peer at the tv out of the corner of my eye. No Channing in sight, just some tire commercial), “You and I can switch! You move into my place for the semester and I can move into yours!”

“Ha!” I can’t even give it a real laugh. “That’s totally not happening. But thanks.”

I toss what’s left of the marinara soaked cardboard back into the box and get up. “I need a shower.”

“Yeah.”

I drop a hard glance on Drea.

“Not because you smell or anything,” she tries to cover, “Because you need to clear your head or whatever.”

“Nice save,” I say dryly as I walk away. I know she’s right. I smell so bad I can freaking smell myself. It’s appalling.

Tiptoeing for no real reason other than it seems safer, I make my way across the landing to my own front door. Unlocking it as quietly as I can, I start by sticking only my head inside and listening.

“Hear anything?” his voice rumbles from behind me.

My body slams into the door, the door slams open until it hits the wall, and to top it all off, I whack the crap out of my pinky toe. “Oh my GOD, man!”

Jumping around on one foot, I bounce around my foyer still holding all of my crap from the day, caught between wanting to escape and not wanting to hop the streets aimlessly with a load of books, a gym bag and a laptop, since I have no real place left to go.

“I don’t suppose you think it’s a coincidence that the harder you try to hide from me, the more dramatic our interactions are becoming?” he asks dryly, setting down his bag along the wall (like he lives here!). “Also, why aren’t you wearing shoes?!”

“I left them at Drea’s,” I whine, in hindsight a bad idea.

Given his expression, I’m inclined to think he agrees, regardless he keeps his mouth shut as he takes my stuff from me, places it on the coffee table and starts moving straight for the kitchen. “Interesting reading material you’ve got there. You studying photography too?”

“No,” I say far snottier than necessary, “I just like learning about different types of people, and I happen to think the photographer who took those is very talented.”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods as he opens the freezer and retrieves a bag of frozen lima beans. Briefly, I berate him mentally for thinking of food while I likely have a broken bone in my foot, and mocking may also be taking place, because, lima beans?! Gross. But, then, that jackass comes back over to where I’m still doing my busted toe dance, takes my elbow to gently guide me backwards toward the sofa where he helps me take a seat, before kneeling down to cradle my foot in one hand and hold the frozen beans on my smashed pinky with the other.

“How’s that?” His voice is quieter than normal. Careful almost, and I notice he’s not looking up to make eye contact the way he usually does. He’s a stickler for eye contact, he is. Makes me all sorts of uncomfortable. Except now. That he’s looking at my feet. Turns out, that’s way worse.

“Good,” I mumble, “thank you.” Heat is surging through the top of my head and I can feel myself break out in a cold sweat. Sweat. Jeez, now I know why he’s not looking at me. I’m disgusting. He’s probably breathing through his mouth right now just to keep from passing out being this close to me.

Embarrassment makes for a convenient adrenaline replacer, and I jolt upward so fast, I nearly forget not to put weight on my right foot.

“Oh, look at that! All better already.” I force a smile. My foot is killing me. Well, maybe it’s a combination of things, but something, everything...is killing me.

“Tessa, your toe is the size of a small cucumber.”

“Uh-huh,” I squeak, doing my best to walk without hobbling.

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