Page 3 of Riptide

“Andthat,class,ishow we find the limit of a function approaching infinity.”

I close my marker with a click and turn to face my students, pushing my glasses up my nose. Most of them look engaged enough, a few scribbling furiously in their notebooks, some staring at the whiteboard like it’s a foreign language. One guy in the last row is barely holding back a yawn. It’s the usual mix.

“Any questions?” I ask, scanning the room.

A girl in the front row, Harper, raises her hand. “I have one, Professor Jones. So, is there ever a case where a function just...doesn’t have a limit? Like, it keeps bouncing between values?”

“Good question.” I nod. “Yes, actually. That’s what we call an oscillating function. Think of sine or cosine. At certain points, they don’t settle on a single value, so the limit technically doesn’t exist.”

Harper nods, satisfied, while a few others make notes. The guy in the back yawns for real this time. I point my marker at him.“Careful, Ethan. If you yawn any bigger, I might have to count it as an improper integral.”

A few students chuckle. Ethan blinks, looking both guilty and confused. “It’s a math joke, Ethan. You’re supposed to laugh.” More laughter from others. “There we go. My ego is restored.”

Glancing at the clock, I see we’re near the end of class. “Alright, that’s enough math for today. We’ll pick up from improper integrals next time. Don’t forget, problem set four is due by midnight. No late submissions.”

A collective groan rises from the class, and I smirk.

“You’re all brilliant,” I add dryly. “I believe in you. Now, go.”

Chairs scrape against the floor as students shuffle out, some in a hurry, others taking their time. As I wipe the board clean, the sound of shuffling feet and chatter fills the room, and then it eventually becomes quiet. I miss it immediately. Teaching is the one thing in my life that has never let me down. I love being in a classroom full of students; even when they’re difficult, it means more challenge for me.

***

The walk home is quiet, the early autumn air crisp against my face. Streetlights flicker as I pass under them. I don’t mind the distance; it gives me time to think and decompress from a busy day. The forty-minute commute on foot has become its own kind of ritual that I enjoy.

Inside, the place is as quiet as I turn to open my door on the ground floor, checking my mailbox as I go, the gold letters ‘Nicholas Foxx Jones’ staring back at me. A memory jumps into my head, when my last name used to have a hyphen. But that hasn’t been the case for a while now.

I drop my bag near the entryway, toe off my shoes, and head to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, I stare at its underwhelming contents and grumble, reminding myself to go to the store tomorrow, then settle on leftover pasta I made on Sunday.

While I wait for it to heat in the microwave, I press play on my most-liked playlist, grab my bag, and pull out my laptop, getting ready to look over work for tomorrow. I like to monitor which student meets the deadline I set for them tonight. It’s fun placing bets with myself on who is going to submit before midnight. I already have a sneaky suspicion that Ethan will come to me tomorrow with a list of excuses as to why he didn’t do it, judging by his attention span in class today.

Just as I grab my dinner and settle in on my couch, the lyrics of a One Direction song start, and I laugh to myself. Eugene, my neighbor, must have put this on the playlist. I really need to make him his own profile.

A knock at the door echoes over the music, and I chuckle, knowing who it’ll be. It’s like my thoughts have summoned him.

When I open it, Eugene is standing there, a green sweater draped over his narrow shoulders, Poppy perched in the crook of his arm like a particularly judgmental fluffy queen. “You’re late, Nicholas,” he grumbles, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

“Hello to you, too. And we’ve been friends long enough for you to remember to call me Foxx, Eugene.” This is my life now. Who knew, at twenty-nine, I’d be divorced, single, and unceremoniously adopted by an eighty-year-old widower and his eternally unimpressed cat. I’m not sure how I got here. Well, I do. A series of choices, unfortunate events, most of them small at the time, adding up to a life that looks very different to the one I imagined I’d be living.

I shake off the thoughts before I move to the kitchen area. “Want some tea?”

“Depends. Is it that fancy kind you got from the farmers’ market last month?”

I nod, already moving to the kitchen. Poppy hisses at me as Eugene settles into the armchair, and I grin. “Nice to see you too, Poppy.”

As the kettle heats, Eugene surveys my laptop and my dinner that’s now going cold. “You ever think about doing something different?” he asks.

Eugene is a man of habit, like me, so this topic is very different for him. “Deep for you, Eugene. What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. You always do the same thing when you come home. Don’t you young folk want more adventure? There’s more to life than work, kid.” With a pinched brow, he gestures to my laptop.

I look at my setup, and I don’t feel bad about it. I like having routine. “I’m not sure I have time for adventure these days.” It’s a lie. I have time. Even with the extra math class I run at the community college on Thursdays, I still have free time after work most nights where I try to read, my favorite genre at the moment being murder mystery. You can’t beat a ‘who done it?’ moment. I just lack the resources or ability to step out of my comfort zone. Hardly anyone meets another human being by chance nowadays; it’s all apps and online and when you love numbers more than people, it’s too easy to stay in your safe little bubble and I’m happy here.

Eugene snorts. “You spend all day at work, then you work at home, you play the same playlists and eat the same dinners. Are you not lonely?” He scratches behind Poppy’s ear, the cat stretching like royalty.

I stare at him, wondering why he’s so interested in this topic tonight. But maybe if I really think about it, there is a part of me that misses sharing a life with someone. It’s not even the domesticity of it, because I don’t know if I’m ready to move onyet, even years later. But do I miss the intimate touches that only a lover can give? Yeah. It’s human nature to want closeness, to be wanted, I understand that, but when was the last time I gave more purchase to that feeling? When did I last act on impulse and actually hook up with someone just for one night? God, I don’t even know. “I have you, Eugene, and Poppy,” I say, and then add, “and don’t think I haven’t noticed the extra songs you’ve been adding to the playlist. One Direction, huh?”

“I found one of their vinyls in the Goodwill store last week, thought I’d add it for you to listen, too.”

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