Page 15 of You've Got a Place Here, Too
“Next week!” I grab hold of the information like a lifeline and thrust the card toward her. “It’s all here. The QR code will take you to the online form to upload your résumé. We’ll contact qualified candidates to schedule interviews next week.”
“Cool.” She slips the card into her backpack. “I stream the show in the mornings. It’s great, and I’d love to intern with you guys.”
“Thank you.” I push a dish of candy to the edge of the table and offer a stiff smile. “We’ll be in touch.”
My brain is like a record with a scratch that keeps skipping at the same spot where I could have sworn I saw Dr. Zekiah Lowe. It’s being back here on campus. Every time I’ve returned toFinley since graduation, it’s like that man haunts me. Ridiculous since I was here three years and a semester without him, but the final few months of my senior year in his class proved indelible. And though I know he’s gone on to become this famous author, and wouldn’t be slumming at a campus job fair, my mind seems to superimpose him everywhere I turn.
Something about that man and his damn elbow patches and black-framed glasses disconcerts me. The first time I saw his handsome face staring back at me from his book jacket, I nearly fainted in the bookstore. I feel similarly off-balance now, but I’m not the same girl I was five years ago. Since graduation, I’ve worked my way up to producer on one of New York’s top morning shows. I’ve been in and out of love—or something very close to it—a few times, though nothing long-term has ever come from any of those connections. I have a close-knit friend group—like-minded women who look out for each other, encourage each other’s ambitions. I took time to strengthen the fractured relationship with my father. I’ve matured in so many ways, but my skin still buzzes and my fingers tingle as if I’m trekking across campus to Hayes, anticipating one hour with Dr. Lowe in Creative Writing.
Get through this last hour of the job fair and I can go home.
I glance up at the next student, another possible recruit for the morning show’s internship program, and my whole body calcifies.
Him.
Itishim.
Dear. God.
Zekiah Lowe is as fine as ever but even better. The last five years have been good to him, carving the lines of his face even more starkly. He’d be around thirty-six now, and there are a fewearly strands of silver at his temples. It’s not fair how that increases his appeal.
“Shit.” I cover my mouth with one hand like that will somehow scoop the expletive back in, but it’s too late. His brows lift and he tilts his head, a tiny smirk bending those full lips I dreamt of devouring on many a night in my lonely bed.
“Hello, Ms. Wallace,” he says, his voice rich and deep and rolling over me in familiar shivers. “Good to see you again.”
“Um…Dr. Lowe.” I clear my throat and shuffle the cards on the table. “I’m…um…working.”
“I see that.” He glances over his shoulder at the line of students waiting to speak with me about a possible summer internship. “I wanted to say hello.”
Hello?
Hello?
After he humiliated me and didn’t even show up for the last class? I had needed to prove I wasn’t actually as devastated as it had seemed when he chastised me like a child and threw his fiancée in my face. He hadn’t even had the decency to allow me that closure and he wants to sayhello?
“Hello.” My back and shoulders stiffen and I drag my eyes away from his tall form to peer around him. “Now if you’ll excuse me…next person in line?”
He doesn’t move for a second, and I flick my glance back to him. I lift my brows and widen my eyes in a universalwhat are you waiting for.He smiles, nods, and steps aside.
I whoosh out a breath and do my best to forget he ever happened.
Over the next hour, I’m not sure how I focus long enough to convince anyone to considerNew York Morningfor theirinternship, since every conversation is a blur. I’m too proud to give Dr.Lowe the satisfaction of looking at him head-on as he leans against the wall, but my peripheral vision is flooded with his broad shoulders and trim waist and the powerful arms hidden by that blazer with those damn elbow patches. For all I know it could be the same jacket he wore when he turned me down.
What is he waiting for?
In my head, the traitorous idiot girl who never forgot the way that man smelled or smiled whispers,You. He’s waiting for you.
That’s impossible. I didn’t have the presence of mind to check his ring finger when he came through the line, but I assume he’s married now. If he is lingering so we can have afor old time’s sakestudent-teacher catch-up, he must not know ’bout me. And if heismarried and wants something more salacious…that would definitely be the closure I’ve needed to put that man firmly out of my mind forever.
When the last student leaves my line with the QR code and a promise to submit his résumé this week, I slump a little and begin packing up the booth. I ignore Dr. Lowe when he comes over and grabs a box from behind the table and starts helping.
I slam the stack of cards on the table. “What are you doing? Why are you still here?”
He slows, his long fingers bundling up a pile of pens before he looks at me directly.
“I was hoping we could grab a coffee or something,” he says, his eyes unwavering on my face. “Talk.”
“What’s there to talk about?” I loop a rubber band over a group of brochures. “I made a fool of myself senior year and you were…kind enough to let me down easy. I didn’t get the chance to apologize since you didn’t show up for the last class.” I angle a meaningful, reproachful glare up at him.
