Page 9 of Rear View
Ugh. I was on a roll. Downhill. Into a radioactive dumpster. I winced and opened my mouth to offer yet another apology.
A knock sounded at the door.
Barlowe was silent for one second. Two. The tension ratcheted up. “Come in,” he called.
A pretty little blonde student, maybe a year or two younger than my twenty-three years, poked her head in the door.
“I know it’s late, Dr. Barlowe but I, um, wondered if I could speak with you about something?”
His expression morphed, that professional mask slipping into place. “Of course.” Turning to me, he asked, “Was there anything else I could help you with?”
“Nope,” I grabbed my bag and hopped from my seat. Eager. Too eager. I reeled myself back. “I’m good. Thank you.” With that, I left, barreling across campus to the bus stop and praying I wasn’t too late.
* * *
The hum of the 95 bus was loud. My headphones were in, but no music played. Music was a distraction from noise, and I needed to be aware. Still, not wearing them sometimes invited strangers to talk, and I didn’t talk to strangers.
My stop approached and I pressed the button. It dinged, and several seconds later, the driver veered toward the curb. When the door squealed open, I stepped out into the night and aimed for my building.
I tucked several strands of hair behind my ear to clear my periphery. My eyes darted around, checking the shadows. Between the cars. The people. I used the glass ofthe windows ahead, searching the reflection to see behind me.
“Ryah!” a familiar voice called.
I whipped toward it, heart stutter-stepping while I grabbed my chest and practically jumped outta my skin.
“Whoa,” Christian said, striding closer before he grabbed my elbow to steady me.
I righted myself, with just inches between us. He looked great, as usual. Always had. Even when he’d gone through the tail end of his gangly phase in high school, he’d still had those sharp-boned, perfectly symmetrical model good looks.
My gaze narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
I fought to keep the surprise from my face, but my voice didn’t get the memo when it rose six octaves. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
My brow furrowed. “Everything alright?”
“Kinda.” He shrugged. “Just… Chloe and I broke up.”
Okay. I should’ve felt bad. I really should’ve, but I’d been waiting for those words for a while. Well, more like three weeks. ’Cause they broke up a lot.
I shoved the image of Zoya’s “I told you so” face from my mind because the desolate look in Christian’s expression told me he needed a friend.
“Wanna come in?” I asked, trying not to let that selfish hope enter my tone. Not that I’d act on it.
He inclined his head. “Sure.”
I hooked my arm through his and dragged him with me. Entering the building’s security code, we crossed into the lobby, then climbed to my second-story apartment. Unlocking the emerald-green door of unit 204, I pushedinside. When he passed through, I twisted the dead bolt and slid the chain into place.
The kitchen light was already on—a constant for safety when Zoya and I weren’t home. The beige-toned cabinets took on a yellow shade under the fluorescent light there.
I stripped off my outdoor gear and set it aside.
Christian shrugged out of his winter coat and chucked it over the closest white dining chair, his jeans and blue polo shirt showing off his lean, muscular body with the movement. Sauntering to our black-velvet thrifted couch in the living room, he sat himself down.
“Want something to drink?” I asked.
