Page 71 of Boiling Point
I rolled my eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Ta-ta.”
My video window went dark.
The silence returned, but the ache had eased. Just enough to breathe.
Chapter 26
Gabrielle
Iarrived to Cal’s class—that is,Dr. Hawthorne’sclass—early, the door creaking shut behind me as I slipped into the empty lecture hall. Fluorescent lights bathed everything in clinical white, harsh against the too-early sky outside. I slid into my usual seat by the window, cracked open my notebook, and tried to corral my thoughts.
Formulas and diagrams blurred in my mind like abstract art. I rubbed my eyes, willing myself to focus. The problem set loomed, but my concentration was a fragile thread, easily snapped by the memory of Cal’s voice, lingering in my ear long after he’d had to go.
Three girls burst through the door, their chatter ricocheting off the walls. Sloane Cartwright and her usual crowd—with freshly minted pink sorority jerseys and full-volume energy—claimed seats a few rows behind me.
“I swear, this man is literally the only reason I’ll take an eight a.m. class,” one girl groaned. “He’s stupid hot. Like, criminal levels of hot.”
Heat surged up my neck. My pen slipped, leaving a jagged mark in the margin.
“Nope,” Sloane replied, her tone flat. “Total hard-ass.”
Another girl cackled. “That’s the whole appeal. Tell me he doesn’t give serious ‘ruin your GPAandyour life’ energy.”
“I’m sorry,” the first one chimed in. “That voice? That accent? He could read the syllabus, and I’d still need a minute.”
I didn’t turn around, but every syllable crawled down my spine.
“I’m still fucking pissed he didn’t let me make up that quiz,” Sloane muttered.
“It’s one quiz,” the other said. “If it tanks your grade, just have your dad call. Isn’t he, like, on the Board of Trustees or something?”
“Yeah, but it’s the principle.”
More students filtered in, jostling the silence with the dull thud of backpacks and the rustle of notebooks. The girls behind me kept up their chatter, but I tuned them out as best I could, every nerve strung tight as I waited for Cal to arrive. He’d probably slip in right at eight and step up to the lectern like nothing had changed. Maybe for him, it hadn’t. Maybe he could compartmentalize better than I could.
The door swung open, and there he was.
Everything inside me tipped sideways as he crossed the room. His gaze fell briefly on me, then moved away so quickly I wondered if I’d imagined it. His face gave away nothing.
He set his bag down, connected his laptop, pulled up his slides, and checked his watch.
Eight o’clock.
“Good morning,” he said, scanning the rows with that practiced gaze, never lingering long enough on me for anyone to notice. “If you’ve looked ahead,” he said in that steady, deliberate way I loved, “you’ll notice we’re taking a brief detour from circuits to cover basic magnetism. Any idea why?”
Silence. He paused, scanning for volunteers.
“Perhaps I should let you wake up a bit.” He clicked forward a slide. “Up to this point, we’ve looked at direct current. But to understand alternating current—the electricity you get when you plug something into the wall—you need to understand magnetic fields.”
He moved through the next few slides, stopping occasionally to elaborate. I followed his voice with a hunger I couldn’t suppress, scribbling notes and wishing the time would slow.
At one point, he paused, glancing meaningfully in my direction. “Can anyone tell me how a microwave works?”
I hesitated, unsure whether to answer.
Someone in the front row rattled off a textbook response. “It converts electric energy into microwaves, which make the water molecules vibrate and heat up.”
