Page 31 of The Exception to the Rule

Callum

Iset the stack of exams on Dr. Ashkar’s desk. “Hey, Mike. I’m going to have to recuse myself from grading these.”

He looks up at me, lowering his glasses. “Oh yeah? What’s up?”

Mike Ashkar is the newest faculty member in our department and the one professor I am sure to be friends with long after I finish my doctorate. I have resigned myself to tell him this much, and no more: “I’ve got a thing for one of the students.”

“Which one?”

“No way.”

He laughs. “All right. I’ll do them. You owe me lunch.”

“I owe you lunchanda bottle of Aberlour, but just the twelve.”

He laughs and I turn to leave, but he stops me. “Callum, wait. Did I hear right that Mikkelson is taking over your TA role for the rest of the term?”

“Yeah, I swapped over to his neurophys section.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “Same reason?”

I grin. “Same reason.”

“You’re really not going to tell me who it is?”

“Hell no,” I say and turn for the door again. “Because if she rejects me, you’ll never let me live it down.”

“You got that right. Good luck.”

From the second Terra walked out of the classroom, I wanted to see her again. Immediately. I have this buzzed, vibrating feeling in my limbs. No matter how fantastical it sounds, it feels like we were destined to run into each other in some truly unbelievable way.

I suppose I don’t have to wait. I could email her right now and tell her who I am, but I saw the way she was in class. She’s nervous with me—she admitted in an email that she finds me intimidating—and if I told her now who I am, I worry that dynamic would dominate. I don’t want that between us after everything.

Unfortunately, as soon as I leave Mike’s office, I realize that I’ve just inadvertently quit the one space where I’m sure to easily run into her. I’m neck-deep in worrying about how to manufacture a chance run-in when I look up in line at the soup-dumpling counter at Franklin’s and see her only a few places in front of me.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Mind if I join you?” I ask.

Terra startles, jerking her attention away from the pile of journal articles spread around her Styrofoam food container. “Oh—hey!”

I gesture to the crowded food hall around us. I have the perfect excuse that nearly every other table is occupied. “Okay if I sit?”

She scrambles to clear the papers and make room for me. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

I sit and look across the table at her. Her neck is pink, her cheeks flushed. She’s nervous, but she really is so beautiful. I’d never really thought too much about what she might look like, but somehow I can still say she looks just like I imagined she would. Strong and scrappy and unpretentious and sexy. I want to soak up every physical detail about her now that she’s right here in front of me: her plush lips, the scattered freckles across the bridge of her nose. Dark hair covered with a red-and-blue Penn beanie, the ends flipping up beneath the hem. Long neck, long fingers, unpolished short nails. The swell of her breasts beneath the tight fabric of her long-sleeved thermal shirt.

My mouth goes dry.

I clear my throat, blinking back up to her face and grateful she’s still too distracted by stacking her papers in order to notice me staring. “How did the test feel today?”

She reaches up, pulls the hat off, and self-consciously drags her fingers through her cute, staticky hair. “Okay, I guess? I’m not sure. I feel comfortable with the material, so hopefully that shows.” She laughs a little, meeting my eyes. “I guess you’ll know soon enough.”

“Actually, I’m not the TA anymore, as of about a half hour ago.”

“Why?”

“I swapped with Bryan.” At her frown, I add, “Mikkelson?”

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