Break Your Heart

by Rhonda Helms

  “How are classes going?” Dad asked in between bites.

  I filled them in on what I was taking this semester and some of the people I’d met so far. Of course, I carefully regulated my voice when it came to discussing cryptography . . . and my intriguing teacher.

  “I think my hardest class is going to be psychology of stress,” I admitted. “Which sounds crazy, I know, but it’s just so much theory being thrown at you. About how this psychologist or that theorist thinks stress originates, manifests and so on. It’s not the most engaging subject matter to me.”

  Dad laughed. “I didn’t go to college, but I’d find that stuff boring too. A little too woo-woo for my tastes.”

  “Exactly.” I nodded.

  Mom dabbed her napkin over her mouth and sighed. Her smile turned gentle and soft, her eyes a touch hazy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was buzzed. But she’d been drinking only water since I’d gotten here.

  “Your back still hurting?” I asked.

  She blinked and looked at me, and I swore it took a second for her eyes to focus. “Oh, just a touch. But I think it’s getting better.”

  I could practically feel Dad’s frown aimed toward her. Obviously she hadn’t told him about the recurring pain. And obviously when she’d gotten up before dinner, she’d taken another pain pill. “Mom,” I said evenly, careful to keep my voice neutral, “the doctor said there was a possibility of pain returning, due to nerve damage, but there were options. Like going to the pain clinic. You should really give him a call, even if you feel like the pain is lessening.” Mom was strong and independent, and she didn’t like being told what to do, but I remembered all too vividly what kind of agony she was in while healing.

  She hadn’t complained to us, but I’d hear her quiet cries in the night as she tried to fight off the pain. Her tears had gutted me. I hated to think of her going through that again.

  The sincerity in my eyes must have reached her, because she nodded. “Okay. I promise I’ll talk to him. Now stop nagging me about it.” The last sentence was said with a joking tone.

  Dad still hadn’t spoken up, had just silently watched us converse. I could tell he was bothered though; there was a big frown line between his eyebrows, and he’d stopped inhaling his dinner. I knew he wasn’t going to let this go, which helped me feel a little better.

  Dinner conversation flowed on after that. Mom caught me up on what my aunts and uncles were up to, who was feuding, who had gotten fired. Apparently, it had been a busy couple of weeks.

  My extended family was rather large. My mom had four sisters, who each had several kids. Our small family of three was the odd one out. But reunions and get-togethers were always a blast. I loved my cousins.

  We finished off dinner. Mom kept smothering yawns—obviously the meds were hitting her hard now. My heart pinched as I watched her tired eyes scan over the table. Before she could protest, I gathered up the plates, scraped them off and popped them in the dishwasher.

  “I think I’m going to bed,” Mom said on a low sigh. She gave me a hug, then shuffled down the hallway.

  My dad and I watched her go. He put away the leftovers while I wiped down the counters.

  “So, when are you guys going to be on campus?” I asked him to get my mind off my mom. “We should have lunch or something.” Maybe if I scheduled get-togethers with them, it would let them feel like they’re a part of my campus life while giving me some measure of control over things.

  He tilted his head. “Actually, we’ll be there next week to meet with the project manager. We can at least get coffee or something.” He popped the last container in the fridge. “So, are you doing okay?”

  I gave him a hug. “I’m good. Everything’s going well so far. My senior thesis is ready for revisions. The end is in sight.”

  He pressed a kiss to my brow and wrapped his arms tighter around me. “I’m proud of you, you know. Never thought I’d have such a smart, beautiful daughter. I feel so lucky.”

  My eyes stung, and I nuzzled my face into his soft long-sleeved shirt. “Thanks, Dad.” I felt lucky too.

  When I got back to the apartment, Casey was already in her room. I could see light spilling out from under her bedroom door. Probably working on homework. The girl was as diligent as I was.

  I heard her voice, then a low male chuckle. My grin widened. So Daniel was over here too. Good for you, Casey, I thought as I went to the fridge and grabbed a soda. I had to admit, the thought of her moving out made me sad, even as I was happy for her. I hoped she wasn’t too freaked out about the change. Sometimes it took her a while to adjust.

  I took my soda to my room and closed the door. Put on some ambient music and opened up my thesis paper again. It was pure impulse that had me firing up my laptop and logging into email.

  Earlier today I’d written Dr. Muramoto’s email address at the bottom of my paper, just to have it handy. I typed it into the address line, then wrote “senior thesis” in the subject line. Then stopped. The blank cursor in the message box blinked.

  What should I write?

  Dr. Muramoto, I started to type. Thank you for the extensive feedback on my paper. I’m ready to work on revisions. I’ll get those back to you as soon as possible. I paused. And I promise to not be caught like a deer in the headlights next time you call on me in class. I don’t know where my brain was. Sorry about that.

  I typed my name and hit send before I could talk myself out of it. Then I hopped online to check out my social media and see what people were up to. I’d barely been on much since the semester had started.

  An email popped into my in-box about five minutes later.

  Megan,

  You’re welcome. And no worries—I had plenty of oh-crap moments in undergrad myself. You rallied nicely. ;-)

  Nick

  My lungs squeezed as I read the message. He’d signed his first name. Did that mean I should use it? What was protocol here? And why the hell was I stressing so much about what to call him? Ugh. I decided to skip the greeting and go right to the message.

  I see you’re online late too. No rest for the wicked—at least not in academia, huh? Are there other students you’re advising on their thesis this semester?

  This time I didn’t bother to flick back over to my social media. I kept my in-box open. The single line of his reply sent a low glide of heat through my belly.

  No one but you, Megan.

  My skin tightened at the fantasy of his dark eyes growing darker and more hooded as they locked on mine, all that intensity he brought into the classroom solely focused on me. His lips brushing my earlobe when he leaned in close and whispered those words in my ear.

  I bit my lip and willed myself to shake off this train of thought. Be rational, I told myself. Nothing in that reply was sexual or sensual. I was just reading into it.

  But . . . what if I wasn’t? That was a totally loaded response by him; surely he knew it could be interpreted in more than one way.

  Suddenly I wanted to keep this conversation going, to learn more about him. The only way to find out if I was reading into his words was to write him back, draw him into a conversation.

  I stared at his message for a moment, my flesh prickling with anticipation and a tinge of fear. I took a moment to wipe my damp palms on my thighs. Then I typed out a reply.

  How long have you been teaching here? And where did you go to undergrad? Yes, I know I’m nosy, by the way. Let’s blame it on senioritis, shall we? ;-) I’m looking forward to graduating.

  The pause after I hit send was much longer. A full twenty minutes ticked by. Maybe I’d interrupted him when he was trying to get work done. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to a student. Maybe I was too pushy and bugged him. After all, this was his free time.

  Then again, he was the one responding to my emails. Or had been until now.

  Finally, my in-box dinged. I was pretty sure my heart stopped beating for a couple of seconds. He wrote back, my brain yelled at me. My traitorous fingers trembled
as I opened his message.

  I went to undergrad and grad here, at Smythe-Davis. I graduated high school early and with several college credits under my belt, so I got my bachelor’s at age 19, my master’s at 21 and my PhD at 24. I taught at another college for a year, but when a position opened up in the S-D math dept, I applied.

  Are you going to grad school? If not, you should think about it. I believe you’d do well in that environment.

  A warm flush stole over my face, down my throat. I knew it was goofy to read into the fact that he’d been thinking about me, about my goals and future. But so be it. My hands were a bit steadier this time when I replied.

  Yes, I’m actually going here in the fall—I’ve already been accepted. I’m looking forward to it.

  My fingers hovered over the keys as I debated what to type next.

  Do you like math jokes? I’ve been gathering them since I was a kid. Here’s one: Why do they never serve beer at a math party?

  I sent the message. It was another fifteen minutes or so before I got a reply. I stared at his email blankly—it was just a jumble of letters.

  Uh, did he have a cat that had jumped on the keyboard or something?

  I eyed it again. Wait, there was something in this. It wasn’t random—it was a pattern. My brain whirred as I tried to figure it out. Was he sending me some kind of a code? A small smile broke out on my face. Interesting.

  It took me a good ten minutes to identify the code. The letters he’d typed were two off from the originals, so A was C, B was D, and so on. I grabbed a piece of paper and translated.

  Hah. I love that joke—because you can’t drink and derive.

  I couldn’t help it—I burst into laughter.

  Casey’s voice called out from in the living room. “Hey, Megan. You want some ice cream? And we’re going to watch Teen Witch—come join us. I’m pretty sure you could recite this movie by heart now.”

  “Girl, you know I can,” I replied as I shut my email down. I joined Casey and Daniel on the couch, and we fired up the amazingly funny and bad eighties film we’d stumbled across on accident over winter break. She and I had watched it a few times already, cracking up at the horrible rapping and the eighties-tacular clothing.

  Even as I laughed and talked with them, the email exchange lingered in the back of my mind. I couldn’t help the faint secret grin that wouldn’t leave my face.

  Chapter 5

  I slicked the soft pink lip gloss across my lips and eyed myself in the mirror. My hair was wild and fun tonight—I’d let it loose with a swirl of puffy curls around my head. My top was tiny, my jeans were slim and my black boots were high.

  I was so looking forward to a fun night out.

  Not that school was going badly or anything. It was the end of January, and my classes were moving along at a steady pace. I’d done well on the papers and assignments I’d turned in. Work had even bumped up my hours; another employee, a sophomore, had quit to move out of state.

  I grabbed my clutch, tossed on my coat and left the apartment, locking it behind me. Since it was a Friday, Casey was already deejaying at The Mask. I was going to meet Kelly there.

  I found a spot on the street a block from the club, pulled my car into the tiny space and parked. Crossed the street and followed the siren song of the pulsing music thrumming from the brick building. People poured in and out, smiling and laughing and talking and dancing.

  I couldn’t help but feel uplifted. Gotta love a good crowd.

  “Megan!” I heard from my right side.

  I spun to find Kelly standing against the brick wall near the corner, dragging on a cigarette.

  She gave me a sheepish grin and waved the cigarette in the air. “I keep trying to quit, but old habits die hard.”

  “No judgment here,” I told her as I gave her a quick hug. “We all have our crutches.”

  The warmth in her eyes was genuine. “Thanks. My parents ride me about it all the time. I had quit for a while, but . . .” Her smile cracked a little around the edges. Then she smashed out the cigarette against the wall and said with a light laugh, “Anyway, you know how stress can eat away at you.”

  “In fact, I do,” I replied. My psych prof had talked about stress and addiction just last week—surprisingly, I was retaining information from the text. “If you ever need to talk . . .”

  “I appreciate it,” she said in a light tone that didn’t quite match the look in her eyes. “It’s not a big deal. Just some shit from my past that won’t get out of my head, that’s all.”

  My heart dipped in sympathy for her. This close, I could see the stress lines between her brows, around her eyes. She didn’t seem to be getting much sleep. I wanted to ask her more questions, but I was afraid of making tonight too depressing for her.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

  Her smile was a bit sad. “No, but thank you. I’ll get back to my normal self again soon enough. I just need a distraction right now.”

  “Well, if tonight doesn’t work, I know a few hot football guys,” I said, only half joking.

  She squeezed my upper arm, and this time her smile was real. “I might take you up on that.”

  “Let’s go inside,” I said, and we headed into the building.

  The music throbbed, almost like a second heartbeat in my chest.

  Kelly clapped in anticipation, the shadows gone from her face now, and eyed the dance floor. “That looks awesome!” she shouted. “And I love this song—I’ve never heard this mix before though.”

  “Casey probably created it,” I said proudly. “She’s amazing.”

  We peeled our coats off and hung them on nearby racks.

  I grabbed her hand and led her into the middle of the crowd. Bodies swayed around us. We thrust our hands in the air and shook our asses, laughing and bouncing along with the music. Casey kept the jams going, sliding one song effortlessly into another.

  A hot Latino guy sidled up to Kelly and shot her a crooked grin. She blinked, then gave him a tentative smile in response as she tossed me a quick look.

  I waved her off with a laugh and did my own thing for a while. Closed my eyes and let myself just . . . feel. There was something so awesome about getting out of your head and living in the moment. People bumped into my sides, but we didn’t care. We simply kept moving. A light sheen of sweat glistened on my skin.

  When the song changed, I checked on Kelly, who was grinding against the guy, his hands sliding down to her ass. Go get ’em, honey. Nothing like new eye candy to get your mind off old troubles. I bit back a chuckle and left the floor to get something to drink. My throat felt dry, and I needed a moment to cool off.

  A pair of guys at the bar saw me behind them and moved out of the way so I could lean between them. I murmured a thanks. I could feel their eyes on me as I waved at the bartender. What was his name? Casey had told me before.

  Oh, that’s right.

  “Justin, hey!” I said with a toothy grin.

  He came over. “Megan, looking good! What can I get ya?”

  “How about a beer?” I waved my hand in front of my face; droplets of water slid down the back of my neck, down my spine. “I’m roasting.” I eyed what was on tap and pointed to a local brewery’s beer. It was strong but full of flavor.

  “Good crowd,” he said as he poured me a cup.

  I gave him a few bucks from my clutch, strung around my wrist, and thanked him, backing out of the way so the guys could go back to their conversation.

  “Hey, wait,” the one on the left said to me. “Megan, right? That’s what the bartender said.” When he grinned at me, I saw a huge gap between his front teeth. “You here by yourself?”

  Ugh. “My friend’s out on the floor.” I tried to keep my tone polite. “Have a good evening!” I moved away before he could keep talking to me. As I took a deep swig of my drink, I stopped in shock.

  Near the end of the bar was Dr. Muramoto.

  Nick.

  I couldn’t help but check h
im out. He took a draw from his beer, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His hair was styled, his white dress shirt casually rolled up at the sleeves, opened at his throat. I could see his gaze roaming the dance floor, head bobbing in time to the bass.

  My body hummed all over at the surprise of seeing him here. He didn’t look like a professor here. He looked like a very attractive man.

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one to think so. A pair of girls just a couple of years older than me popped on either side of him and struck up a conversation. My heart pinched in response. I chugged a good portion of my beer to give myself time to cool down. Wiped my suddenly damp palms on my thighs.

  Nick threw his head back and laughed at something one of the girls said. His lips were parted, and I could see his bright teeth in the open-mouthed smile.

  I remembered the email he’d sent me last week with the coded response to my joke. Had I made him laugh like that? I wanted to.

  Before I realized it, I had finished my beer. A light buzz stole over me, flushed my cheeks. It didn’t take away my nervousness though. So I slid up to the bar and ordered another. I tried to keep my attention off him, to just listen to the music and the conversations around me, but he was like a magnet.

  I eyed him again. He still hadn’t seen me.

  The next beer went down just as fast. I sat at the bar, torn between staying the hell away from him and wanting to go over and talk. But talking would probably be a bad idea, one part of my brain argued. Part of me knew I didn’t want to just talk. I wanted to lean close and smell him, wanted to see the flecks of colors in his eyes up close. Wanted to make him laugh, find out more about him. Pick his brain.