Don't Fall

by K. S. Thomas

  With the sound of his thundering footsteps following close behind, I skip the last three steps and lunge for the sidewalk, an easy feat considering I run track in exchange for my education.

  I fumble at my car, unable to retrieve my keys fast enough. As luck would have it, the fancy new BMW parked beside me is his. I should have known. I thought it looked out of place last night, but I just assumed someone had company.

  “Running late for class?”

  I look up involuntarily at the sound of his voice. Damn my efficient reflexes.

  “How did you know I was a student?”

  He shrugs. “Lucky guess. The laptop bag and books helped, of course.”

  He’s wearing glasses now. They completely change his look. I also notice he’s paired his bland khakis from earlier with a blue button up shirt complete with long sleeves which given the hot weather, can only serve to cover up his tattoos. It’s suddenly very apparent that he’s older than me. He’s like, a legit grown up. Somehow, that only makes him sexier.

  “Aha!” I yank my keys out at last.

  He smiles. I smile. Why? Why am I smiling at the man who hijacked my home?

  “I gotta go.” And I do. But I smile the whole damn ride to school. Maybe I really am the crazy one.

  I’m so freaking late by the time I pull into the parking lot, I have to run across campus to get to class. I think I hear my name called a time or two while I’m zooming past the blurred faces, but catching up with people will have to wait until after Psychology.

  When I almost come flying out of my left sandal, I pause briefly and readjust. I’m still focused on my toes and trying to get them back around the stupid thong of my shoe when I hear his voice. Again.

  “We really need to stop meeting like this.”

  “Oh my God! Are you following me?” Clean record, my ass.

  He grins amused, something I realize he does frequently when interacting with me, and I’m generally not all that funny. “Relax, Tessa. I’m just trying to get to my class on time like everyone else.”

  “Alrighty then.” I practically take off at a sprint, mostly to keep my next thoughts from spilling out of my mouth before I can stop them. Like, how is he a student here? And how has this not come up before now. Then, I notice the distance between us isn’t increasing. He’s headed the same place I am. So, I speed up some more. At the very least, I’m not walking in late with him.

  At least I don’t plan to. When his hand reaches the handle the same time mine does, I lose all hope of ever being rid of him.

  As soon as I’m in the room, I spot the only seat available in the front row. I’m mentally preparing myself to wrestle him for it as I make a mad dash for the last chair – determined not to let him steal another thing from me, only when I get there, my butt claims it without any interference from him. Shockingly. In fact, now that I’m turned around again, there’s no sign of him anywhere. Maybe I missed an open seat in the back somewhere?

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Social Psychology.”

  Oh God.

  This can’t be happening.

  “My name is Dr. Michael McMichael – yes, my parents were those types of assholes – and I’ll be taking over this course for Dr. Cremer while she’s on maternity leave. For those of you wondering, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy just last month.”

  Michael McMichael. His parents really were assholes. Not important. He’s my Professor. Hot New Roommate Michael is my professor.

  I spend the next fifteen minutes staring at my feet and wishing I could disappear. Considering I’m sitting right up front, he’d likely notice if I made another run for it though. I can’t text Drea either. I can’t do anything. Least of all pay attention to anything he’s saying. It’s not until I notice everyone reaching for pen and paper or whipping out their laptops and tablets, that I start to feel as though participating is a viable option again. Thankfully, we spend the rest of class taking notes while he gives an annoyingly insightful lecture on gender and the ways in which society is affecting how we identify ourselves, as well as members of the opposite sex. He’s smart. And humble in a way that really makes you underestimate him. Made me underestimate him. He’s not crazy. Or unstable. But I am. Of course, Dr. McMichael already knows that because he knows his stuff. It’s clearly why he’s always laughing at me.

  I don’t wait even half a second after we’re dismissed to jet from the room. Any and all future humiliation will have to wait until we’re home again. Home. It’ll never feel sacred again.

  Rather than sit out in the open where Michael could stumble upon me some more, I head for the library and bury myself in the biographies section. No one’s coming to look for me here and the librarians have come to accept that my face is just part of the furnishings in that section. I have a weird sort of fascination with learning people’s stories. I don’t even care who they are, I just want to know their history. What made them who they became. Which experiences molded their lives in the most significant ways. I think maybe it’s because I know so little of my own history. It’s made me obsessed with people who know enough about theirs to write a whole freaking book about it.

  “Back at it already, huh, Tessa?”

  It’s Carlo, one of the students who works here. He’s been here seven years. I don’t think he’s ever graduating. I don’t think he wants to.

  “You know it.” I flip my hair and give him a cheesy grin. It’s not flirting when it’s with Carlo, therefore it’s easy.

  “Who are you getting to know this week?” he asks, a genuine curiosity in his tone.

  Holding the cover out for him to see, I answer, “Alexis Lane.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “This super rad photographer. I saw his work in some other biographies I read. He’s got some sort of magic eye for capturing people’s secret essence or something. I don’t know how to explain it, but once you get to know his work, you recognize it instantly. Anyway, after seeing so many of his portraits, I figured it was time to find out a little more about him.”

  Carlo leans in while I start to flip through the pages. “Huh. They’re all pictures.”

  Disappointed, I hum in agreement. “Yeah, not what I thought it would be.”

  “Well, you know those artist types, a lot of them are super private. Secret identity and all,” Carlo points out.

  “I guess.” I let my gaze sweep the images open to me once more. Maybe there’s more in here about him than we realize. “I’m getting it anyway. If his pictures tell so much about the people in them, they’re bound to reveal things about him as well.”

  Carlo chuckles. “You’re going to make a damn fine reporter one day.”

  “That’s my plan.” I grin, closing the book and pressing it to my chest. This one is definitely going home with me.

  From here, the day seems to pick up the pace. After my last class, I grab a quick bite to eat and then head straight to track practice. It’s almost six o’clock by the time I’m pulling up in front of our apartment building and I’m exhausted. For the first day of ‘first week doesn’t count’ classes, I got my ass kicked. I wonder if Drea faired any better. Probably. She didn’t have her first class until eleven and she doesn’t run track, she’s here on a music scholarship and regardless of what she claims, I seriously doubt playing the piano while sitting on your ass can be all that tiring.

  I scan the parking lot for a minute before I get out. There’s no sign of the silver BMW. Convinced that it’s safe to proceed, I practically run for the stairwell. Exhausted or not, I find the energy to take all three flights two steps at a time, and I don’t slow down until I’m inside Drea’s place and the door is locked and chained behind me.

  Drea and Jules are sprawled out on the couch watching something Channing Tatum on TV. Until I come crashing in providing them with better entertainment, that is.

  “What’s wrong with you? Were you being chased?” Drea seems genuinely worried which will make my real reason sound supe
r ridiculous.

  “Don’t tell me. The Zombie apocalypse is finally upon us!” Jules is not worried. She’s not even faking it. Mostly, she just seems annoyed I’m taking her attention away from the man candy on the screen.

  “Even if it was, you’d be the last person I’d tell. I’d just let them get you and feast on your brains. Although, feast might be a stretch,” I mutter, dropping my bag beside the door and squeezing in between them on the sofa. I avoid looking at the screen. I caught a glimpse when I first walked in and heard my internal dialogue. It was comparing Channing to Michael. Channing was losing. It’s not a place I’m comfortable going again.

  “You know you’re all sweaty and gross, right?” Drea gives me a disgusted sideways glance as I lean in for the coffee table to examine the now nearly empty pizza boxes spread out before them.

  “I do. But a girl can’t ever hear that enough, so keep it coming.” I settle on a slice of mostly cheese and sink back into the cushions, kicking off my stinky sneakers and socks on spiteful principle.

  Drea stares at me a moment longer before she bursts out, “Are you going to talk about what’s happening here, or what? Why do you look like you took a wrong turn on the track and just kept running? And speaking of wrong turns, why are you here at all? I thought you were all set to stay at your place again.”

  I swallow hard to get down a way too big bite of pizza crust. It’s cold and dry and not at all worth it.

  “Hot New Neighbor Michael, aka Hot New Roommate Michael, actually prefers to go by Dr. Michael McMichael. At least when he’s teaching my Psyche class.”

  Drea gapes and even Jules returns her attention to me and away from Channing Tatum, going so far as to mute the TV.

  “The hot dude next door is a teacher?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I nod, taking another bite of pizza. I don’t know why I’m still eating it other than I’m starving and too lazy to get up and forage for something else.

  “Get the fuck outta here!” I think Drea is still contemplating whether or not I’m telling the truth. We have a history of pranking one another, usually for properly motivated reasons, and while I don’t currently have one, I can see why she’s worried.

  “I’m serious. And since we’re on the topic of awkward and embarrassing experiences I’ve had today, I also accused him of stalking me seconds before we both entered the classroom.”

  Jules starts laughing. Drea, who values our friendship a little more, does her best to suppress the grin I know is desperate to escape. Hell, I’m about to start laughing at the whole disaster myself.

  “What are you going to do? Drop the class?”

  “No!” Though that clearly had occurred to me. “Truth is, he’s really good. The lecture he gave today was insightful and interesting and even though I hardly took any notes, I remember almost all of it. Like, he taught it in a way that it just clicked, you know? Plus, I need the credit, so...”

  Jules is clearly torn between wanting to get back to Channing and feeling the need to add to this conversation. “Um, that’s really cool and all, but don’t you think the school might frown upon a professor and his student rooming together? I’m just guessing they have policies against that.”

  Drea shrugs. “Would they have to know?”

  Staring at my sad piece of pizza, I start thinking out loud, “I’m sure they already do, they just don’t know they do. But we’re both in their system. And we obviously would have put down the same address, even before we realized we both intended to live in the same place.”

  “So, now what?” Drea seems disappointed. Like, she thinks my fucked up living situation has all the makings of a romance novel or something and suddenly this plot twist isn’t giving her the ending she was hoping for.

  “I know,” Jules chimes in with an unexpected amount of enthusiasm, (well, unexpected until I peer at the tv out of the corner of my eye. No Channing in sight, just some tire commercial), “You and I can switch! You move into my place for the semester and I can move into yours!”

  “Ha!” I can’t even give it a real laugh. “That’s totally not happening. But thanks.”

  I toss what’s left of the marinara soaked cardboard back into the box and get up. “I need a shower.”

  “Yeah.”

  I drop a hard glance on Drea.

  “Not because you smell or anything,” she tries to cover, “Because you need to clear your head or whatever.”

  “Nice save,” I say dryly as I walk away. I know she’s right. I smell so bad I can freaking smell myself. It’s appalling.

  Tiptoeing for no real reason other than it seems safer, I make my way across the landing to my own front door. Unlocking it as quietly as I can, I start by sticking only my head inside and listening.

  “Hear anything?” his voice rumbles from behind me.

  My body slams into the door, the door slams open until it hits the wall, and to top it all off, I whack the crap out of my pinky toe. “Oh my GOD, man!”

  Jumping around on one foot, I bounce around my foyer still holding all of my crap from the day, caught between wanting to escape and not wanting to hop the streets aimlessly with a load of books, a gym bag and a laptop, since I have no real place left to go.

  “I don’t suppose you think it’s a coincidence that the harder you try to hide from me, the more dramatic our interactions are becoming?” he asks dryly, setting down his bag along the wall (like he lives here!). “Also, why aren’t you wearing shoes?!”

  “I left them at Drea’s,” I whine, in hindsight a bad idea.

  Given his expression, I’m inclined to think he agrees, regardless he keeps his mouth shut as he takes my stuff from me, places it on the coffee table and starts moving straight for the kitchen. “Interesting reading material you’ve got there. You studying photography too?”

  “No,” I say far snottier than necessary, “I just like learning about different types of people, and I happen to think the photographer who took those is very talented.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just nods as he opens the freezer and retrieves a bag of frozen lima beans. Briefly, I berate him mentally for thinking of food while I likely have a broken bone in my foot, and mocking may also be taking place, because, lima beans?! Gross. But, then, that jackass comes back over to where I’m still doing my busted toe dance, takes my elbow to gently guide me backwards toward the sofa where he helps me take a seat, before kneeling down to cradle my foot in one hand and hold the frozen beans on my smashed pinky with the other.

  “How’s that?” His voice is quieter than normal. Careful almost, and I notice he’s not looking up to make eye contact the way he usually does. He’s a stickler for eye contact, he is. Makes me all sorts of uncomfortable. Except now. That he’s looking at my feet. Turns out, that’s way worse.

  “Good,” I mumble, “thank you.” Heat is surging through the top of my head and I can feel myself break out in a cold sweat. Sweat. Jeez, now I know why he’s not looking at me. I’m disgusting. He’s probably breathing through his mouth right now just to keep from passing out being this close to me.

  Embarrassment makes for a convenient adrenaline replacer, and I jolt upward so fast, I nearly forget not to put weight on my right foot.

  “Oh, look at that! All better already.” I force a smile. My foot is killing me. Well, maybe it’s a combination of things, but something, everything...is killing me.

  “Tessa, your toe is the size of a small cucumber.”

  “Uh-huh,” I squeak, doing my best to walk without hobbling.

  “You should keep ice on it for a little while longer. And put it up. And, you know, maybe get X-rays,” he calls after me, but I’m far enough down the hall to pretend I can’t hear him. Just a few more feet and I’m in the bathroom, completely out of reach.

  As it turns out, showering results in more than eliminating the stink. After mulling everything over until the steaming hot water turned icy cold, I’ve concluded that moving forward as if the previous twenty-four hours never happen
ed, is my best possible plan of action. I’m not entirely sure how I’ll convey my plan to him without acknowledging the lineup of disasters leading up to it, but maybe feigning complete obliviousness will work. He doesn’t know me that well. I could a be total airhead.

  I’m even fairly certain pleading ignorance is my best bet on the whole roommate - professor debacle. Seems like that’s more his problem than mine anyway. Unless he decides it is a problem, in which case it becomes my problem because I’m thinking his lease will hold up over my desire to deny he has one. So, he likely won’t move. And I, well, I have nowhere else to go.

  Drea’s place is supposed to be a two bedroom just like mine, but the spare room has long been converted to her music room slash recording studio, hence my sleeping over in his dining room. And with Scott spending more time there than at his multi-bachelor bachelor pad, it’s already on the cramped side most of the time. Of course, there’s Jules and her generous yet totally selfish offer to switch condos, and while I do like her super pimped out pad more than my own most days, I tend to think I’ll like it drastically less when her fifty something sugar daddy shows up expecting, well, ya know...rent.

  Finally clean and in my most comfy sweatpants, I walk back into the living room feeling like a sparkling new person. Or at the very least, a person instead of a grotesque beast. My toe is another story. It still looks like it belongs to a grotesque beast. But, I’m oblivious, so I don’t care.

  “You got a present while you were in the shower.” Michael is standing behind the breakfast bar, making a sandwich. No, two sandwiches.

  “I did?” I’m not sure I’m up for presents. Given the way my life is going, it’s probably something like cat puke in a place Drea really doesn’t want cat puke, and I’m really not in the mood to have my new sparkle besmirched with cat puke two seconds in.

  He slides one of the sandwiches in my direction and gives a nod toward the living room. “I assume that belongs to you.”