We met at one of the Dean’s dinner parties last year. Trevor was my grad-student guide, and I was attracted to him instantly. He’s the only man I’ve ever slept with, which he always tells me he loves. I’m a little embarrassed by it, but honestly, before Trevor Appleton, there was never a guy who made me want to do more than kiss. I don’t know the exact moment when I fell in love with him, but I did.

He’s older—24 to my 21—but we’re both in the same place. I’ve never been a partier, never had many girlfriends, never really wanted to date. Even in high school, I was focused, my only diversion the time I spent dating Wes, and that didn’t turn out so well. My life has been one long chain of events, means to an end.

One of those ends is architecture. I’ve always had a keen eye, and I’d worked my way into an internship with one of the best firms in the Midwest. I had a feeling the job would be mine permanently when I graduated. Of course, Trevor had also been hinting about marriage lately, and if he ended up in Washington, I’d have to consider applying elsewhere. But first, I had to pass my calculus requirements.

Keys, coffee, portfolio, and notebooks in hand, and I’m on my way to the library. I haven’t taken advantage of the free tutoring sessions yet, and I’m regretting that now. I might have been able to avoid the deep hole I’d dug from my failed quizzes…if I’d just shown up for these sessions a few weeks earlier.

Parking is easy to navigate on a Saturday, so I get to the tutoring room just as they’re letting students in. There’s an entire room set up for mathematics, which makes me smile. “Misery loves company,” I laugh to myself.

I gravitate to the table near the rear of the room and sit with my back against the wall. I’m always putting myself in corners—ever since Mac died, I like to see my way out. The therapist said it was about my need for control, to anticipate the next move. Funny, though, how it’s the action happening right in front of me that always takes me by surprise.

I’m getting my book out and searching for my pencil in my bag when I suddenly feel uncomfortable, like an invisible shadow is choking me.

I jump at his voice.

“You’re new,” he says, and I thrust my hair back and bang my wrist on the underside of the table as I snap to attention. The pain is instant, and at first I tend to my hand. I’m about to swear when I look up and quickly shut my mouth again. I’m stunned silent at first—suddenly out of my element—my confidence drained the second I hit his gaze. “I’m sorry?” is all I can seem to stammer. His eyes are clear, a grayish blue, and perfect. The crinkles at the corners must mean he’s smiling, but I can’t seem to leave his eyes to check the curve of his lips. In that millisecond, I soak them in, and I feel like I’m home.

I’m stuck staring at him, my mouth a little agape, as he sits across from me. He just laughs at my awkwardness and shakes his head. “I scared you. Sorry, didn’t mean to. I just haven’t seen you in here before…you’re new?” he holds out his hand this time—a gesture my suddenly teenaged goo brain recognizes, and I shake it.

A few seconds pass, and we’re still shaking hands across the table, but not speaking. He chuckles again and lifts his other hand to cover mine, stopping our motion. My eyes widen, and I’m rushed with embarrassment, my cheeks burning and my heart a pounding drum in my chest. “Oh God, I’m sorry. Yes, I’m new. I’m in Dr. Rush’s calculus class, and I’m falling a little behind,” I say all in one breath. He winks at my words, and something in me flinches at it, forcing me back to earth.

“Okay, let’s take a look at what lesson you’re on,” he nods toward the book, prompting me.

“Right, right,” I say, flipping the pages open manically. Somehow my mind slows down, and I’m finally able to communicate. “It’s the section on complex and holomorphic functions.” I’m grateful I was just able to complete that sentence.

“Okay. Let’s work through one together, and I’ll explain as we go,” he says, flipping the page on my notepad and turning it sideways between us. He clicks the pen, and I catch myself staring at him again. He looks nothing like a calculus tutor. His hair is dark and tossed in various directions—almost messy, like he just removed his hat. His arms are canvases of artwork, swirls of color crawling up each, sometimes winding into his fingers. His wrists are wrapped with black bands, and his ears are pierced—multiple times. He coughs a little, and I realize he’s looking at me…looking at him.