14. Fern

Chapter 14

Fern

My heart races as I rush from the restaurant in search of Thora. I make a beeline for Fuel Up and sure enough, she's behind the bar washing glasses, getting ready for happy hour. She glances up when the bell rings above the door as I enter, and I must look frightened because she dashes over to me and wraps me in a hug.

"What the hell happened?" She brushes my hair back from my face and studies me like she's looking for bruises. I don't need to tell her they're all internal.

I take a deep breath and blurt, "I went to lunch with Wyatt, and he tried to kiss me, and I panicked."

She laughs and shakes her head, clutching at her chest. "Fern. I thought something actually bad happened to you. Jesus." Thora walks back to the bar, slapping a towel over one shoulder and continuing to shake her head.

I follow and slide my butt into a stool, my mind racing. The thought of Wyatt's lips on mine sends surges of heat through my veins, but the fear of the consequences of kissing a student is like a bucket of cold water, shocking me back to reality. "I'm serious, Thora. This could be really bad."

She squints at me, considering. "But you like him?"

I groan. "I really do. He makes me feel …" I try to verbalize the connection I feel to him, but I just shrug. "He's just great."

Thora winks. "Doesn't hurt that he's fly as hell and probably has an ass you could bounce darts off of."

I press my palms to the bar and squish my face. "I can't stop thinking about him. Not just the physical stuff. All of it."

Thora sighs. "I get it. He's hot, and you two have chemistry, and it sounds like he's a sexy, moody orgasm vending machine."

I wince. "That's all true and accurate. But …"

Thora's eyes soften. "I know it's not just about the physical stuff, Fern, and that you're focused on what's at stake here. Your career, your dreams. But you also deserve to have fun and feel good."

I sniff. "I hoped you'd tell me to be careful and that I've worked too hard to risk it all for a guy."

Thora grabs a clean glass and starts polishing it with the towel, winking. "Not my style." The familiar clink of glasses and hum of conversation fill the air as more patrons trickle in. The bell above the door tinkles again and a group of students makes their way toward the televisions along the back wall, showing pro hockey and basketball games. Thora raises her brows. "That's my cue to get pouring. You going to be okay?"

I flap a hand at her. "Yeah. I just needed to vent about it."

"What kind of bartender would I be if I wasn't here for you when you needed to vent?" Thora grins and sets a pitcher under the tap.

I say goodbye and leave the bar to bury myself in classwork. As I head home, I try desperately not to think about my moodiest student. I take a deep breath, pushing thoughts of Wyatt from my mind and shaking away the echoes of his intense gaze and the warmth of his touch.

Monday morning arrives, gray and frigid, matching my mood as I make my way to campus and the algebra lecture hall. "Is Dr. Yoon here yet?" A student is waiting outside the lecture hall when I arrive early to set things up for the exam. Their eyes dart from their watch to me and back, cheeks flushed.

My arms are full of test papers, so I try to communicate with my eyes that I need help opening the door. They do not get the hint. I sigh. "No, they will be arriving in a bit. Could you grab the door for me?"

"Oh. Sorry." The student opens the door and follows me down the aisle toward the lectern, asking what will be on the test and whether they can look over the paper before we begin.

I set the stack on the podium, letting my forearm cover the papers. "I'm really sorry, but it's a timed test. I can't let you look before the exam begins."

Their demeanor shifts—jaw set, body stiff. I can tell they're frustrated. I see a spark in their eye, and my heart rate increases. Are they going to hulk out over this? I try to think of how I'd respond at work to a customer who gives me the willies. Tending bar, I usually have a bouncer I make eye contact with, and I don't have to explain a damn thing.

Here, I'm apparently on my own with a kid who seems on the verge of a mental health crisis. They're about to begin a tirade of injustice when I see a dark figure looming behind them. Wyatt is early, striding down the aisle like he can sense my discomfort from the back of the room.

"Can I borrow a pencil?" He asks me this, even though I can see at least three mechanical pencils sticking out of his shirt pocket.

I swallow, relieved, as the frustrated student huffs their way to a seat in the front row. I nod and reach into my bag for a pencil. Wyatt's fingers linger on mine as I hand over the yellow wood. I make eye contact—a huge mistake—and a flush creeps up my neck. I remember the charged moment at lunch, the near kiss, and I think about how artfully he handled the situation just now…appearing to rudely interrupt while actually rescuing me from a frustrated, panicked undergrad.

I like the idea of having someone swoop in, someone looking out for me, even with little stuff like this. But this is a very dangerous thing to yearn for, and I have two decades of experience with the realities of trying to count on someone else and eventually giving up on him. My mom and I are solid, but I still see the impact of how my dad messed her up—messed us both up.

Dr. Yoon enters the auditorium to a flutter of the student's questions, and Wyatt releases my hand. With a nod, he shuffles to the back of the room and sinks low in his chair, tugging that hat low over his eyes. I can't tell if he's nervous about the test. He shouldn't be. By the time we left the library, he had a great grasp of the material.

I try to listen as Dr. Yoon firmly sends the anxious student to their seat. I need to learn to set boundaries like this if I'm going to enter academia someday. At the very least, I'll be navigating students like this in graduate school. But I can't concentrate, and Dr. Yoon actually snaps their fingers to get my attention when it's time to distribute the papers.

My hands tremble slightly as I pass out the tests, especially when I get to Wyatt's row and see his dark eyes following on my every move. I take a deep breath and remind myself to stay focused as I hand out the last of the papers.

Dr. Yoon taps on the microphone at the front of the large room. "You may begin." There's a brief roar of papers being flipped over, a flurry of pencil scratches, and then all I have to do is pace the aisles, making sure nobody is visibly cheating.

I try to keep a watchful eye on the students, but I find myself glancing at Wyatt more than I ought to. I notice things like how sexy he looks with his brow furrowed in concentration. How he taps his pencil when he's thinking. How he flexes his fingers along his thigh with the hand not holding the pencil.

The hour crawls by in a tumult of my racing heart. I'm sweating when Dr. Yoon finally announces there are five minutes left. I take my place beside the podium, and the students who have finished early file up to submit their tests. "Make sure you put your name on the front page," I say repeatedly, and a number of students retract their paper to label it after the fact.

The class period ends, and the final students make their way up front. Wyatt lingers behind, approaching me with his paper. "Thanks for all your help," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates every tendon in my body. I nod and look down to see he's holding out my pencil. When I close my hand around the tip to take it back, he squeezes the eraser end and grins.

A warmth spreads through my chest before I can stop it, before I can remind myself that I'm trying to leave the damn country, and the last thing I need is to feel any sort of anything for a guy, especially one who is off limits.

Wyatt leaves the lecture hall, and I get to work stacking the test papers. I turn to hand them to Dr. Yoon, who is packing up their messenger bag. "Here you go."

They glance at me. "I usually have the TA's grade the exams and only come to me with questions."

"Oh." I bite my lip. "I'm not sure I know how to distribute these to the group?"

Dr. Yoon frowns, pausing as they pack up their things to leave, and I realize just how little preparation I've had for this TA gig. Dr. Yoon shifts their weight from foot to foot, clearly in a hurry to leave, and seems frustrated to have to explain the basics to me. "Aren't you all on a group chat? An email thread?"

A lump forms in my throat. I hate feeling unprepared. "I'm not on one of those, no. How can I get the list of names of the others?"

They sigh. "I'm sorry. I have a committee presentation. I'm sure you'll figure something out, Fern. You're very bright."

They rush from the room, leaving me with the stack of tests. I close my eyes and take three deep breaths. I will go to the math department office and ask one of the admins for advice. Admins always know everything. This will be fine. They're right—I'm resourceful.

Wyatt is slumped on a bench, staring at his phone, when I open the door. I huff out a laugh. Of course, he's here. I sink onto the bench next to him, and he smiles at his phone as he continues typing. "Can't get enough of me, Montgomery?"

"Yep. That's me. Obsessed." I shuffle my bag around so I can put the stack of papers inside. "How do you feel after the test?"

"You should grade mine right now and tell me how I did." He slides his phone into the pocket with his pencils, looking at me expectantly.

"Ha. How about no. I am absolutely not getting involved in grading yours." I feel a flutter of anticipation, wondering if he'll touch me. Wanting him to touch me. Knowing he shouldn't.

As if he can sense my distress, he eases away from me on the bench. "Sorry. I'm being pushy. I just really think you're awesome."

His cheeks get small spots of pink, causing me to flush as well. I laugh. "We're both worked up over this test, I think."

He smiles. "I'll let you get to grading. See you Friday?"

I nod and watch him walk away. I gather my things and head toward the math department office, where the admin pulls a list of the other student teaching assistants for Dr. Yoon's class. When I lean on the wall outside the office to email the group about divvying up the tests, I see an unread message from Imperial College in London.

I gasp as I click to read it.

Dear Ms. Montgomery: I am delighted to inform you that you've been selected…

I stop reading and close my eyes. My heart races. Is this really happening? I hum a little bit and open my eyes, returning to the message.

…for our graduate fellowship in algebraic geometry, including tuition remission, a monthly stipend, accommodation in our private graduate student housing, as well as a meal plan for our residential dining halls. Assuming completion of your degree and receipt of final transcripts…

I stop reading again, eyes watering. This is it. This is what I've been working for. My dreams are so close I can feel them with my fingertips. I stamp out thoughts of Wyatt and his exam and his soccer career. I need to focus on finishing this semester.

I pull up a group chat with Thora and my mom, typing three words in all caps:

I GOT IT!

Their responses come almost immediately, and I smile, knowing I'll be celebrating with them.