Chapter 13

The crisp fall breeze blows across my face as I walk through a thick grove of trees while juggling a cup of hot chocolate and a small ceramic pot of yellow daffodils in my hands, all the while balancing the phone tucked between my shoulder and my ear.

"I got the flowers from the florist right before they were about to close, Dad. I just need to make a stop at my professor's office hours, then I'll head out to the cemetery."

Dad's voice is rusty as he replies, "Thank you, Millie. I can always count on you."

He lets out a deep sigh, exhaustion clear in his voice. "I should make a trip out there. Give the flowers to Francine in person. But, after all these years, I…I still…"

I pause in the middle of the garden and sit down on the lone green bench. Carefully setting down my things, I smother the ache in my chest and hope I sound upbeat.

"Mom is with you always, Dad. It doesn't matter if you haven't been back to visit her grave since we moved to New York. With a love like yours, she never really left."

A lump forms in my throat. "And I'm sure she'd love the flowers. I read in her journals daffodils were her favorite. They're bright and cheerful, don't you think? I remember Mom liked to laugh a lot."

The memories are fading year after year, but the feeling never disappears. I can still feel her presence around me.

Loss is a strange thing.

Some days, you walk around and feel whole. The sun is warm on your skin and you notice bright butterflies fluttering about as you go through your everyday routine. Things feel peaceful. Content.

Then there are days when you feel winded. When the loss hits your head like a sledgehammer, and you wonder if you'll ever feel awe or happiness again. When the hole in your chest feels more like an abyss and you know you'll never stop missing that person.

Today is the latter. It's Mom's birthday. She would've been fifty-eight years old if lymphoma didn't take her away from us.

There are some things I guess you'll never get over, no matter the years that have elapsed. I'm sure if Mr. Roberts is still alive, there'll still be a hole in his heart for his dad. A hole that has never healed.

"Give her a kiss for me, sweetheart." Heartbreak lances Dad's voice, even after twelve years, the pain still sounds fresh and raw.

"I will, Dad. I love you." Swallowing the sharp needles in my throat, I disconnect from the call.

I stare at the beautiful shrubbery next to me, taking in the bright orange-red tubular blossoms of the California fuchsia, a sight that'll normally bring a smile to my face, but today, I just feel bereft.

A gentle breeze carries the scent of wildflowers as I sit in this small, private oasis, one of the many courtyards on campus. The small gust burrows deep into my bones. Instead of feeling comforted by the tranquil breeze, I feel cold instead; the chill causing me to shiver.

With trembling hands, I pick up the hot chocolate I purchased from the campus coffee shop earlier. I take a sip and grimace at the fake saccharine taste, one reeking of artificial chocolate flavor and sugar.

It doesn't taste the same as Mom's chocolate.

Do I still remember how it tastes, really? Or am I just hanging on to a faint imprint of the past, each memory a string slowly thinning on a rope as I hang over the edge of a mountain, trying to hold on for dear life?

Will I forget her someday?

My nose burns as I look across the courtyard, where I see the small blurry shapes of students walking to and from class. Girls laughing in groups, their eyes glued to something on their cell phones. Guys breezing by without a care in the world on their skateboards, backpacks haphazardly slung from their shoulders.

LA is beautiful in the fall, especially now, so close to Halloween. The leaves are turning brown, and other than the occasional bouts of rain, one can still wear flip-flops, shorts, and T-shirts out and about, unlike back home in New York where folks are bundled up in jackets and scarves.

I blow out a breath and brush aside my melancholy before checking the time on my phone. I need to catch Professor Anderson before his office hours end.

After quickly gathering my things, I stand up and hurry toward the stately red brick building with quaint black shutters—the faculty building for the business and accounting professors.

Minutes later, I stand in front of the closed door of the office used by adjunct professors and guest lecturers for office hours. My pulse kicks into an unsteady rhythm as my palms grow sweaty.

I can do this. He's just a man. A regular person.

But a regular person doesn't make my heart sprint circles in my rib cage whenever he stares at me in class. A regular man doesn't invade my dreams at night, dreams involving him standing in the pouring rain, all coiled tension and leashed energy, dark eyes teeming with intensity and unsaid emotions.

And heartache. Something I can feel like a punch to the chest.

In my dreams, we're always standing a few feet apart, the rain drenching my hair, my face, my clothes, but my feet are encased in cement blocks, and I can't move, walk toward him, or put my arms around him to offer him my warmth.

When I wake up, my body is drenched in sweat.

Fevered dreams of an unattainable man.

Misplaced emotions, Millie. You're looking for someone to protect you, and a mysterious, tall professor is the perfect target for your imagination. It's not real.

Squaring my shoulders, I raise my hand and rap on the door.

Knock. Knock.

"Come in." A terse command. A deep voice. Goosebumps bead on my forearms.

I rake in a fortifying breath and open the door, finding the literal man of my dreams frowning at a stack of papers in front of him, brandishing a red pen like a weapon. His desk is sparse, with nothing on top other than a laptop and a ULA mug with a bunch of pens and pencils jammed into it.

His dark hair is disheveled, his blue tie tugged slightly loose around his neck. A thick lock of hair has fallen over his face. My fingers twitch. I wonder how his hair will feel against my skin.

His white shirtsleeves are rolled up, once again offering a tantalizing view of his muscular forearms. A dark navy suit jacket hangs on the coat rack in the corner of the small office. A seductive scent of the woods mixed with citrus permeates the room.

His frown is now a scowl as he slashes angry red marks on the paper, his head shaking in apparent displeasure. He plucks another paper from the pile, his eyes roving over the document in concentration.

It's like he's lost in his own world, completely forgetting someone just stepped into his office.

He's in his element.

"Professor Anderson, is this a good time?" I ask softly, clutching my drink and the potted flowers closer to my chest. Like a shield against what's about to come.

His head snaps up, his sharp eyes widening a fraction and something imperceptible flashes in his gaze. The gray pools darken as he immobilizes me with his searing stare. He rises to his full height, the motion seeming automatic, like the rest of his aristocratic breeding.

No potted plant can save me from the lasered focus of his attention on me.

"Mill—Ms. Callahan," he murmurs, his voice raspy. Millie. He almost called me by my first name. I want to hear him call me that. "Yes?"

I adjust the flowers and drink in my hands and use my hips to close the door behind me. The soft click sounds loud.

Carefully, I walk toward him and find his imposing frame tensing, the muscles bunching in his shoulders as he sits back in his large leather chair, warily eyeing my approach, like I'm going to destroy him.

Setting my things on his desk, I take a seat and clasp my hands on top of my lap. "I want to ask you to write a letter of recommendation for me. If you're open to it."

"For?" He cocks his brow, his frame relaxing slightly, as if relieved at the topic I'm bringing up.

"The Education Honors Program at NYUC. I'm only at ULA for one year. I'll be back at NYUC next year and the honors program is notoriously difficult to get into. Your class here is one of the funnel classes to the program. I'm sure it would go a long way if you wrote me a letter of recommendation."

Professor Anderson sits back, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his eyes remain shrewd. "And you think you deserve a recommendation from me?"

"I know we didn't start off on a good foot, but I hope I've proven to you in the last few weeks I'm serious about your class. My grades are stellar. I have a lot to offer, and it's my dream to get into the program."

"Why?"

I tug my fingers and sit up straighter. "I want to become a teacher or a professor. Travel the world and teach those less fortunate. And maybe in the future, a policymaker advocating for equal education amongst all socioeconomic classes."

He steeples his fingers in front of him and stares at me, his gaze unwavering.

My fingers twist and tangle, my tongue darting out to wet my parched lips. His nostrils flare and he swallows, the muscles in his corded throat rippling.

Ignoring the flutters percolating inside me, I soldier on. "I want to be a guiding light and teach the leaders of our future. I want to make a difference, like how a teacher in my childhood made a difference for me when times were dark. I want this to be my legacy."

He stills as he listens to my words, his eyes never leaving mine. His gaze is penetrating. Unforgiving. A muscle pulses in his jaw and slowly, I see his hands curl into fists on top of the table.

Seconds pass by, but he says nothing. Doesn't acknowledge my story. Doesn't answer my request.

"I…I want to honor my mom's memory…to make something out of a tragedy, I…I…" More words threaten to tumble out of me, but I hold them in, the rest of the sentence practically choking me.

He just sits rigidly, as still as a statue, his face free of any expression, and yet, I feel emotions pouring out from him in torrents. The vein throbs on his forehead now. A heat crawls up my body, and I'm sure my face is flushed. Why is he looking at me like he's seen a ghost?

My pulse dives off the cliff, and my hands shake on my lap. This is a mistake. He hates me. He has since the first class. There's no way he'll write the recommendation for me. This is so embarrassing. I quickly scramble up, the chair scraping the floor in a loud screech.

This is a mistake.

I pick up my bag from the chair, my hands mindlessly reaching for the hot chocolate and flowers on his desk. "I-I'm sorry to disturb you, Professor. I can see this isn't the time for it. Or perhaps you need more time to evaluate my performance. I'll go. I'll—"

Crash.

The pot of daffodils falls on the hardwood floors, the pot shattering into a thousand pieces. Just like my fragile heart today. In my haste to make a quick escape, my uncoordinated hands dropped the first flowers Dad got for Mom in over twelve years, the ones symbolizing his love for her.

A sob escapes my throat, my vision blurring instantly.

My hand flies to my mouth as I turn away, trying and failing to look at anything other than the imposing man before me. With his laser eyes. Eyes that seem to see everything.