Page 4 of Yours, Unexpectedly
Riz
Dear God.
I giggle and turn back to Luci as she unboxes our food and hands me a fortune cookie.
“What does yours say?” Luci loves fortune cookies and always makes us eat them first, sharing our fortunes like we’re reading tarot cards. Not like I would believe whatever the tarot cards said, either. I’m a skeptic, through and through. I pop my cookie open and read: The love of your life will appear in front of you unexpectedly.
Laughing, I hand it to Luci. “These things are so dumb. What am I supposed to do with that? Just wait around and hope that someone appears?”
“You’re such a pessimist! It’s okay to want something, Bex. Looks like right now you just need to sit back and let the universe do its thing.” She shimmies for emphasis.
No thanks.
“What’s with you anyway?” she continues. “How are you feeling about the new semester? Our last one!” She adds another shoulder shimmy for good measure—I swear, Luci dances through life—and hands the fortune back to me.
I pocket it, answering, “Ugh. I’m half-dreading, half-thrilled about starting classes again.”
Luci side-eyes me. “Half-dreading?! Who are you and what have you done with my nerdy roommate?”
“Well, you know I have that art history class I have to take this semester to fulfill my fine arts credit.” I still can’t believe my advisor screwed that up for me. “I am not looking forward to it, but I just have my practicum this semester, so it shouldn’t be too bad.”
“Which class is it?” Luci asks. “I have a friend who had to take an art class last semester. Maybe she still has her notes.”
“Good question. I was ignoring the email with all the details over the holidays but, alas,”—I sigh dramatically—“it’s time to see what I’m getting myself into.”
Pulling up my email on my phone, I scroll to the unopened message from my advisor.
It takes me a second to register exactly what I’m seeing. Luci peers over my shoulder and murmurs a quiet, “Oh no.” She silently hands me another margarita, patting my shoulder in moral support as reality finally sets in.
To: Rebecca Bardot ([email protected])
Subject: Fine Arts Credit
Good afternoon Ms. Bardot,
Again, I am terribly sorry for the mix up and any stress this may have caused. As previously mentioned, you need one fine arts credit in order to graduate. The only class we had available with such late notice is DRAM 1101: Introduction to Acting…
What. The. Fuck.
I swing the apartment door open and there she is. The cutest floating ball of curly hair, holding two coffee cups.
“Oh! I am so sorry. I thought Gabe would answer.”
“One of those for me?” Before she can answer, I reach out and take a sip. I have to choke down the bitterness. That one is obviously not for Gabe who adds about ten packets of sugar to every cup.
“Black coffee?” I question.
“Like my soul,” she deadpans.
Fuck, I like her.
I love Januarys. I love a fresh start. I love the crisp winter air that kind of makes your balls shrivel up but also makes you feel alive. And I love that this January in particular is signaling the last semester of my MFA program. Graduation is around the corner and after entirely too many years of school, many of which I royally fucked up, I am ready.
Ducking in the doorway to grab a coffee from the campus coffee shop, aptly named Coffee Shop, I catch a flash of dark brown curls out of the corner of my eye. Like it does every time, my heart starts to race before it catches on to the fact that it’s not her. It rarely ever is, even though I’ve been back on campus for the last year and a half. I was worried about what coming back would mean, but Gabe encouraged me to continue my education, to give myself some sense of direction. He doesn’t know the real reason I wanted to come back to Hawthorne and he never will. But damn, that curly head haunts me everywhere here.
I order and wait for my coffee, staring at my phone and debating downloading another dating app. Over the years, I’ve tried to get her out of my head. Hell, I left this ridiculous college town with the hopes of getting her out of my head, but nothing has worked. My thumb hovers over the download button. I’m about to tap it when a body collides with mine, and my phone is essentially shoved out of my hand, clattering to the ground.
“What the fu—”