Chapter Eleven

Walker

When he holds me, it’s like everything else just melts away. His chest is warm and firm as I press the side of my face to his flannel shirt. He’s got one hand wrapped around my waist, gently guiding my movements while the other hand interlaces fingers with my own. His chin is resting atop my head, and he’s humming along to Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade.” It was a favorite of my parents, and there’s something comforting about hearing it now. And about being held by a man. This man in particular.

I can’t believe that I kissed him. And I really can’t believe I confessed my deepest, darkest secret to him—the one that keeps me in nightmares most of the time. But perhaps the most unbelievable thing of all is that he hasn’t pressed me for answers about any of it. He just knew, somehow, that this is what I needed. That, when I said I wanted to pretend, he understood. And he joined me in the fantasy.

So, now, as we sway gently under the tiny lights strung around us, I can imagine that we are a real couple. That I’m his and he’s mine. That we are…intimate. That we are in love. That we are happy. The very idea of these ideas causes an involuntary sigh of contentment to escape my lips. He hears it and pulls me tighter to him.

People at the pub are always talking about “love at first sight” and “falling in love” and “soul mates.” I’ve always just rolled my eyes and muttered disparaging comments about nonsense and fairy tales in my head. But, now, for the first time, it’s as if I have a little clue of what they’re talking about. Mason Stevens is unexpected, to say the least. Not even close to the physical type I’d have chosen. He’s annoyingly persistent and seemingly impervious to my snark and prickly quills. He’s smart and funny and thoughtful.

And he just keeps. Coming. Back.

So, what would happen? I mean, would the earth come crashing down around me if I went out with him a few times? Probably not, though my sisters would come crashing in, that’s for sure. Poking and prodding, unwanted judgment, uninvited advice. And it wouldn’t take long before everyone in town knew.

“What is it?” he asks softly from above, yanking me out of my thoughts.

I look up. He looks down. His eyes are worried.

“I was just wondering what it would look like.”

“What what would look like?”

“Us.”

A slow, broad smile spreads across his face an instant before he lowers his mouth to mine and we kiss for the second time, this time at his initiation. And it’s just as good as the first time—gentle, firm, confident, sweet. How is it possible to convey all of those things at once? I’ve kissed a few guys in my time but it was never—never—anything like this. I lean in to him, Glenn Miller around us, sepia lights above us, and the perfect picnic below us.

Oh, I could get used to this pretending stuff.

…

I stare down at the screen, type a line of text, stop, and backspace until all traces of it are gone. Then I try again. And I erase again. It’s been nearly twenty minutes since I decided to write to him. After a rare full night’s sleep—uninterrupted by nightmares—I woke up feeling…happy. And that’s when I knew I had to end this immediately. Whatever “this” is. Penance isn’t supposed to be happy. There aren’t any kisses or dancing or picnics involved.

All around me, my classmates are taking notes on the sociology lecture. That’s what I should be doing and I know I’m going to regret it later but, for the moment, I can’t seem to concentrate on any notes but this one. If I don’t write to him soon, he might just show up somewhere—unexpected, uninvited. But not necessarily unwanted.

Nothing’s been simple since I agreed to give Captain Prom President a lift in my beat-up old Jeep. But how can that be? Jeez! It’s been less than a week and that one stupid act of kindness has turned my entire life upside down. Well, one thing’s for sure—I won’t be making that mistake again anytime soon. No more random acts of kindness.

“Miss O’Halloran?”

My head snaps up at the sound of my name, and I see my sociology professor standing next to me. Wait, when did she finish the lecture? A quick glance around the now-empty hall tells me it’s been a while.

Crap. If I was able to hide the fact that I wasn’t paying attention in class before, I sure can’t do that now.

“Oh, hi—Dr. DiDonato. I’m sorry—I was just… I was…”

She holds up her palms. “No, no—my apologies for interrupting, you seemed to be in some deep thought there. But I’ve been wanting to catch you after class…”

“You have?”

“Yes, but you’re kind of fast!” she says with a smile. “And stealthy! So when I noticed you sitting up here, I thought I’d stop by to tell you how much I enjoyed your paper.”

“You did?”

“Oh yes! Do you mind if I join you for a second?”

I nod, trying not to look as gobsmacked as I feel. How does she even know who I am? Our class fills a huge lecture hall and she’s right, I am stealthy. I sit way up in the back, with my head—and my hand—firmly down for the duration.

Dr. D., as she likes to be called, is young for a professor—not much older than Henny. Maybe thirty-one or thirty-two. I know that she moved here from Berkley, which explains some of her eccentricities like teaching barefoot and bringing her golden retriever, Tobias, to class with her. It would appear she’s left him home today, though, as she slips into the chair next to mine, angling herself awkwardly to face me.

“Umm, so, what can I do for you, Dr. D.?” I ask.

“I’m glad you asked, Walker. May I call you Walker?”

“I guess…sure…”

“Great! And you can call me Sam—like Samantha,” she says with the kind of sunny, perfectly straight smile that you’d expect from a West Coaster. “Anyway, so, I’ve been enjoying your papers all along—but this last one—on the sociology of the pub? I think it was insightful and, well, just kinda brilliant.”

“Excuse me?” I reply, thinking I must have misunderstood her. “I’m sorry—are you sure you mean me?”

She throws her blond-haired head back and laughs, sending little platinum waves down the back of her turtleneck. When she’s done, she puts a hand on my forearm. I can’t help but notice her manicure—each nail is painted to look like a little pilgrim.

“Walker, listen, I’m a postdoc over at the U. On the Iron Range campus? And I’ve been looking for something like this…for someone like you for a while. I think this could be just the right research project to propose for grant funding next year.”

“Look, Dr. D.—”

“Please, Sam.”

“Okay, um, Sam, that paper was just…well, honestly, it was kind of a throwaway. I put it together like the day before it was due. It’s a topic that I know very well, so it didn’t take much research…”

She’s shaking her head, dismissing my dismissal of the assignment. “Uh-uh. No way. Maybe you did throw it together, but it had such a fresh perspective and a unique voice… Walker, have you ever thought about majoring in sociology?”

“What? No. I’m just… I don’t really have a major. I’ve been taking a class here and a class there trying to chip away at my Associate’s degree. I don’t know for sure if I’ll even go on for my Bachelor’s. I’ve been running the family business…”

“O’Halloran’s, right?”

I nod. “That’s the one…”

“Walker, I’d like to spend the next few months working with you to put together a grant proposal. They’re due in March. If all goes well, it’ll be approved for the fall semester…”

What am I supposed to say? My final grade is still in this chick’s hands. I guess I can always find a way to bail later.

“Umm…yeah, I guess. Yeah, sure. I can help you out. What do you need? Like my notes, or what?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “No, Walker, you’re not getting this. I want you to transfer to the U for the fall and be my research assistant. If we do this right, you could be published before you even finish your undergrad degree!”

I stare at her. Hard. I want to ask her what she’s been smoking—I know that stuff is legal out there in California—but I decide to go with the diplomatic, noncommittal route that’s served me so well in the past.

“Yeah, well, that’s really nice of you to think of me, Doctor—sorry, Sam—and I’ll certainly keep that in mind. But I do have a lot on my plate right now…”

“Walker,” she says, dropping her voice and leaning forward so far that I can actually smell the coffee she must have had before class. “Listen to me—I wouldn’t normally ask just anybody to do this. I certainly wouldn’t normally ask a twenty-four-year-old community college student with no declared major. But you’re not just anybody. You’re somebody. Somebody special. I think you can help me but, more than that, I think you might just discover you have a passion for behavioral science.”

“I—I don’t know…”

“Just think about it, okay? I’m going to email you some ideas about what we could put together.”

“But what’ll happen if I don’t get into the U?”

Sam DiDonato sits back, folding her arms over her chest, and raises a single eyebrow. There’s a half smile pulling at her lips.

“Don’t you mean, what’ll happen if you do get in?”

And there it is—the question that’s kept me plugging away at Iron Range Community College for nearly four years, afraid to even fill out an online application for the university. Because I know that sometimes the only thing scarier than failure is the possibility of success. And, apparently, this sun-kissed surfer girl, displaced here in landlocked Minnesota, knows it, too. Crap. There’s no deflecting this one.

“Yeah…” I murmur softly.

She smiles at me. “Everything, Walker. Everything will happen.”