(Rebecca’s POV. At the University of Virginia library)
“You’re in my British Lit class aren’t you?”
The only other person in the room had come over to talk, and I pulled my gaze from the computer screen.
“Um, yes.” He sat a few rows behind me and had always seemed nice enough.
“So…what are you looking up?”
I closed the screen. “Nothing important.”
I had squelched his in, and he paused.
In an attempt not to further confirm the most current opinions of me—from what I had gathered, somewhere between a prude and a bitch—I lent him a life preserver. “Are you done with your paper on Villette?”
His head popped out from under the water. “Not yet. I wasn’t sure what to make of the end.”
“She moved forward, even with a broken heart.”
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t sit right, like there should be more.” He grinned. “Or am I just being a romantic?”
“Life isn’t always happy.”
“But it’s a story. I like happy endings, more fulfilling.”
“Art reflects life.” I suppressed a sigh. “We learn from the sad stuff too.”
I let him climb the shore by moving to something easier, for both of us. “Are you going to that party tonight?”
Realizing immediately what that sounded like, I stifled a cringe. I was out of practice dealing with men, at least the ones to whom I didn’t serve steak and baked potatoes.
His grin broadened.
“I was thinking about it. You going?”
How not to hurt his feelings? Nope, had nothing. “I have to work.”
I had one more orange vest and too much guilt. “You’re part of a study group right?” I had wanted to get more opinions of my work than just my teachers anyway.
“Yeah, you should join us sometime. We meet on the third floor every Wednesday at six.”
I left while his head was unsubmerged.