(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.
Crap.
“I was thinking about it. You going?”
How not to hurt his feelings? Nope, had nothing. “I have to work.”
“Oh.”
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.”
“Sure.”
I left while his head was unsubmerged.
