“Are you meeting someone there?”
“Yes.”
He makes a guttural noise against my neck.
“Friends,” I clarify, “from class.”
His hand stretches over my stomach, holding me in his lap. “Would they miss you?”
They wouldn’t, I know they wouldn’t. But I don’t know what’s going on here. After weeks of not talking to me, now this. I can’t help but wonder what took him so long. Why he waited for a chance meeting to make a move.
I squeeze my hands into fists, painting on an armour of confidence I don’t feel, and turn to face him. His gentle smile distracts me from my exasperation, but eventually I convince my nose to scrunch and my brow to furrow.
“You haven’t spoken to me in weeks.”
“I can explain.”
The shop bell dings, interrupting us, and the server calls out both our numbers.
I wince when I stand up, the blisters in my boots breaking open at the movement. Oliver grabs hold of my arm, holding me up when I stumble.
“Blisters,” I explain.
I hobble to pick up my pizza. Oliver stays close, collecting his own then following me out the door. He heads left, but when I start down the footpath to the right, he pauses.
“You can’t walk with blisters.”
“I have to.”
He shakes his head, walking over to me and handing me his pizza.
“I’ll carry you.”
I start to protest, but he scoops me up, one arm nestled under my legs and the other supporting my back. Cradled against him, I hold on to the pizzas and decide not to fight this. There’s a cool breeze in the night air, but I don’t feel it as Oliver carries me home.
He holds me steady while I fetch my key from my bag. He carries me along the ground floor corridor. He holds me tight as he steps across the threshold and into my apartment.
After closing the door behind us, he places me down on the stool by the door. Dropping to his knees, he unzips my boots, sliding them off my feet with care.
“First aid kit?”
I shake my head, pulling him up as I stand.
“I’m okay, I just needed the boots off. Thank you.”
We sit on my couch and eat. It feels so natural that I almost forget I was supposed to be mad at him.
“Are you going to explain why you haven’t spoken to me?” I remember to ask as I grab the last piece of my pizza.
He leans back on the couch, arms stretching over his head.
“Dausset,” he says. “She was suspicious after she saw you in the lecture hall after my class. When she found out I was your advisor she started asking questions.”
“I thought she assigned the advisors?”
“Her assistant does it. I’m surprised she even bothered to check the list.”
It doesn’t take away the pain I felt when he all but ghosted me, but I can at least understand his reasoning. He could lose his job if the university ever finds out about us. More than that, he could lose his entire career. His credibility. His book deals. Everything.
