It’s a tough call, but I love my siblings too much to skip town, so that means I’m doing this.
Suddenly those little orange crackers are not sitting so well in my stomach. I feel like I got in line for the merry-go-round but somehow ended up on a roller coaster with an ominous name like Devil’s Last Wish or something. Now I’m at the top and about to go over and it’s going to be terrible, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Oh, god. I really don’t think I can do any of this. I can’t tutor Van and I’m not sure I can keep my dinner down, either.
I take a few deep breaths and remind myself that I’m used to doing hard things. I do them all the time. Just as I’m about to laugh in the face of my feigned positivity, my phone buzzes with a message from home.
Milo: Where did you find this babysitter, Josie?
Ah, thank you, Universe, for giving me a problem I can handle. Our regular babysitter is on vacation for the next 10 daysand Levi has studio time booked all week that he can’t get out of. The kids are less-than-thrilled about their temporary sitter, it seems. I take the stairs up to the main floor and text my brother back.
Josie: She lives in our neighborhood, bud. She’s a year ahead of Zane in school. And she’s CPR certified. She came highly recommended.
Milo: She’s a weirdo, Josie.
Josie: No name-calling. And there’s nothing wrong with being weird. Besides, Mrs. Fulton has one of the largest collections of porcelain dolls on the East Coast. That’s not exactly ordinary, but we’re not judging her, are we?
Tillie: Actually, you are. But I agree. It’s odd. Not as bad as collecting toenails or used dental floss, but still strange.
Milo: I’d rather have a lady obsessed with creepy dolls than this girl. I say we go back to Mrs. Fulton, starting now.
Josie: Milo, you can’t do that. She’s on a cruise to Alaska. Besides, it can’t be that bad.
Josie: And be nice to Chesleigh. And I’m at work until way past your bedtime, so only text if it’s an emergency, okay?
Milo: She’s doing laundry.
Josie:Uh, please tell her she doesn’t need to do that. Maybe she’s trying to be helpful? And how is there laundry? I just did two loads.
Milo:No, Josie. Not our laundry. Hers. And before she started the washer, she sniffed the detergent and said, “Mmm, it even smells like him.” Red alert, Josie. Red. Alert. I think she’s stalking Zane. We must protect him. I repeat: RED ALERT.
I hold back a laugh, because that’s a little strange, but it’s also a little funny. Chesleigh seems intense, but harmless. And Milo’s texts got my mind off the roller coaster.
I can totally do this. I’ve tutored students for years. I just need to be professional and detached. Van’s not my ex, not inthis setting. He’s a student who needs help and I’m the tutor who’s going to provide it.
My bravado lasts about thirty seconds because the main doors open, and in walks Van.
He doesn’t look the same as he did three years ago, but his effect on me hasn’t changed. He’s a little taller now than he was at nineteen, and his shoulders are impossibly broader. He’s still lean and muscled, with blue eyes and a jaw that could cut granite. He’s got one devastating dimple on the left side of his mouth and a smile so dazzling it could belong to a Disney prince. His hair is golden blond, but where it was cropped close freshman year, it’s long and flowing now, curling effortlessly and making him look like a Viking god.
And that’s not too far a stretch. Ancestry aside, Van is a god on this campus, and not just because he’s a hockey player. I’m sure that doesn’t hurt, but the fact remains that the man looks like he just stepped off a soundstage somewhere. He’s got the face and physique of a Hollywood heartthrob and the easy demeanor of a rom-com hero. He’s practically a legend at BU and he hasn’t even graduated yet. He’s at every party, always with a beautiful girl (or two) on his arm. He’s charming, funny, popular, and staring right at me.
“Hey, Josie,” he says, his voice still low and gravelly.
“Hello,” I say politely, gesturing to the wooden tables in front of the circulation desk. “Should we have a seat and get started? What are you working on right now? Do you have any upcoming exams or papers?” I cringe inwardly. God, could I sound any more awkward? I mean, getting down to business makes sense, but I’m usually a little better with small talk.
We’re what? Ninety seconds into this and he already has me off my game. That’s not a good sign, but it does cement one thing in my mind: there’s got to be an alternative. I have no clue what it could be, but as soon as this session’s over, I’m going to figureit out. In the meantime, the only way I’m getting through this is to be totally detached and completely professional. I can do this.
We walk toward the sea of tables just off the main lobby. I usually prefer the quieter atmosphere of the third floor, but considering this whole tutoring gig was sprung on me 20 minutes ago, and considering the fact that the guy I’m tutoring is a guy I used to date—a guy I haven’t spoken to in three years—well, these tables will do. I place my tablet and pen on the table that wobbles the least, and have a seat.
“Thank you for doing this,” he tells me, pulling out a chair and sitting across from me.
“It’s my job,” I state plainly.
He nods, adding, “Yeah, but it’s almost the middle of the semester. And I’m pretty sure the dean had to call in a favor or something just to get me on your roster. All I’m saying is, I appreciate it.”
“I don’t really have a roster,” I tell him, because it’s the truth. My schedule’s so busy this semester with the extra course, and with my responsibilities back home, that I gave up tutoring to focus on my course load, my family, and my work at the library. “My schedule’s packed,” I explain, “so I took myself off the tutoring list. But my adviser messaged, and…here we are.”
“Oh…well, I guess I was right about that favor then,” he says as an even more awkward silence settles around us.
