Definitely, Maybe in Love

by Ophelia London

  “Single-handedly?”

  He exhaled what could have been a laugh, then took a sip from a tall, silver travel mug. “If that’s what it takes.”

  While he checked something on his phone, I watched him from across the table, wondering why he was in such a talkative mood. We hadn’t exchanged this many words since the party. I also wondered where he was off to so early. I knew most post-graduate courses were taught in the afternoons to accommodate students who had jobs. Knightly did not have a job.

  He wasn’t wearing a complete suit today, just dark gray pants, a white shirt with blue pinstripes, and a gray-and-black-striped tie. A dark gray jacket was draped over the back of his chair. Most professors didn’t dress up as much. To me, the formalness of his attire went hand-in-hand with the formal attitude that he wore like so many argyle sweaters.

  I stirred at the contents of my turquoise oversized porcelain mug, staring down at the brown liquid swirling around like a whirlpool.

  “Some weather,” he observed.

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “What class do you have this morning?”

  I hated small talk. Why hadn’t I grabbed my food to go? Why was there still a friggin’ monsoon outside and why’d I leave home sans umbrella?

  “Statistics,” I said, nibbling around the edges of my muffin.

  “Nothing after that?”

  “Why are you asking about my classes?”

  “Because you’re sitting right in front of me and it’s polite.”

  “Oh, you’re polite now?” I couldn’t help blurting. “Run over any pedestrians lately?”

  Something in his expression seemed pleased by my outburst.

  I took a breath and looked down at my plate. “I guess I don’t thrive on chitchat like some people.”

  “You might be out of practice.”

  I lifted my chin. “And what? You’re the grand master of communication?”

  “How would you know if I am or not? We don’t know each other very well.” His eyes were wide with amusement at whatever he was thinking about saying next. “Don’t you think it’s time we remedy that? I know I’d be willing to do something about it.”

  My teeth stopped moving mid-chew. His eye contact didn’t waver, causing the temperature under my collar to heat up a degree or two. In a parallel universe, I might have thought he was flirting with me. But that seemed as probable as discovering spotted owls living in Trump Tower.

  I swallowed and quickly picked up my novel, letting the bookmark slide onto the table. I held the book in front of my face, staring blankly at the pages for a few moments, not liking the way my heart was beating so unsteadily. When my focus on the page finally sharpened, I realized that the words were upside down. I casually turned the book right-side-up, hoping my dining companion wouldn’t notice.

  No such luck.

  A weird noise was coming from the other side of the table. I lowered my shield. “What’s so funny?” I asked, surprised to see Knightly chuckling into a fist.

  “Your buttons,” he said.

  I looked down at the top I was wearing. It was a black pullover sweater, no buttons.

  “No,” he said with another chuckle. “Your buttons, Spring.” He pointed at me, his fingers like a gun. “They’re very easy to push, aren’t they?”

  “Depends on who’s pushing them, and where.” I nearly choked on the unintentional innuendo that had spewed out of my mouth. Wow. Now I was flirting back? I reached for my glass of ice water and held it up to my suddenly dry lips. When I snuck a glance at him, his mouth was frozen in a boyish grin, pleased as punch.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m embarrassing you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “You’re blushing.”

  “I don’t blush,” I stated, setting down my glass with a thud, rattling the silverware. “And is this the type of polite conversation you had in mind?”

  “I’ll take what I can get.” He shook his head. “Buttons.”

  “You know what?” I said, after dabbing my mouth with a napkin. “I think I liked it better when we were ignoring each other.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Ignoring?” A moment passed before he leaned back in his chair. “Okay, fine, you’re not blushing.” He tapped his chin, then his mouth slowly curved into a smile.

  It was a nice smile. In fact… Huh, Henry Knightly really should smile like that more often. I was momentarily dazzled by the way his brown eyes went squinty, giving the rest of his face an almost innocent countenance. He was mesmerizing.

  “So, Spring Honeycutt, are you going to tell me what classes you have today, or should I look up your schedule online?” He reached for his phone.

  “Statistics,” I repeated. “Your roommate’s got a class right across from me.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I stared at him for a beat. “Because he’s dating my roommate.”

  “Oh.” A shadow seemed to eclipse his expression for a moment as he took a drink. “That’s right. And what do you have after statistics?”

  “I’ve got a four-hour block for research.” I rested my elbows on the table. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  He opened his mouth, but then paused as though rethinking a question. “If you’re a junior, is the research for your independent study thesis?”

  “How did you know?”

  He lifted his travel mug and took another drink. “Lucky guess. Have you picked a subject?”

  The question made my stomach roll and my heart stop at the same time.

  “What?” Knightly asked, probably noticing all the color drain from my face.

  “Nothing,” I replied, toying with my teaspoon. “Yes, I have a subject. I started working on it over the summer, actually, but a few weeks ago, my advisor…”

  “Oh,” he said. “He’s making you change it.”

  “He says I need a new angle.” I paused, not knowing how to explain further to a layman, and not really having the stomach to get into the whole thing. “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure it is.” He pulled back a tiny smirk. “Knowing you.”

  “Funny,” I said, not laughing.

  Knightly pushed his plate to the side. “It might help to talk about it.”

  “Just making polite conversation?”

  Another of those steady smiles appeared on his face. My pupils might have actually dilated. Man, I was going to have to keep on my toes to stay immune to this guy.

  “You don’t really want to hear about my project,” I said.

  “What else do I have to do?” He glanced toward the window. “It’s raining.”

  He was right. I had no place to go, either, and who knows, maybe talking through it out loud with someone who had no clue about the subject matter would rattle something loose. I sighed and rested the side of my head against my palm. “Okay, well, basically my main focus is on biological systems remaining diverse and productive over time. Sorry, that was too technical. What I mean is—”

  “Sustainability.”

  I frowned. “You know what that is?”

  “I do.” When I didn’t go on, he gestured for me to continue.

  “Anyway, since you know what sustainability is, you’re probably also aware that land development is destroying the environment. Yeah, I know, this isn’t news, but I’m trying to prove that the continued usage of developed land could be even worse; it should be revitalized back into nature. No new patches of forests or mountainsides or wetlands are suddenly going to appear in the middle of an urban system. We’ve got all we’re ever going to have right now, today. And it’s not enough.”

  “Isn’t that an overly simplistic way of looking at it?” he asked.

  I stared across the table at him. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Look, do you want to hear the rest of this or do you want to argue?”

  His eyebrows pulled together like he was about to say something else, but then he shut his mouth a
nd sat back.

  “Like I was saying.” I gave him a look. “At this rate, we’re going to be living in a dystopian world in three generations.”

  “A what?”

  “Dystopia. The yang of utopia. Think: opposite of the Garden of Eden. Like The Hunger Games. Have you read that?”

  He shook his head, bewildered.

  “It’s a novel, similar to 1984 in the—”

  “You’re getting your research from novels?”

  “Of course not. I was making a comparison.” I kneaded a fist into my temple, annoyed with all the derailing. “Anyway, what I mean is, we have to take back industrial land, that’s the only way to save it. I’ve got the environmental research, but Masen, my professor, wants me to learn more about the business end, the economics of it, the legal side.”

  Frustrated at the thought, I cupped my hands over my face, feeling—not for the first time in three weeks—at a complete loss. If I thought too much about it, I would worry myself sick. Then…I would drown.

  “I’ve got a hard deadline coming up,” I mumbled through my fingers, mostly to myself. “I’ve read some articles and books and sat in on a few urban econ lectures, and I’ve even talked to a couple econ majors. How can no one at Stanford understand what I’m talking about?”

  “Email me your outline.”

  Knowing I must have misheard, I peeled away my fingers and looked up. “What?”

  “Your facts are wrong.”

  I dropped my hands. “No, they aren’t.”

  “They are. I can help.”

  “No, you can’t.” I pushed back my chair, wondering if he was purposefully insulting me or if this was his personality. “Why would you want to help me, anyway?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he answered. “Maybe I’ve been wanting to make up for that.”

  “Do you have another foot?” I asked skeptically.

  He stared back. “What?”

  My bad joke was lost on him. “Nothing,” I said. “Anyway, I’m not letting you read my outline. I don’t even know you.”

  He leaned forward, resting his crossed arms on the table. “Spring, do you know what I’m studying to be?”

  “A lawyer,” I said. “You’re in law school.”

  “That’s correct.” He rubbed his chin, reminding me a bit of Professor Masen. “My undergrad was in finance, but I’m studying corporate law with an emphasis in property development.”

  I stared at him, my brain grinding into gear at what his words implied. A second later, I felt cold fingers slide up my spine, and my heart started pounding under Henry Knightly’s heavy gaze, but it was for a different reason this time.

  “Does that mean…”

  “That means,” he said, “if you’re an environmentalist, then I’m your worst nightmare.” We stared across the table at each other, an invisible wall bricking between us. “But it also means that if you want to learn about the economics of land development”—he steepled the tips of his fingers under his chin—“then I’m the man of your dreams.”

  Chapter 8

  I lingered outside the doorway of the private study room on the third floor of the library, unwilling to step inside just yet.

  I still couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe my stupid luck. Of all the people who could help me—who were willing to help me—with my research project, it was Henry Knightly.

  Stupid, fracking karma.

  After breakfast at the café, I ran home through the rain and looked him up online. Or his family, rather. They were land barons, all right, had been for generations. When I’d Googled the Knightlys last year, digging up dirt when Knightly Hall was under construction, I had only scratched the surface. They did indeed own land all throughout North America, the biggest chunks around Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana. Prime farm and cattle real estate.

  What they must have done to the landscape, I didn’t want to imagine. They’d had no issue bulldozing a strip of green to erect their namesake building at Stanford. Why would they treat twenty thousand innocent acres in the northwest any differently?

  Halfway through my statistics class, my phone had vibrated with a new email. Again, he’d asked me to send my outline. I put off the inevitable for as long as I could, but as I calculated how many days I had left before Masen would be breathing down my neck, I finally realized I had no choice. I sent him my outline and fifteen minutes later, he emailed back, wanting to meet.

  “Are we doing this or not?”

  I jumped at his voice coming from inside the study room. How had he known I was there? Had he seen my shadow? Heard me tiptoe toward the room? Jeez, could he smell me? Could money buy super senses?

  “Spring, I’ve got my own class in an hour.”

  I closed my eyes for a second, gripped the strap of my backpack, then entered the room.

  Knightly sat at a small table, a stack of books off to the side, and one of those slick black mini-laptops in front of him. He wore the same shirt and tie as this morning, only the top button was undone now, and his tie knot was loose. It was a good look on him. Now if he’d flash one of those smiles, this might be bearable.

  “Hey,” I said, “sorry I’m late, I—”

  “It’s fine.” He didn’t look up as I sat down.

  Okay, so we were back to Mr. Charm then.

  “I’ve been going over your outline and the list of resources you cited,” he said, clicking the down arrow about twenty times, staring at the screen.

  “And?” I asked when he didn’t go on. “And you think it’s crap, right?”

  “Not all of it,” he said, highlighting a paragraph on the screen.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I muttered, leaning on an elbow. “I didn’t assume we were going to see eye-to-eye on this, obviously. I know about the land your family owns.”

  He finally lifted his chin but didn’t speak. I’d expected him to jump in, to debate with me like at breakfast, to say something. But he was just sitting there with a blank expression.

  His silence made me tense.

  “I…I know what they—what you—believe in,” I added, unable to stop myself from filling the silence. “And you should know, I didn’t come here to argue with you, or to hear a lecture, or for either of us to change our minds. I’m here because I have no other choice. Just so we’re clear. Okay? Don’t think you can trash my whole belief system then walk away.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I haven’t said anything yet.”

  I blinked. “Oh. Well… But I know what you’re thinking.”

  A tiny smile twitched the corner of his lips, a hint of that same smile that had halted me at breakfast. “How could you know that?” he asked, smoothing down his tie.

  “Because I know your type,” I said, choosing to continue the argument instead of focusing on how looking at his smile made me want to lick my lips. “You’ve got a finance degree, you come from money and drive a sports car. You voted Republican, didn’t you?”

  His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Is that a crime?”

  “I wish,” I muttered, turning to a clean page of my notebook.

  “Wow,” he said, deadpan. “Anything else about me you’d like to get off your chest?”

  Suddenly, everything Alex told me came flooding into my brain. How Knightly had been jealous, judgmental, accusatory, and then Alex was suddenly expelled from high school. The memory of what Knightly had said about me at the party—what I’d heard him say—was also front and center in my mind. And how he’d yelled at the movers to not touch his precious car, and how he hadn’t spoken one word to Julia.

  He may have been helping me out of a pretty huge bind, but I wasn’t about to trust him, despite the way he was watching me with that almost-smile, and the way one stray lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, begging for my fingers to push it back then continue running through his hair.

  I had to ignore that and remember the rest.

  He was all I had. I knew I had to play
nice, so I smiled as pleasantly as possible and sat back. “Nope, I’m all done.” I glanced at his computer with my outline on the screen. “Now it’s your turn. What do you really think?”

  He angled his laptop so the screen was facing me. Aside from Professor Masen’s last assignment, I’d never seen so many red strike-throughs.

  This was going to be a very long semester.

  Part II

  Winter

  “I had never loved anyone before…so I naturally thought that it was not in my nature to love. But it has always seemed to me that it must be heavenly to be loved blindly, passionately, wholly… And I would have allowed myself to be worshipped, and given infinite tenderness in return.”

  From The Scarlet Pimpernel

  Chapter 9

  As I came down the creaky attic stair from my bedroom, I ran into Anabel leaving Julia’s room.

  “Oh, hey Springer,” she said, trying to display an innocent expression, which made me instantly suspicious.

  “What were you doing in there?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, glancing into Julia’s room. “Just having a chat. Girl stuff. Have a nice Thanksgiving!” She waved her fingers and walked away. Little chats with Anabel usually included requests to borrow a pair of shoes you’d never see again, or unsolicited, unorthodox dating advice. When it came to Julia, neither was a good idea.

  I rounded the corner and entered her room.

  “Ready to go?” Julia asked, smiling brightly.

  “Almost,” I replied, giving her a quick assessment. I’d have to ask her later what she and Anabel were discussing.

  Two suitcases were open on the foot of her bed. The rest of the mattress was covered with separated stacks of clothes laid out in uniformed organization. Julia was singing to herself, methodically folding a white sweater. “You’re packed, right?” she asked.

  I groaned as an answer, adjusting one ear bud as some very appropriate angry chick rock lulled in my ear.

  With midterm exams over, we were now well into the meat of the winter quarter. Papers, research projects, advisory teams. Madness ahead. I’d dropped my three jobs to concentrate on school. Now was the time to focus, the big push to the end.