I also can’t allow myself to dwell on it anymore. Fitz only played along to placate Katie, and he disappeared right after it was over. For me, it might have been THE KISS, but for him it was just…a kiss.
What an unbelievably depressing thought.
Luckily, I’ve got plenty of distractions today, though they’re not exactly the good kind. First off is another meeting with Mr. Richmond, who’s as curt and condescending as he was the last time we met. Froghole’s lips curl in distaste when I tell him I’ve decided to design a swimwear line for the fashion show.
I guess fake British people don’t like swimming.
Once again when I leave his office, I’m torn between never wanting to see him again and desperately needing to dig into every corner of his life to discover whether the accent is real.
On my way out of the admin building, I text Brenna with my continued suspicions.
ME: Swear to god he’s not British!
* * *
BRENNA: Who?
* * *
ME: Assistant dean aka academic advisor. I told u about him last week
* * *
BRENNA: Right. OK. We MUST investigate.
* * *
ME: ikr?? How do we proceed?
* * *
BRENNA: I was being sarcastic. There needs to be a way to convey that over text. I mean, I thought the capital-letter MUST implied sarcasm, but I guess not??
* * *
ME: I’m being serious, Bee
* * *
BRENNA: That’s the sad thing
* * *
ME: How do I find out where he was born? His LinkedIn profile says he went to Columbia U in NYC. He didn’t even go to school in England!
* * *
BRENNA: 1) Lots of peeps come to USA as international students 2) You’re insane 3) We still on for the game Sat?
* * *
ME: Yeah we are. And thanks for ALL your help
* * *
ME: You got that was sarcasm, right?
* * *
BRENNA: Fuck off.
After a ten-minute walk across campus in the bitter cold, I knock on Erik Laurie’s office door for my second meeting of the day. Despite my winter clothing, I’m colder than an icicle. My teeth are chattering, and I swear I have frostbite on my nose.
“Oh boy. You brought the cold in with you.” Laurie mock-shivers as he lets me into his office. It’s surprisingly spacious, with a brown leather couch against the far wall, a big desk in the center of the room, and a gorgeous view of the snowy courtyard.
“I’m keeping my coat on, if it’s all right with you,” I say wryly. “I’m chilled to the bone.”
“As much as I’d love to see what dazzling and fashionable outfit you’re wearing underneath all those layers, I’ll let it slide.” He winks. “This time.”
A familiar uneasy sensation ripples in my belly. It’s the second week of classes and Laurie has been nothing but friendly to me. But every time I’m around him, my creep-o-meter goes haywire. The winking hasn’t stopped, either. He flashed no less than ten winks to various female students yesterday.
“Sit down.” He gestures to one of the plush visitor’s chairs as he settles in his own chair. “Let’s discuss the midterm first.”
Nodding, I sink into the chair. We’d already emailed back and forth a few times about how he’s going to accommodate my learning issues. There are two major papers required for this course, but I’ll only be turning in one, the midterm. For the final essay, I’ve been given permission to do a seminar in front of the class, where I’ll have to lead a discussion on a topic that Laurie assigns me.
On Monday, he handed out a list of themes for the midterm, and I chose what I believe will be the easiest one to write. Now he just needs to approve it.
“Have you decided on a topic? I want to make sure you’re comfortable with your decision before you start writing.”
His genuine concern thaws some of my wariness toward him. Despite the chronic winking and occasional creepy vibe, he does seem like a good professor. One who cares about his students.
“I’d like to do the one about New York fashion. I think I can find a lot to say about the topic. I’m planning on starting an outline tonight.”
“All right. Perfect. And you have my email address, so you can contact me if you get stuck or if you want me to look over your thesis.”
“Thank you,” I say gratefully. “I might take you up on that.”
Laurie smiles broadly. “Good. Now, moving on, I need to see your proposal for the fashion show.”
“I’ve got it right here.” I reach into my messenger bag and pull out the leather portfolio that holds my sketches, a brief write-up of my swim line, and the comparative photographs he requested. “I included images from some lesser-known swimwear designers who I’ve been inspired by lately.” I slide the portfolio across the desktop.
Laurie’s expression shines with approval as he flips through the photos. “Kari Crane,” he says with a nod. “I was in the front row for her debut in Milan.”