Becoming His (33 page)

My thoughts break, hearing a soft thud. I turn and see my bag leaning against the armoire. Max has an undefined look in his eyes as his bare feet pad against the hardwood floor, stopping when he’s standing inches from me. He bends slowly, too slowly, and kisses me.

My arms wrap around his neck on their own accord, possibly his. Max’s hands sit on the curve of my hips, holding me securely to him as he pulls back and his eyes scan over me, reading my thoughts.

“I like this.” I gently brush my fingers along the length of his jaw; the sharp shadow from not shaving has favorable effects on my body. “I’d like to see you with this in four weeks and six days.”

Max grins and presses his lips to mine and gently lays me on his bed. He climbs over me, kissing his way along my neck until we hear Kendall yelling for us.

I groan as Max stops and lifts himself off of the bed, looking down at where I refuse to stand, not sure my legs will be able to support me after that kiss.

“God you’re beautiful,” he says, his head shaking as he leans down to give me a chaste kiss.

T
hat night I triple check that I have everything for classes the next day. I’m on a waiting list for two classes: Philosophy and Bio-Chemistry. My mom was reluctant to allow me to sign up for the diverse smattering of classes ranging from political science to anatomy, however my dad encouraged it saying it was good for me to experience as much as I could to make an informed decision. Mom never seemed to fully buy it, but after I picked up another science course she seemed a little less hesitant.

I
arrive to Philosophy fifteen minutes early and feel grateful I do when I see the class is already quite full. I quickly scan the room and elect to take an empty seat in the front row, directly in front of the podium.

“Well, what do you know, it’s my neighbor! We could be carpool buddies.” I look up from my laptop to see Nate approaching. I frown and busy myself as he slides into the seat beside me.

“I didn’t see you around last night. Don’t tell me you guys are that serious. It might break my heart.” I roll my eyes, keeping them forward. Apparently ignoring him isn’t giving him the satisfaction he’s looking for, because only a few seconds tick by before he reaches out and flicks a few strands of my hair.

I grab my laptop, preparing to move, when the door opens again and a man that doesn’t look much older than us but is distinguishably a professor dressed in a brown suede sport coat and loafers. He takes a few long strides to the front of the room and stands behind the podium where he quickly scribbles something on a sheet of paper and then stalks back to the door. He opens it and tapes the note on the outside before turning to face us again.

“Alright, welcome to Philosophy. I understand there’s a waiting list to be in here, so I’ll congratulate you all on making it past the first step, which was getting here on time.”

Class is riveting. Professor Parker is incredibly intelligent and has a very dry sense of humor that I enjoy immensely. There’s something about him that draws me to him.

“Since this
is
Philosophy, and the oldest philosophical question that seems to be asked is which came first, the chicken or the egg, I’d like you to go and ask your friends, family, strangers for their opinions and answers on this question. Then I want you to shape your own answer and be ready to defend it on Friday. Then we’ll know who will be staying and who will be leaving.”

When he dismisses us I remain seated waiting for Nate to gather his things and leave. He makes it obvious that he has no intention of hurrying, so I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder, making a wide berth around his seat, and follow the trickling line of students out the door.

As I arrive in the science ward, I pull out my phone to check the time and notice I have a text from Max. The edges of my lips go up in an involuntary grin as I open it.

Max: I h8 philosophy. I want U here.

Bio-Chem is boring—painfully boring—mostly attributed to our professor who speaks about three words per minute with the most monotone voice I’ve ever heard apart from Ben Stein. My mother, being from Texas, speaks slowly and with a drawl, but she’s a speed talker in comparison.

When we’re finally excused, my body itches to move and my mind feels half numb. I’d tried numerous times to make myself focus on the syllabus and what we’d be learning, but my mind wandered around faster than a pinball while she droned on. Max, and my birthday, occupies my thoughts and whether I should tell him about Nate being in my Philosophy class, and pretty much everything, other than Bio-Chem.

The warm September sun pours down on me. My eyes float to the clear skies, noting the morning clouds that seem to frequently make an appearance in San Diego mornings have lifted, and it’s another beautiful day … then I spot him.

Max leans against the wall, his foot casually propped up, while a girl from my last class talks to him, wrapping strands of her hair around her fingers. Max’s eyes skip past her and dance along the other students that mill past. I grin, gripping the strap of my backpack and approach them.

His face lights up as I catch his attention. He turns and quickly says something to the girl and pushes away from the wall to meet me as I launch myself into his arms, like it’s been weeks rather than hours since I last saw him.

“God, I needed to see you.”

I lean back to look at him. “Bad morning?”

He shrugs, obviously wanting to avoid it. “On the bright side it looks like good camping weather. How were your classes?”

“Bio-Chem was pretty mind-numbing.”

Max laughs and nods in understanding. “What about Philosophy?”

“It was good.” I hear my voice go up at the end, almost as if I’m posing my statement as a question, and feel Max’s eyes turn to me. “It was good,” I say, nodding with more conviction, “But Nate’s in the class.” I look up to gauge his reaction to the news.

“Nathan Hudson is in your class? Are you serious?” I watch the muscles in his neck and arms tighten, making his veins bulge. He runs his free hand over his head a couple of times, and I wait for him to process the news.

“Why do you call him Nate? It sounds like you guys are old pals,” he says, his eyes turning darker as they harden.

I shrug. “Because he hates it.”

Max shakes his head, trying to fight a grin and grabs my bag. “It will all work out. What is it your dad says? Let it be?”

“Actually he generally says it and then breaks into song, but yes,
let it be
,” I say with a laugh, watching as the rest of the tension seems to roll away from him. He reaches a hand up and strokes the left side of my face with his thumb, looking at me with his beautiful blue eyes that I’m sure Mother Nature wishes she’d painted the skies with the color. I smile and grip his fingers in mine and bring his palm around to my lips.

F
riday arrives and I enter the Philosophy classroom and text Max since the room is still fairly desolate.

Me: Four weeks and 1 day left … not that I’m counting or anything … ;)

I tuck it in my bag and wait for class to begin.

P
rofessor Parker stands in front of the class¸ holding a plastic Easter egg and a stuffed chicken. “Chicken or egg? Egg or chicken? What came first? Who wants to begin?”

“The rooster came first … pun intended.” I look over my shoulder to see a guy smiling widely.

“Thank you, Mr. Loftus, for your wise assessment,” Professor Parker says over the laughs and snickers.

“The egg.” I glance behind me and see a petite brunette with a smug smile on her face. “An egg could have come from divine creation or the product of necessity since the creature hadn’t existed.”

“You don’t look convinced, Ms. Bosse.” My eyes widen slightly as they meet my professor’s. He’s staring at me while casually leaning against the podium with an amused smile.

“I just think the question is much broader than what we’re discussing.” Professor Parker nods for me to continue. “I think when people ask what came first, the chicken or the egg, it’s referencing instinct versus a learned action.”

“Such as?” he asks, raising his eyebrows as his head tilts slightly to the side, making me wonder if I’m grossly misinterpreting the question.

“I think certain fears are instinct—like how infants fear being placed on their backs with their stomachs exposed. Instinctively, they know they’re more susceptible to being injured because their vital organs are accessible.”

“Okay, fear.” He nods. “What else?”

“Breathing.” Another voice behind me speaks out.

Professor Parker looks to me and I squirm with unease.

“Not exactly. Breathing is an instinct, but it’s a physical instinct. It’s something our bodies are wired to do, like creating cells or our hearts beating. You can’t stop it or really control it other than for a few brief moments when you focus on it. So it’s along the same theory, because instincts you can’t control. I’m more referring to things outside of the body.”

“Okay so fear is an instinct, are all fears?”

“Of course not,” I reply instantly.

“Fear is fear. How can you be taught to fear something?” the brunette behind me asks.

I feel my chin tilt as I look to her. “How are you taught to hate? Fear is a powerful emotion, but people can influence you to fear things that you didn’t know to fear. We’re born to fear certain things for self-preservation; it’s natural and instinctual. However, there are many fears simply from not understand things, or from differences amongst beliefs or physical appearances. They’ve always existed in one form or another. Historically they led to wars and horrible acts of violence, like the Salem witch trials or the killing of scientists because it was against religious beliefs or the holocaust. These fears still exist, but now it’s more targeted to either sell materials or for political advantages.”

“Okay, so let’s go back to the instincts. What else is an emotional instinct?”

“Love,” I respond, earning a few snickers. “It’s been proven that when you’re born, your first love is your mother. Although you can’t communicate with her, or understand most of the interactions, you have an instant bond and love that you share with her—a dependency.”

Professor Parker looks at me with dark brown eyes gleaming with a look of excitement and pride. “Welcome to Philosophy, Ms. Bosse.”

T
he next morning I find myself heading to the track on campus. I haven’t been running since I’ve been in San Diego, and my muscles and mind are feeling slightly restless from the physical withdrawals.

Being six a.m. on a Saturday, the place is practically barren. I drop my bag and begin stretching as I flip through my playlists.

The outside world turns off as I begin to jog, feeling my muscles loosen up, falling into the familiar pattern.

I run for over an hour, pushing myself to the point my lungs feel the familiar lick of pain and my legs are slightly numb and wobbly. Taking a long pull from my water bottle, I wipe my face before taking a couple of deep breaths. A group of girls pass by, followed by an older man that is wiry and confident in his stride. The girl behind him catches my attention. I watch for a second longer because she’s running fast, as if someone’s chasing her. She rounds the corner, and I notice her head turn to look over her shoulder, as though she really expects to see someone in her wake. I scan behind her through the crowd of girls and catch sight of a guy with bright neon green and black sneakers that has a practiced form and a good pace. Nearly instantly, a girl wearing a bright purple outfit that makes her look like she should be at a gym, rather than a track, begins to speed up. Whether to show off, or just to push herself I’m not sure, but I sit and watch for a few moments before packing my things up and heading home.