The boutique owner had started carrying my necklaces and the My Favorite Mistakes style had become a — well — a favorite in her store, and soon at my parent’s shop too, then at others in Manhattan. The trouble was my charms were all handmade. By me. And the grassroots nature was getting a little challenging. I needed practical skills and knowledge to grow, and I was more than ready to get them through this mentorship.
But that wasn’t the only reason I needed this class. My parents had stumbled into hard times when the tough economy hit the tourist town of Mystic, Connecticut where they ran a little gift shop and had for years. They took out a loan to keep inventory stocked, and I hated to see them struggling especially since the store was their nest egg, their third kid, their key to an eventual retirement. They’d worked so hard my whole life, putting my brother and me through college, weathering many storms of the financial and the health variety for years. Now they were within spitting distance of retirement, and I wanted to do all I could to make sure they could enjoy some well-deserved time off. I’d taken out loans to pay for business school, but they weren’t due for several years, so my plan was to ramp up my own business quickly to help pay off theirs.
So, really, was it so much for me to want to learn in a distraction-free fashion? Working alongside the man who’d broken my heart one summer night five years ago wasn’t conducive to focusing. Especially not when he looked even better than he did then. He’d had a sweet boyish face when he was in his early twenties. Now, he was twenty-eight and while the boyish charm was still present in spades, there was also a sophistication to his features, to his style, to his clothes. Five years running a corporation would do that to you. As I sat down next to Bryan, I did my best to put on my bulletproof even though I could tell his arms were even stronger and more toned, and that his forest green eyes could still reel me in with one look.
I gritted my teeth. This was not going to work. Clearly, I’d need a new mentor. I had to graduate, and I had to succeed in this class. I tried to picture my strong and sturdy mom, from the way she’d managed her recovery from a car accident years ago with a tough kind of optimism, to how she could stare down an overdue loan notice by brushing one palm against the other and saying, “Let’s get to work.”
Work. Yes, work. I was laser-focused on work.
“This was my favorite class when I went here,” Bryan said, breaking the silence.
“Oh. It was?”
“Well, I guess it’s not a class, right?” he added, correcting himself, then laughed awkwardly. He must have been nervous. That made me feel the slightest bit vindicated. “What do we call it? A workshop?” I shook my head. “Not an internship,” he continued, and I shook again. “Practicum?”
I wanted to laugh at the word, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I shook my head once more.
But he was agile at playing both parts and picked up the baton of the conversation himself. “That’s kind of an awful word, isn’t it?”
“It’s dreadful.”
“Terrible.”
“Wretched.”
And as if no time had passed, we were back in banter, one of the things we’d always done well — play with words.
“Whatever you call it, the class was my favorite. When you couldn’t tear me away from the statistics and econ books, that is.” He flashed his lopsided smile that showed off straight white teeth.
He was trying to smooth over the past, but I wasn’t going to have it. I wasn’t going to let myself go any further in the chatter, the conversations, the back-and-forth that had fueled us that one summer. So I didn’t respond, giving a curt nod instead.
The other students chatted with their mentors, and the buzz and hum filled the small classroom. I glanced over at Professor Oliver, who looked as if he were about to whistle a happy tune as he watched how well the initial “get to know you” session was going. But it didn’t matter if everyone else was getting along with their mentors. My success or failure would be based on what I accomplished outside of the confines of this classroom as I worked in close quarters with my mentor.
I had to be re-matched with someone else.
Bryan and I didn’t say anything for a stretch. He locked his eyes on me, then lowered his voice. “Look, Kat. I had no idea.”
“No idea what?”
“That you’d be in this class.”
This was supposed to make me feel better, but it didn’t. It made me feel worse. He probably wanted out of this too-close-for-comfort deal as much as I did. But I couldn’t let on that he’d pierced me again. “It’s nothing. I’ll just ask to be reassigned,” I said coolly, praying Professor Oliver would agree. He had office hours tomorrow morning. I’d be lined up outside his door ready to make my request.
Bryan shook his head, and lifted his hand towards me, as if he were about to rest his palm on my leg, or my arm. I inched away. Almost imperceptibly, but enough for him to notice. He clasped his fingers together instead. He parted his lips. Paused. Then, in a low voice that sounded smoky at that volume, he said, “But I’m glad you are. I’m glad it worked out this way.”
I’d spent the last five years juggling classes and making jewelry, building my business and moving past my first big love. The last thing I needed was to be thrust back into the fire. I would only get burned again.
******
I was the first one to leave the classroom. I made a beeline for the ladies room where I busied myself reapplying lip gloss and trying to fluff out my dark brown hair to pass the time. I grabbed an always handy clip and twisted my long hair into a quick updo. I tucked a few loose strands behind my ears.
I looked at the time. Only a few minutes had passed. I brushed off a piece of lint from the short suede boots I’d snagged at a bargain price from a vintage shop in the Village, then readjusted the neckline of the chocolate-colored top I wore that brought out the brown in my eyes.
Another minute gone.
I rooted around in my purse for my mascara, touched up my lashes, then checked the time once more. Satisfied that Bryan had likely left the building, I ventured out. I dialed the number of my parent’s shop as the heels of my boots echoed across the wide hallway. I wanted to talk to my mom, but I also needed to root myself to the realities of my life. My parents, my plans for them, my goals for the business. My mom’s voice alone had the power to ground me and keep me steady.
“Mystic Landing. How may I help you?”