More Than Water (2 page)

With books in hand, I cross the lawn toward the College of Engineering library, my reassigned workplace.

It’s my senior year, and classes are back in session. It’s been a month since I caught Cal with someone else, and it’s time to figure out what I’m going to do with my life.

When I first moved to campus, as a freshman, my parents, the well respected Nora and Thomas Cunning, were reluctant to even let me attend this university. Columbia or New York University were more their expectations, but I didn’t belong at either of those schools. This Midwest university, far away from New York, with a prominent art program was more fitting for a girl like me, so I fought tooth and nail to get here.

My mind has been free to explore and discover. I found my home.

And then, after almost three years of studies, I found Cal.

What a pipe dream he turned out to be.

The beginning of our relationship was all the things a girl could want from an interested sexy boyfriend—flowers, music, and incredible sex. Of course, my mother hated him, which was an added bonus. In retrospect, he and I were falling apart for some time, even before I went back to New York for the summer. He often cancelled plans at the last minute, and we rarely spent time at his place in those latter months.

He was always busy, which I now realize was code for not wanting to hang out with me. I’m calling it a clear case of denial on my part. My absence only solidified the inevitable. While I was filing archives in a prestigious art museum, Cal was filing his dick in other compartments. Technically, they were women, but I like to take a more abstract approach to protect my emotions.

Thankfully, there’s little chance of us seeing one another in the near future. Cal quit school last year to spend more time with the band, so I won’t be seeing him in any of my art classes, which is where we met in the first place.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, alerting me to a call. It’s Chandra.

“Hey, sexy lady,” I say, winded from being in a hurry to make my shift. “What’s up?”

“Not much,” Chandra replies. “Do you mind if I borrow your blue dress?”

“Which one?”

“With the low-cut back and the—”

“Plunging neckline?” I say, completing her sentence. “What’s the occasion?”

“Jeremy asked me out,” she singsongs. “He’s taking me to that sushi restaurant downtown, the new one by the water.”

“Architecture Jeremy with the dark hair and green eyes? And the kissable lips?”

“Yes, that’s the one. You remembered.”

“I couldn’t forget. You talked about him all weekend.”

“Did not!”

“You were even saying his name in your sleep.”

She pauses. “I was?”

“Nah, but I bet you’ve been dreaming about him. I have been, and I’ve never even seen the guy. You must paint a really good picture. He’s a god in my mind.”

“Okay, that’s enough. Are you going to let me borrow your dress or not?”

“Of course you can borrow it. Be careful though. That dress basically guarantees you some action.”

“That’s kind of what I was hoping for.”

“Then, you will be all set.”

“Thanks, EJ.”

“No problem.”

We end the call as I reach the entrance to the library about five minutes before my night shift.

I’ve been working with the school’s library system for the past two years, having gotten the job to earn my own money. It was a solution to a problem—or a way to hide my hobby, as my father calls it.

My parents’ emphasis on academics is a bit overbearing, and to say they aren’t happy about my studies is an understatement. They only acquiesced to my major in art history once I assured them that the research could be of value to my family’s prominent advertising company in the future, which according to my mother is barely more admirable than slaving away with the vagrant trash in the art world. However, she let it be known that she wouldn’t be as lenient when it came to me selecting a focus for my master’s degree. My entire family has an MBA from an Ivy League school. Yale is the preference, and the same is expected of me.

However, art is my life and my official minor while at the university. I bleed my struggles onto the canvas, into my sculptures, and through my drawings. I create compulsively. It’s my therapy and my way to make all the complexities right within my mind.

My family does not embrace my form of creativity.

They shun it.

Opening the door to the old library building, I proceed down the hall and hook a left at the bust of Edward Charles Howard—the first noted chemical engineer, as shown on the placard—heading straight to the front desk. I drop my bag in what I glean to be the staff section and then venture to the check-out station to get started.

The library position is simple enough, cataloging items and assisting students to find the information they need for various research projects. Last year, I was assigned to the main library, and I started this quarter there as well, but I have been transferred to the engineering library today. Apparently, they are short-staffed. The change of pace in the smaller building should be nice in comparison to the workload from the never-ending stacks at the main library.

Approaching the desk, I wait patiently for the gentleman attending the counter to finish answering the question from a fellow student. Once the redhead, who appears to be a freshman, leaves toward the area directed, I close the gap to introduce myself.

“Hi,” I say as he focuses on the screen. “I’m EJ. I was just transferred here from the main—”

“The main what?” he asks, clacking away at the keyboard.

“The main library. I’m scheduled to work tonight, and it’s my first time here. Am I supposed to check in with you?”

“Likely.” He hits a few keys and moves the mouse. “Hang on. Let me check something.”

I lean my hip against the wooden counter while he finishes his investigation.

“Found you,” he announces. “Yep. You’re in the system. I must have missed the notice while helping a student.” He clicks the mouse. “Evelyn Jane Cunning. Goes by EJ. Art history major. Fine arts minor. Senior. Off-campus living. Three-point-nine GPA. Honor student.”

“That’s me.”

“Great.” He swivels around in the chair, peering up at me.

Total geek chic
is the first thing that comes to mind as I evaluate his plain khakis and comic book character T-shirt, the hipster-vintage kind. Honey-brown hair tops his handsomely stubbled face framed in a pair of Buddy Holly–type glasses. Behind the lenses, his dark blue eyes give me a once-over, up and down.

“Welcome to Howard Library,” he continues. “I’m Foster. Things here should be pretty straightforward since you have worked over at the main library. It’s the same system but in a smaller space. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”

“Your name is Foster?” I question, unbelieving. “As in, the beer?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound Australian.”

“I must have left my accent back at my apartment.” He turns back toward the monitor and clicks the mouse. “Along with my crocodile, koala, and kangaroo.”

“Well, that makes all the sense in the world.”

“Yes, deriving facts from absurd logic—that must be your artistic side.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “It’s a family name.”

“Can I call you Fozzie?”

“Can I call you Evelyn?”

“Not if you want me to answer.”

“It’s safe to say, the same goes for calling me Fozzie. I’m not a Muppet.”

I laugh at that response, having not thought of The Muppets in years. Crossing my arms over my middle, I observe him as he returns to his work like I’m not right next to him.

“So, what needs to be done?” I ask.

“I was just sorting through a few hold requests for other branches that I began about an hour ago. If you’d like, you can start sorting through the book returns. The drop-off access is right behind you.”

Twisting at the waist, I spot the return deposit. I open it up, pull out the books, stack them onto an adjacent cart, and then wheel it over to the monitor next to Foster. Logging into the system with my ID, I begin the process of manually checking in and organizing the materials to be returned to their proper places.

After checking through about half of the returns in silence, I ask, “Is it always like this?”

“Like what?”

“This…dead.”

Foster scans the room. “Yeah. It’s Friday night, which is usually the quietest. I suggest bringing your homework for your next shift. You’ll likely have a lot of spare time.”

“If it’s not busy, why do they need two people working?”

“Safety reasons.”

“So, I was sent over to babysit you?”

“That’s an interesting way of putting it, but yes. It’s school policy.”

I go back to my task—clicking away, entering, and organizing. When the rest of the pile is sorted, I wheel the cart around the desk, preparing to put the books back into their proper places.

“So, what’s your story?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“You had access to my full bio at your fingertips. So, what about you? Give a little. Make it even.”

Adjusting his position in the chair, Foster leans an elbow on the desk. “Foster Blake. Senior. Chemical engineering major, business minor. Four-point-oh average. Honor roll for every year in attendance. Chemistry scholarship. Howard Medal Award Winner, two years in a row. American Institute of Chemical Engineers member and student treasurer. Member of the American Chemical Society, Engineers Without Borders, and the Investment Club. I also play recreational soccer and golf and volunteer tutor once a month at an after-school program for middle-schoolers.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah, I had to drop a recreational ping-pong league to make sure I would have time to work on my thesis. Sometimes, we have to make sacrifices.”

“I hope you know I was just kidding. You’ve got more action going on than a whore at a bachelor party. With a schedule like that, do you even have time for restroom breaks, or did you just opt for a catheter?”

He pushes the bridge of his glasses up with his forefinger. “What days do you work?”

“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. Why?”

“Same as me.”

Foster focuses back on the monitor to continue his work. As he’s jotting down notes in a notebook, I quickly glance at the unfamiliar scrawl. The symbols are completely foreign, leading me to believe he’s no longer going through the request list. For all I know he could be translating an obscure nerdy creature language from some fantasy novel.

“I’m going to take these books back to the shelves and familiarize myself with the library layout.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be here all night.”

It’s about half an hour before closing time, and Foster wasn’t kidding about the pace of students on a Friday night. I’ve completed most of the assignments that I planned to address over the weekend, including a research for a paper on Picasso’s Black Period, which is grossly underrated. All that remains is my human study, and I don’t happen to travel with charcoal.

A female student approaches the information desk while I’m flipping through a fashion magazine, and Foster is immersed in a book, probably on geek world domination.

“Can I help you?” I ask, leaning my elbows on the wooden surface.

“Actually…” She flicks a glance toward Foster. “Um…Foster?”

He closes his book and scratches the side of his head. “Hi, Maggie. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you could help me find some information on thermodynamics?” Maggie asks, her fingers twiddling with the ends of her ebony hair.

“Have you already done a web search?”

“A little, but there’s just a lot to go through. I don’t know where to start.”

It’s a good thing she’s talking to him because I don’t know where to start either. I’d likely lead her toward the thermal underwear section at the mall.

“Thermodynamics is a pretty wide topic,” Foster states, strumming his fingers. “I know the information can be a little overwhelming. Are you looking for anything specific?”

“Not really. Just the basics for an economics paper I’m working on, and I need to learn a little more about the science behind the business.”