Not all about You

“Liz, I’ve got a job, you know? I don’t need your handouts,” I grumble into the phone, a typical Monday morning routine. Actually, it’s pretty much the same every morning.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate my cousin’s help, but she can be a bit much sometimes.

I’d rather have her company than her cash, not that she’s rolling in it or anything. She’s just an average mid-twenties woman. “I gotta go.”

“But, Maya—”

“Bye,” I cut her off, hanging up and letting out a sigh of relief as I tuck my phone into my school bag.

“Mel?” I call out.

My elderly neighbor’s head peeks out from the kitchen, her shirt speckled with food and a bright smile lighting up her face.

“I’m heading out. I’ll be back at four, okay?”

She gives a quick nod before disappearing back into the kitchen at the sound of a small noise.

I chuckle a bit, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head out the door.

I hustle down the stairs of the apartment complex, grab my mail from my box, stuff it into my bag, and dash off to school.

As a college student trying to keep my scholarship, I need to be on top of my game in class. That’s easier said than done.

And since I don’t have a car and money is tight, I have to leave early enough to walk. Most days, that walk turns into a jog or even a run.

By the time I reach the gloomy school doors, I’m met with the usual mix of teenage angst and jock bravado.

Just like you’d expect, the football stars are huddled together, showing off pictures, tossing a ball around, and flirting with girls at their lockers.

The sounds of giggling and loud male voices drown out the quiet thoughts of the loners and outcasts. I’m one of them.

Between work, school, and my other responsibilities, I don’t have time for a social life. So, I don’t really have any friends.

There are a few guys who like to bug me in class. I don’t really fit into any particular group.

To keep my 4.0 GPA, I spend my lunch breaks doing homework and extra work at a table by myself. And a few people like to give me a hard time about it.

I’ve been at this college for a year and haven’t really made any social connections. Some people are curious about the loner girl. But I’ve got other things on my mind.

My education is my top priority.

As I walk into my first class, History, I take a seat at one of the many empty desks by the window. It’s a dreary day outside. I unpack my stuff and start to bury my nose in my history textbook.

“Ahem!” A cough comes from in front of me. I lower my book and see a few of the guys who like to pester me.

They think I’m some kind of mystery, and they love to spread rumors about me. And, well, they’re not entirely wrong.

“Hello,” I say, then go back to my reading, hoping they’ll just go away.

I wish I could just go to college without having to deal with anyone but the professors. I bet I’d learn a lot faster.

Sure, I could do online school, but I like real libraries and hands-on learning. Before the guy can say anything, the professor walks into the room. He slams the door to get everyone’s attention and starts writing on the blackboard.

Even though I can only see his back, I can tell he’s young. Probably fresh out of college. His hair is a sandy blonde, just like a guy I used to know.

A guy from what feels like a long time ago. It’s been almost two years. And even though I try to forget, I can’t. How could I?

He was my first love and he changed my life in a big way.

“My name is Mr. Parker, your new history professor,” he says in a voice that sounds all too familiar. He turns around and I see a face that I know all too well.

I gasp as I see him: the guy I used to love, still love, standing at the front of the class, my new professor.

His jaw is covered in light stubble and his light blue eyes scan the faces of his new students. Until they land on me. And he freezes.

Everything around us seems to stop.

His eyes are filled with emotions I can’t understand anymore.

His eyes have the same look they used to when he told me he loved me. We were only together for four months, but everything felt so intense back then.

Those four months, when I was eighteen, felt like the most important time of my life. And maybe they were, considering the consequences I’m dealing with now. Not that I regret it.

I watch him force his eyes away from me, trying not to draw attention to the connection between us.

He regains his composure and starts the lesson.

Hearing his voice again is like music to my ears, if I could forget what he did, what a jerk he is. He broke up with me over text.

And then he ignored all my calls.

I was so naive back then. Even though it wasn’t that long ago, it feels like a different life.

I catch him glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, but I avoid his gaze.

I try to focus, but it’s hard to concentrate when your ex-boyfriend is the professor.

Jace. Jason Parker. He was a frat boy when we met. Now he’s my professor, dressed in a crisp shirt and jeans. His style. His very attractive style that I’m trying not to think about.

He’s still, as much as I hate to admit it, hot, and he still affects me like he used to.

Back when I was just a high school senior and he was—what I believed to be—a sophisticated college guy, he showed me attention that I soaked up like a drug.

He reveled in my adoration. I was naive, and so was he. But to me, he was like a god, this unattainable guy that I somehow had.

When he confessed his love for me, it felt like the holiest words ever spoken.

But when we split up, and I could finally see our relationship for what it truly was, I realized he wasn’t this divine being. He was closer to a devil, to be honest, but he wasn’t that either.

He was just a guy, is just a guy. Our relationship was still good though, or at least I thought it was. It was... intense. I’d spend all my time with him or thinking about him.

Realizing I’ve been lost in thought for the entire lesson, I quickly scan my notes and try to catch up with what Jace, I mean Mr. Parker, has been teaching. As the class ends, I feel his gaze on me again.

I decide it’s time to have a talk with Mr. Parker about boundaries and airing out our past, and about switching classes.

After everyone has left, he gently closes the door and notices me leaning against his desk, my arms clutching my books to my chest. And my chest is exactly where his eyes land.

I clear my throat to get his attention and roll my eyes at him. He’s still the same sex-crazed jerk, I see.

He sits down at his desk so I’m looking down at him and he tries to touch my hand, but I pull it away from him defensively.

This guy, this man, my ex-boyfriend. He left almost two years ago with a single cowardly text.

He thought I was calling to yell at him, to try and convince him not to break up with me or something equally desperate. But I had something to tell him.

Something I had discovered the day before that I was still trying to process.

The fact that I was pregnant with his child, his daughter.

And now he stands in front of me, the father of my child.