Chapter 5: Crimes of Attraction

My gaze drifted lower. Curiosity is a reckless friend.

Too bad—the desk blocked my view. Furniture: 1, thirst: 0.

My blatant staring didn’t go unnoticed. Dr. Hart, who'd been looking down, suddenly looked up and stared straight at me. The jolt hit like a live wire.

My heart skipped a beat. Or three.

I didn't look away. Instead, I lifted the page I'd just drawn and held it up for him to see. Fine—let’s make my obsession public.

On the white notebook paper was a sketch of Dr. Hart on the podium, one hand on the mic. Minimal lines; all him.

He glanced at it and then looked away, as cool and unfazed as ever, leaving me feeling a bit defeated. Unmoved target, passionate archer—story of my life.

I put the notebook down and kept drawing. Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket. The vibration felt like a drumroll.

When I checked, I looked up at the podium in shock. My brain froze; the screen did not.

He met my gaze with an unreadable expression. There was awareness there, and something else I couldn’t name.

A new Messenger message had come in—from someone called "Mountain Man." I had no idea why that label existed.

[Ethan, pay attention in class.] I went cold and hot at the same time.

My mind went blank. Totally wiped, like a whiteboard with overly enthusiastic eraser marks.

It wasn't until the bell rang that I finally snapped out of it. The chime stirred my nervous system back into service.

I actually had Dr. Hart's Messenger. Somewhere in my contacts, he’d been hiding in plain sight.

But I had no memory of him at all. Nothing—no face, no story, just a void with a nickname.

This "Mountain Man" had been in my contacts for years. No posts, no chat history, no notes—just buried in my generic "school contacts" folder, probably saved back in high school and never deleted.

I had no recollection of him. Zilch. And that bothered me in a way nothing else had.

Probably never deleted him because of the "school contacts" tag. My sluggish contact hygiene had finally paid off.

But I'd asked Ethan—he said Dr. Hart was thirty-two, four years older than me. How could we possibly be classmates? The math refused to math.

Clearly, Dr. Hart remembered me. But not only did I not remember him, I'd even asked for his contact info. Mortifying doesn’t cover it.

Help! Come on, brain—how could I forget a guy this gorgeous? It's just not logical! Pretty faces etch themselves; this one should’ve been carved in stone.

That night, I tossed and turned. My pillow hosted a full internal trial.

I asked around but couldn't find any clues about Dr. Hart or "Mountain Man." Friends shrugged; past me was not helpful.

Finally, I sent him a cat meme. My go-to olive branch: a disinterested tabby.

He replied with a question mark: [?] Judgment, compacted into one keystroke.

I typed out a bunch of messages, deleted them, and finally sent: [Pop quiz—when did we first meet?] If he was going to make me sweat, I might as well grade myself.

He replied with a single mocking syllable: [Heh.] The textual equivalent of an eyebrow raise.

He didn't follow up, clearly not planning to tell me. The man could teach withholding as an art form.

I felt guilty for forgetting, so I didn't push it. I tucked my curiosity away and pretended not to be dying of it.

I changed the subject, thinking of the gossip I'd heard from the girls: [Dr. Hart, do you have abs?] Fine, if subtlety fails, humor.

[Don't get me wrong, I heard in class today you do Muay Thai. Just curious.] I added a quick, faux-innocent disclaimer.

[...Yes.]

[Can I see?] If you don’t ask, you don’t get. Also, you might get blocked.

[No.] A door slammed with a single syllable.