Page 4 of Kismet

Weston: *eye roll emoji*

This is our senior year, which for most of my friends—no, all of them, actually—means they’re almost done entirely with college. Not me, though. Next fall, I’ll start my graduate program. I don’t want to take any extra time off between undergrad graduation and starting that journey. I’m trying to get my PhD as quickly as possible, so I can start teaching.

English and writing have always been passions of mine, and sometime between the start of college and this year, I realized I have the potential to be a really great teacher too. I’m told I have an easygoing, optimistic, extroverted personality that shines in a role such as teaching, and Stone has mentioned my patience and adaptability are impressive… not like I’ve memorized every word he’s ever said to me or anything.

And those compliments mean even more coming from him, since he’s such a phenomenal teacher. He saw potential in me that I never saw and pushed for me to go after my goal. He helped me land this aide position last year, which admittingly doesn’t help my stupid fucking crush at all.

We, surprisingly—or not so surprisingly—work well together. I’ve heard horror stories from other aides, and how their teachers are monsters. Either giving them way too much work or not enough. I’ve been lucky enough to get to spend some nice one-on-one time with him as he shows me the ropes and how he likes things done… in the classroom, of course.

For the remainder of class, I force myself to focus on the essays I’m supposed to be grading, and for the most part, it goes well. The class is excused, and I get up from my desk as soon as most of the students have filtered out, sauntering over to Stone’s.

“Here’re the ones I’ve done. I’ll work on the rest tonight and have them back to you by next class.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Cash.” Mostly, he calls me Mr. DeMarco, especially when it’s my professor aide days, but when he calls me by my first name, my stomach flutters every fucking time. It’s maddening, and probably means nothing to him or anyone else.

“No problem. Have a good night.”

“Hey, actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.” He gets out of his chair and rounds the desk, perching that perfect fucking ass right on the corner. “Have a minute?”

My eyes flit to the closed door and then back to him. “Uh, yeah. I don’t have a class after this, so I’m good. What’s up?”

“There’s this literary convention next month that I go to every year. It’s for professors, mostly, but sometimes graduate students go. They always have interesting speakers, and I learn something new every time. I spoke with the dean about it. Even though you aren’t in your graduate program yet, if you want, you can join me.”

I have to work to keep my eyebrows from shooting up at his offer.Take a breath, Cash.“Oh, cool. Yeah, I’d love to. Where is it? At the convention center?”

“No, it’s in Portland this year. We would drive down on a Friday morning, or if you have class that day, we could leave after.”

“Drive down together?” I can’t help the way my eyes widen.

“Yup! If that’s okay? Just makes sense.”

Holy shit.Hours in a car with Professor Hottie. “No, yeah. That’s perfect. Where would we stay?”

“The school pays for a hotel. I’ll let the dean know you’re interested, and he’ll make sure they book another room for you.”

“Dope. That sounds cool. Thanks for thinking to invite me.”

“Of course. It’s a good learning experience, and they’re surprisingly kind of fun. I think you’ll enjoy yourself.”

Yeah. Bet I will.“Right on. I’ll talk to you later. Let me know the dates.”

“You bet. Have a great rest of your day, Cash.” He flashes me a toothy grin before returning to his chair and bringing his attention back to his laptop.

An entire weekend with Stone, outside of school?! What kind of fuckery is this, and how did I deserve it?! And then, to top it off, we will be riding in a fucking car together.Alone!

Hell fucking yes. Next month couldn’t come soon enough.

With a pep in my step and a goofy ass grin on my face, I begin the trek home. At the start of my sophomore year, I pledged with Alpha Tau Omega and have been a part of it since, sohomeis really the frat house.

It’s made for some killer memories over the last few years. The parties are insane and the amount of ass that comes with being a frat brother is comical. When you think of the stereotypical frat guy, though, it’s a much different image than me. Preppy bro-dudes, misogyny dripping from their personalities, heads filled with more air and beer than actual brains. And can’t forget the bright-colored polo shirts and khaki shorts.

Then there’s me, with a much more laid back, edgy vibe to my style, that always has me standing out amongst the group. I’m also not sleeping with a different girl every night. Not to mention, I’m actually quite intelligent and enjoy more than just binge drinking, which goes against the stereotype. Don’t get me wrong, I love my frat brothers, and we get along well, but I won’t miss the frat house one bit once I’m gone. This is my last year here. When I start my first year of the master’s program, I’m getting my own house off campus. I’ll have a roommate, but it’ll be nice to have a less crowded, quieter space to come home to.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to walk home, and as I’m crossing the lawn, my frat brother, Brody, is exiting the house. He notices me, lifting his hand to wave. “’Sup, bro!”

“Hey, hey. Where ya headed?”

“Stassia’s house. I won’t be home tonight.”

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