Page 10 of Breaking Isolde
It’s not about vanity. It’s about seeing who she is, so she can remember what she isn’t.
I wonder how long it will take her to notice me.
On day six, she catches my reflection in the glass of the biology lab. Her eyes cut to mine and hold for two seconds longer than human decency allows. I see the dilation in her pupils, the small flare of her nostrils. She doesn’t smile, but her lips part in a snarl, just enough to show a sliver of white.
When I pass her in the corridor, she steps aside, lets me through. Our arms graze. There’s static in the contact, sharp enough to feel it. She keeps walking, never glances back, but her pace picks up.
Later, I watch from the library stacks as she fakes a cough to get a librarian off her trail, then slides a restricted volume into her bag. When she leaves, I check the shelf: it’s the campus directory from 1947. She’s hunting the past.
I shouldn’t allow that to happen. Not if I want to keep my spot, much less my head.
Yet I don’t move to stop her.
The next morning, I arrive on the quad before sunrise. She’s already on the go, as if she never stopped from the day before. I keep my distance, but she must know I’m here. She increases her pace, almost daring me to match it. I do.
We complete the loop together, never speaking, never looking at each other. When we cross the finish, she slows, leans forward with her hands on her knees, and breathes hard.
She’s sweating, but her skin is cool. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, glances up at me, and says, “Enjoy the view?”
I don’t answer. It would be too easy.
She shrugs and walks off, the muscles in her calves bunching with each step.
I’m late for class, so I peel off and head there, irritated that something as menial as paperwork is getting in the way of mynew favorite activity, but I have to go. I’ve already missed too many this week. It’s a damn drag, but I make some excuse and leave a few minutes early so I can intercept her making her way back home.
She’s there, same time as always, power-walking across the quad with her earbuds jammed in and her expression set to kill. She’s focused on whatever catastrophe she plans to engineer today, probably something involving a security loophole and a misplaced student file. She carries herself like an accusation in search of a target.
I fall in behind her, matching pace, then angle for the shortcut at the northeast arch. I had Bam set up some orange cones across the path to force her into this very moment.
Pathway maintenance.
She never uses this route—there’s a drip from the roof that leaves a perpetual puddle, and the sightlines are bad. But today I left her with no choice, and she rounds the corner without her usual caution.
Timing is everything.
I step out, coffee in hand, just as she clears the threshold. She plows into me with a shriek. The cup explodes between us. Brown arcs through the air, then gravity sucks the rest into her shirt and blazer, splattering the white cotton.
She gasps, sharp and breathless, and for a second the only sound is the hiss of hot liquid sinking into fabric.
“Shit—” She staggers back, clutching her chest, and the shock on her face is half fury, half disbelief. Drops of coffee bead along her collarbone, mixing with a flush that creeps upward, high and red.
The top button of her blouse is open; the coffee finds the path of least resistance, soaking straight through to the skin. It clings to her nipples. No bra.Perfect.
She looks down, then back up at me, eyes wide and burning.
“Are you kidding me?” Her voice shakes, and she clenches her tiny little fists.
I don’t apologize. I don’t even offer her a napkin. Instead, I watch as the adrenaline hits her system—pupils huge, pulse hammering at the angle of her jaw. Her breath is shallow, fast, almost a pant.
She yanks the blazer off in one motion and shakes it, flinging droplets to the pavement.
I allow myself half a smile. “You should watch where you’re going.”
She stares, then lets out a jagged laugh. “Asshole.” She digs in her bag, finds nothing, and curses again, louder. The word bounces off the stone and comes back with company.
She tries to brush the shirt clean, but it only spreads the stain. Her hands tremble.
“You want to take a picture?” she snaps.
