Chapter Two:The Library Encounter
1232 Words
Faye
If the Devil ever made office hours, I was pretty sure they’d start at six p.m. sharp, right when I walked into the Saint Renée University library and spotted him. Ezra Locke, lounging at the far corner table like he owned not just the room, but the whole damn campus.
His long legs were sprawled under the table, one hand buried in that signature tousled black hair, the other spinning a pen between his fingers with maddening ease. His eyes were locked on a page in front of him, brows furrowed, looking like some Greek tragedy hero, beautiful, tortured, and completely unaware that he was my own personal hell.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and walked toward him. One slow step after another.
“You’re late,” he said without looking up.
“Traffic,” I lied, dropping into the seat across from him.
He glanced up then, and our eyes locked for the briefest, breathless second. His were the kind of blue that didn’t feel real. Storm-tossed ocean blue, with that dangerous undertow that promised to drag you under if you stared too long. I looked away first.
“So,” he said, flipping through the course outline. “Literary theory. You good with metaphors and all that crap?”
“I write poems in my sleep,” I deadpanned.
His lips curled into that crooked smile. “Cool.”
And just like that, the awkward silence returned, thick as molasses.
I took out my notes, trying to focus on the syllabus, not the way Ezra’s long fingers tapped on the table. Not the way his stupid hoodie clung to the outline of his lean arms. Not the fact that he was sitting right across from me like we weren’t tied together by years of unspoken pain.
“You okay?” he asked suddenly, brows lifting.
“Peachy.”
He leaned back in his chair. “You sure we haven’t met before?”
“Positive.”
He tilted his head, studying me like a puzzle. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“Like you’re trying really hard not to punch me.”
I bit back a laugh. “That’s just my face.”
He grinned again. Ugh. That smile. The kind girls wrote bad poetry about.
I returned to my notes, scribbling something just to give my hands a job. My fingers trembled slightly, and I hated that he might notice. Hated that even now, he had this pull on me. Like gravity. Or fate.
Buzz buzz.
I glanced at my phone. A text from Sam.
“ You alive? Did he breathe on you yet? Need backup? Code word: "pineapple."
I smiled. Sam, always dramatic. I typed back quickly:
“He’s… being human. No pineapple yet.”
“Boyfriend?” Ezra asked.
“No,” I said, too quickly.
I set my phone down, exhaling slowly.
Ezra Locke.
The boy who once laughed when I cried in the hallway.The one whose voice used to echo through the corridors while I sat in bathroom stalls, wishing I were invisible.
And now?
Now he was sitting across from me like none of that had ever happened. Like I was new. A stranger. A blank page he’d never scribbled his cruelty on.
It should have made it easier.
But it didn’t.
He caught me staring and tilted his head, a faint line creasing his brow.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what? You’re looking at me like I have a second head.”
I forced a shrug. “Just trying to figure out how someone like you ends up being good at lit theory.”
He grinned, cocky and effortless. “Surprise. I’m a man of mystery.”
More like a man of amnesia.
He didn’t remember me. Not even a flicker of recognition in those stormy eyes. I was just another girl he had to work with. And maybe that should’ve been a blessing.
But it felt more like erasure.
Like my pain hadn’t even made a dent in his memory.
Another silence. I hated how comfortable he looked. Like being here with me was just another Tuesday. I, on the other hand, was basically holding a civil war behind my ribs.
He finally broke the silence again. “So, the paper. I was thinking we could do something on postmodernism, maybe Deconstruction theory? Derrida?”
I blinked. “You read Derrida?”
“Once. During a blackout. Got bored.”
Of course. Ezra Locke, the guy who could breeze through metaphysics like it was a BuzzFeed quiz. He’d always been disgustingly smart. Not the kind who studied hard, but the kind who just knew things.
“I’m fine with that,” I murmured.
His eyes lingered on me a moment longer than necessary. “You sure you’re cool working together? You seem kinda... guarded.”
“Maybe I don’t like rich boys who act like they own the world,” I said, too sharp.
His lips twitched again. “Good. Keeps me humble.”
I rolled my eyes and shifted in my seat. The table between us suddenly felt too small. Too intimate. Too full of ghosts.
From the corner of my vision, I caught movement near the entrance. A tall girl in heels, legs for days, and hair like golden silk was strutting past our table. She didn’t look at me, her gaze was laser-locked on Ezra.
Vivienne Dupree.
Saint Renée royalty.
And Ezra’s ex. They dated in high school. She must have followed him all the way here, she has always been obsessed with him.
She walked by with the kind of practiced grace that made me feel like a toddler in boots. Khole her best friend was with her. Her perfume lingered after her like a threat. Ezra didn’t look up, but something in his jaw tightened.
“Okay. So... we outline tonight, then split the sections?”
“Works for me,” he said. “Wanna do the intro and conclusion? I can take the theory breakdown.”
I blinked. “You’re actually offering to do the hard part?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. I’m reformed.”
“Sure you are.”
He chuckled. And for the first time, it didn’t feel cruel. It felt… genuine.
And that scared me more than anything.
An hour later, we’d finished the outline and made plans to meet again next week. As we stood outside the library, the New Orleans night wrapped around us like velvet, humid, electric, alive.
“You walking back alone?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
He hesitated, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets. “Faye, right?”
I looked at him. Really looked.
He said my name like he was trying it out for the first time. Like maybe it meant something.
“Yeah. Faye.”
He nodded. “Cool name.”
“You probably called it stupid once.”
“I don’t think I did.”
But he might have. He just didn’t remember.
And that hurt more than if he had.
I turned away. “Night, Ezra.”
As I walked down the path, I felt his eyes on me. Watching. Wondering.
Maybe there was a flash of regret behind those deep blue eyes.
Maybe he wasn’t the same guy anymore.
But I was.
And I wasn’t ready to forgive.
Not yet.
- Writer
