Free The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown

her face in candlelight. But these dates were distractions, and poor ones at that, leaving her to drift the halls like Banquo’s ghost, seen and yet unseen, feared and misunderstood.
    And then came Jonathan.
    She walked into her office one bleak January day a year ago, and he was sitting at the desk of the Mystery Professor, his feet up casually, his lower lip stuck out as he stared at a book in his lap. Jonathan, had he been so inclined, could have been terribly handsome. But as it was, his hair was sloppily brushed, a tiny shock standing up in the back as though preparing a mutiny. The rims of his glasses were nearly as black as his hair, and the lenses wanted cleaning in a bad way. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a tie, an ensemble that always reminds us of our father, but Jonathan’s shirt was burgundy, his tie a matching shade, showing evidence of some dandy tendencies. Then again, his pants were black, his shoes, brown, evidence of the same professorial fashion sense our father possessed.
    Her mind a million miles away, his presence so unexpected, Rose shrieked when she saw him, the papers in her hands jumping out of their orderly stack into a sloppy bouquet. He looked up, less startled than she, and, shockingly, laughed. He’d tell her later that the improbable sound she had made, like an asthma patient on helium, had caused his laughter, but at the moment Rose thought he was laughing at her, so she blushed sharply and stared down at her papers.
    “I guess I startled you,” he said. He flipped his legs up and then down to the floor. He was tall, slender. One sideburn longer than the other. “I’m a visiting professor. I’ll be here through next year.”
    Still staring at her papers, Rose said, “You must be the Mystery Professor,” then blushed harder as she realized what she had said. She shuffled the pages back together, walked toward her desk. She had to turn to get between the desks, shoved together like connecting blocks to fit in the space that had really only been designed for one. This action embarrassed her, for some reason, the wide spread of her hips near him.
    Jonathan barked a laugh, pure pleasure. “Is that what you call me?” He stood, crossed the tiny distance between their desks, extended his hand. “I’m Jonathan Campbell. I teach chemistry, but there’s no office space over there so I’m exiled here. Which is why you never see me. I’ve been here since September.”
    “Pleased to meet you. Where are you from?” she said, and took his hand. She raised her eyes to meet his, brown to nearly black, the shadow of stubble on his face like the shadow of the leaves in the Shakespearean forest of Arden.
    “I’m a bit of a wanderer. I was born in Michigan, but I’ve lived all over.”
    “So glamorous Columbus, Ohio, is just one stop on your world tour?” Rose asked, her cheeks flushing. Was she flirting?
    He chuckled. “You could say that. Last year I was in Paris.”
    “Coming here must have been a letdown.” Her heart was beating quickly and she couldn’t stop smiling, stupidly, like a preteen. She wondered what Bean would do. Flip her hair, probably. Rose patted the conservative bun at the back of her neck awkwardly.
    “Not at all. Paris was overrated. So many French people. I didn’t catch your name?” he asked, coaxing.
    “Rose Andreas,” she said.
    “You teach in the math department?” he asked. Rose stared at him, tongue-tied.
    “Yes,” she said, finally. “This is my office.”
    Jonathan nodded, looking thoughtfully at Rose. Oh, our Rose. Her hair up like a Gibson girl, her skin stained pretty pink from the blushing, face bare of makeup, one of those flowing outfits that hid her curves, beauty and honor in her are so mingled . . . but would he see it? Would he see, beneath her self-consciousness, the way she could clean that stain off his tie with only club soda and the edge of her shirt, catch spiders we would be too afraid to touch, marshal our forces to pack