Free The Jinx by Jennifer Sturman Page A

left onto the business school campus, still wrapped in insecurity and fretting about Peter’s strangely distant tone.
    The grounds of the business school looked more Harvard than the college campus on the other side of the river. Here there was even more red brick, and more ivy, with patches of green grass broken by stone paths. A large endowment from corporate donors and successful alumni ensured that everything was maintained beautifully, and every time I came here a new building had risen, doubtless graced with the name of one of those donors. A couple of students walked by me, dressed in suits and overcoats. Judging by their clothes and serious expressions, they were on their way to interviews at the Charles.
    I mounted the stone stairs to Morgan Hall, which housed most of the faculty offices, checking the directory in the foyer for Professor Beasley’s office and quickly finding the listing—Beasley, J.—on the third floor. I heard the swoosh of the elevator doors opening behind me and dashed to catch it.
    And collided, head-on, with the love of my life.

Seven
    â€œO of,” I said.
    The impact sent me sprawling, and I lost my grip on my shoulder bag. Its contents spilled out to surround me on the cold stone floor. My Blackberry ricocheted off a wall, and a lipstick rolled into a distant corner, but my first thought was of my nose, which felt like it had suffered some serious damage from its run-in with the man’s chest. He must have been made of steel—either that or he was wearing a bulletproof vest.
    â€œAre you all right?” The voice was rich and deep and it sent a shock of recognition down my spine. Along with a delicious tingle that made me promptly forget about any need for an emergency rhinoplasty. The man knelt down beside me, and with a strange sense of destiny I looked up and into Jonathan Beasley’s blue, blue eyes.
    Suddenly I was eighteen all over again, sitting across from Jonathan in English 10 (A Survey of English Literature from Chaucer to Beckett) and wondering how such perfection was possible in one human being.
    I had worshipped him for the better part of a year. He was a senior when I was a freshman. He was brilliant. He was beautiful. He played varsity ice hockey. He was the Ryan O’Neal to my Ali MacGraw. Except that he never actually spoke to me, and if he had, I would have been tongue-tied, completely unable to conjure up a comment that managed to be both clever and alluring at once. Then he graduated, and I never saw him again. I went on to form other unhealthy and unacted-upon crushes from afar, but Jonathan had been my first, and on some level I’d never forgotten him.
    â€œAre you sure you’re all right?” he asked again as I stared at him, openmouthed.
    â€œY-yes,” I stuttered. “I’m fine, thank you. And I apologize. I was in such a rush that I wasn’t watching where I was going.” Think of something witty to say, I implored myself. Please, please think of something witty to say.
    â€œDon’t worry about it.” He smiled—how I remembered that smile! “Here, let me help you.” He began gathering my spilled belongings and putting them back in my bag. He handed me my Blackberry and gave me a quizzical look. “I think I know you from somewhere. From college, maybe? Across the river. An English course, right?”
    I nodded, speechless, as he extended a hand to help me to my feet. What would Ali MacGraw do in a situation like this?
    â€œI thought I’d seen you before. It’s been a long time. I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Beasley.”
    â€œI’m Rachel Benjamin.” I covertly looked him over, taking in the blue shirt that set off his eyes and dark blond hair and the slightly battered tweed jacket that stretched over his shoulders. He’d been beautiful a decade ago, and the years since had treated him well. My knees were shaky, and while I could blame their condition on