Free Compliments by Mari K. Cicero Page B

of it? I went to it.” His jaw slows to a stop as he realizes what I’m saying. “You mean you got invited, too? Wow, Ferris really must love you. Congratulations, Robin, she’s a really tough nail to nick.”
    “Yes, I was invited, but not by Ferris. Prof. Harrison asked me.”
    It’s as though I have a remote control and have just pressed pause. Hawk’s mouth freezes before his chin slowly begins to slack. His eyes go glassy, and somehow every muscle in his face twitches in a ripple. “Did you tell him yes?”
    “Of course, I did. It’s a great honor, isn’t it? He asked me after class today, said my project was impressive.”
    “After class?” he repeats. “Where?”
    “What do you mean, where? In the classroom, of course.” I narrow my gaze. “Why would you ask something like that?”
    He hesitates, gnashing his teeth. I can see the gears of contemplation behind his expression. His whole body tenses until a moment later, he sighs and lets out the cords of his muscles together with his breath. “It’s nothing,” he says somewhat unconvincingly. “It’s only that Harrison … He has a bit of a reputation for being possessive about students. You, uh … You don’t want to limit your choices so soon if you don’t have to.”
    “I’ve only talked to him a few times,” I assure Hawk, uncertain if I should be insulted that he thinks I can’t take care of myself, or flattered that he’s concerned about me. “It’s just a dinner at the chair’s house. I have no interest in being in Harrison’s group. His area of research doesn’t overlap with mine.”
    Hawk nods as though I’ve reiterated an undeniable truth. “I guess not. I’m sorry I worried you.”
    Our conversation moves on to other subjects as I file away the odd spike in behavior. Hawk turns the topic to lighter fare, including giving me a rundown of the best coffee houses in town, which laundromat’s washers are the least likely to be broken down, and on which days of the week the campus bars have ladies’ night, in case I ever need to let off steam.
    After dinner, as promised, he guides us down toward the shore of the lake where a boardwalk is illuminated by knee-high pathway lamps. It’s just light enough that I can see his face, but dim enough that I can’t read his expression. A few minutes into a stroll set against the rhythm of chirping frogs and the lapping of the water on the shore, he puts his arms around me, first timidly, then more completely when I don’t pull away.
    “Did you like it?”
    “Not bad. A real hidden gem and a favorite with the locals, don’t you know?”
    “I’ve heard that somewhere before.”
    “So, this is the lake,” I say, motioning to the water before us. “You live near here, then?”
    “You can’t see it from here. My house isn’t right on the water, it’s on a hillside just …”
    He stops and points over my shoulder while wrapping his other arm around me and turning me. I lean in to align my eye with the trajectory of his outstretched hand, and our cheeks brush together.
    “… over there. About another mile up the highway.”
    The light from the half moon falls over us. The ends of Hawk’s long bangs flutter in the breeze. His gaze both softens and intensifies as his pointing hand lowers, but the arm around me draws me closer.
    “You’re exceptionally beautiful,” he states. “Of all the universities in all the cities in all the world, you had to come walking into mine.”
    “I wasn’t aware Manderson was your exclusive property,” I tease as he raises his hand to my face, running the heel of his palm over my cheek, and working his fingers into the hair where it meets the nape of my scalp.
    “More like a rental,” he murmurs.
    Lowering his forehead to mine, he hesitates a moment. I shift, bringing my arms around him and lacing my fingers behind his back. We stand there, existing as only temporal things among nature, with the song of frogs a trilling drone around us. Then