Page 4 of That's Not a Thing

“So what?” he pushed, glancing at his watch a second time. “So, you’ll be tired tomorrow. You can take a nap in the afternoon, when your room is finally unoccupied. Please?” He reached out his hand and gave me an exaggerated version of puppy-dog eyes that just made him look ridiculous.

I laughed again and felt myself tumbling toward his energy. “Isn’t there some sort of rule against RAs wooing members of their flock?” I asked, thinking out loud.

“Probably.” Wesley grinned as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “But are you really going to let some handbook stand in the way of one of the most thrilling nights of your life?”

“Wow. That’s a pretty bold promise.” I looked him over again, wondering if I should surrender to his suggestion. I thought of everything going on with my mom and reasoned that I really could use an opportunity to blow off some steam. I had been a model student since I’d arrived at Columbia, careful to prevent myself from adding to my parents’ list of worries, and, truthfully, I was feeling ready to succumb to a little recklessness, to abandon my usual fastidiousness. My eyes darted to the ceiling above me as I thought of Bina’s room on the next floor, and then I looked back at Wesley. My essay on Georges Braque was already complete, even though it wasn’t due for two more days, and I didn’t have any exams scheduled for the rest of the week. It wasn’t like I was going to get a good night’s sleep on that lumpy velour couch anyway. I pictured the Spanish lit class I was supposed to sit through in the morning, the one I was taking simply to fulfill the school’s language requirement, and I knew I’d probably zone out whether I got nine hours or stayed up the entire night.

I chewed on my bottom lip as I began to accept that I was about to make a daring decision. Daphne would never believe I’d done something so out of character.

“Can I drop my books in your room before we go?”

“Well, hallelujah.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me back from the stairs.

As my feet hit the landing, I was struck again by how tall he was. I was average height at five foot four, but he definitely had nine or ten inches on me.

“Will we be subject to more paint disasters on our adventure? Because this happens to be one of my favorite sweaters”—I motioned to the cropped purple V-neck that he obviously couldn’t see beneath my down parka— “and I refuse to get all Jackson Pollocked like you.”

“Give me this.” He lifted my loaded backpack off my shoulder and started down the hallway.

WHEN WE REACHEDWesley’s room, the one that had formerly belonged to Keith or Kevin, he dug into his pocket for the key. Holding up a finger, he told me, “Give me one minute. Do not leave.”

I didn’t answer while I considered him, and he bent down so his face was right in front of mine. A Star of David necklace toppled out from his shirt as he leaned forward, and I had the fleeting thought that my mom would be pleased. I smelled the mint on his breath, and something pleasant and soapy beneath the turpentine.

He looked me straight in the eye and repeated himself. “Do not.”

“Okay, wow.” I took a step back. “I said I would do this ... this ... whatever this insanity is going to be, so I will. You don’t have to get all up in my face. But let’s move it—it’s not nice to make a lady wait.” I kicked a little at his leg.

Before I had time to seriously second-guess my decision, Wesley was back in the hallway in a clean pair of jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that showcased many of the muscles his other shirt had been hiding. He was holding an olive-green, military-looking jacket. As he turned back toward his door to lock up, I studied him from behind, wondering whether he was too attractive for me, if I should cut and run before disaster stuck. But when he turned around, I looked into those pale green eyes of his and saw him regarding me with such enthusiasm, such energy, that I just wanted to bask in his intensity a little longer.

Even so, I pushed for more information about where we were going, a little nervous about following a virtual stranger to an unknown location. I didn’t want to become another news story about a college girl who made a fatally misguided decision, and I said as much to him. He promised that we would stay in public places for the duration of our evening and then reached into his pocket.

“Here,” he said, as he handed me his wallet and his cell phone. “You hold on to the important stuff. Like collateral. Now I’m at your mercy.”

In retrospect, I don’t know why that was enough for me, but I suppose I was simply looking for any reason to follow him—which is exactly what I did after shoving his belongings into my coat pocket.

A SHORT SUBWAYride and a couple of snowy city blocks later, we were walking into a store on Amsterdam Avenue called Insomnia Cookies.

“This is our adventure?” I looked at him sideways. “We’re having milk and cookies?” I’m not sure where I thought we were going—maybe a dance club or tourist site, or even some old speakeasy. Chocolate-chunk snickerdoodles, I was not expecting.

“Hey, Wes.” The older woman behind the counter pulled off her hairnet and started untying her apron as she glanced up at the digital clock on the wall, which read 1:26 a.m. The air in the place smelled so sweet that I was instantly hungry. “I’m beat,” she said. “Mind if I toss you the last four minutes of my shift?” Her eyes slid toward me, and she added pleasantly, “I see you brought reinforcements anyhow.”

He looked from the round-cheeked woman back to me and announced, “Ingrid, Meredith. Meredith, Ingrid. Sure, get out of here. Tell Abby she owes me for the extra four minutes she gets to spend in your company tonight.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said as Ingrid grabbed a black parka off a hook and began slipping her arm into one of the sleeves. It was difficult to keep my eyes from straying to the display case in front of her, where all sorts of baked delectableness were pleading to be savored. A quick glimpse was sufficient for me to take in an assortment of treats, including M&M cookies, bulging cookie sandwiches, hubcap-size cookie cakes, and dark, gooey brownies.

“You too.” She zipped her coat and looked back at me. “Don’t let him make too much of a mess in my kitchen tonight.” She gave Wesley a friendly slap on the arm and beelined for the door.

“You’re the cookie chef?” I asked. How many odd jobs did this guy have?

“C’mon.” He pulled me behind the counter and put his own jacket where Ingrid’s had been hanging a moment before. “Give me your coat.” He waited with his hand out. As I sidled out of the puffy jacket, his eyes coasted quickly over my body and he added, “You’re right, it is a nice sweater. Let’s get you an apron.”

“I’m cooking? Trust me, you do not want me messing with anything in there. I’m like the dream killer of baby cookies and brownies everywhere.”

He rolled his eyes at me and pushed against the shiny swing door that led to the back kitchen. I followed behind him, intrigued by the evening’s turn of events, lulled nearly equally by the physical appearance of my companion and the overwhelming scent of sugar. We walked into a room that looked like any bakery kitchen I might have pictured in my head—commercial-grade appliances, fluorescent lighting, hoods and vents, complex mixing machines, stainless steel for days. He tossed me a powder-blue apron like the one that Ingrid had been wearing, slipped another one over his own head, and quickly washed his hands at a sink in the corner.

“C’mon,” he said, “I’ll teach you.” He started pulling containers out from steel cabinets and lining them up neatly on the counter: flour, sugar, chocolate chunks.

“Wait, seriously? We’re really cooking?”