Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)(3)

So I don’t say a thing. I do, however, scowl at the man. And then I walk away, leaving him standing in the middle of the hall. I feel his eyes on me, probably checking out my ass. His hooking up with Haven wasn’t some fluke. It’s common knowledge that Professor Walsh has a thing for college-age girls. Until Haven, he was known as a one-and-done kind of guy. But he was really into Haven, for a while…until he wasn’t.

It’s really no surprise he liked her as much as he did in the early days of their fling. Men find Haven irresistible. And why wouldn’t they? The girl is gorgeous. She is far prettier than I am. Haven is tall, with a model-like body. I am short, not super thin. Haven has big, expressive aquamarine eyes and shiny, raven-black hair. I have boring hair that can’t even decide what color it wants to be. Some days it appears light brown, other days it’s more of a dark blonde shade. Not that I pay much notice. I usually just pile the long, unruly tresses up in a sloppy bun, or twist the mess into a ponytail.

I’m not saying I’m unattractive. I just don’t really stand out in a crowd. Not like Haven does.

Despite all she has going for her, Haven is far from conceited. She’s unassuming and genuine, loyal to the core. That’s why I maintain that she didn’t deserve to be treated the way Professor Walsh treated her. He used her for sex, strung her along, and then unceremoniously dumped her with no explanation two weeks ago.

My ire at the jerk professor escalates. By the time I reach the stairs, I am smacking my hand down on the dark wood railing in anger. Quickly, I spin around, intent on stomping back and having one last word with the guy.

But he’s long gone.

“Chickenshit,” I murmur.

Sighing, I step over to a wall and lean back against it. There’s a classroom a few feet away, in session. Leaning my head back, I listen to the soothing murmur of voices, thus allowing myself a few minutes to calm down.

Soon, I am relaxed. I also find I am fully engaged in listening to the lecture. Not surprising since the instructor, her voice light and feminine, is speaking on a subject I find fascinating—the role of fate in our lives. I walk over to the door and press my ear up against it.

“Wonderful,” she says. “You’ve all shared some great insights. But now that we’ve dissected Shakespeare’s use of fate in Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth, I have a question for you, a question regarding your lives.”

The class titters, she chuckles, and I step back to where I’m able to lean against the wall. After a minute or two, I slide down to a seated position.

“What I want to know,” the instructor continues, “is who here believes that real lives—our lives—are influenced by fate?”

“I do,” I whisper. At least I think I do.

The professor calls on someone in the class, a girl. She responds, “I believe all of our lives are influenced by fate. And I firmly believe in destiny.”

“Is there a difference?” the instructor questions.

The girl replies, “Yes, I think so. I’ve always heard that fate refers to the bad things that happen in our lives.”

“And destiny?” the instructor prompts.

“It’s the good stuff.”

“That is a commonly accepted belief,” the instructor concurs.

There’s some shuffling of papers.

“What it all comes down to,” the instructor continues, “is that every person’s life is destined for a certain path. We may not realize it, especially when it’s happening, but we will end up where we’re supposed to be.”

Wow. I think about my own life. I believe in concepts like fate and destiny. But, to my chagrin, I don’t feel as if either has ever touched my life. In some ways, I suppose my parents have prevented things from happening by the way they’ve structured everything for me. Still, I hold out hope that something that is “meant to be” will eventually occur. If that doesn’t happen, what will become of me? My biggest fear is that I’ll graduate from college next year—with my shiny, new business degree—and move right back to my hometown of Philadelphia. Maybe I’ll become an accountant, like my mom and dad. And maybe, like Mom and Dad, I’ll never really live.

“Ugh.” I place my face in my hands. I don’t want to be an accountant. I’d rather eat pocket lint, I swear. If I had my way, I’d much rather work as a writer, a journalist of some sort. I find joy in writing articles for the school paper. But, really, if I dare to dream big, I see myself as an investigative journalist. The kind that seeks out exciting stories, stories with an element of danger.

Who in the hell am I kidding? I’m play-it-by the-rules Essa Brant. “Let’s be real here,” I whisper.

Sighing, I return my attention to the instructor and her big words on fate.

“Remember,” she says. Her tone is so very serious, so very ominous. “Just because you think fate or destiny hasn’t yet guided your life in some noticeable way doesn’t mean it won’t happen. I promise you, my friends, you will end up where you’re supposed to be. And how can I say that with such certainty? The answer is simple: You can’t escape your destiny.”

Okay, so where will fate lead me? What is my destiny?

On a roll, the instructor goes on. “Things happen in our lives that are predetermined, whether we realize it or not. Often it’s a series of small events that slowly and methodically lead us to where we’re supposed to be. But sometimes it’s a big, cataclysmic event that changes the course of everything. Even so, you may not realize your life is changing at the time. Something may happen to someone you know, perhaps someone close to you. Their ‘something’ ends up affecting you. Your life is now altered; you’re set on a different path.” The instructor pauses, and then she says, “Think of this path as an inevitable detour of sorts.”