My Oxford Year(14)

I’ve got nothing. I was sure I’d have the perfect, cutting retort, but that was a Mr. Darcy–caliber speech. Not to mention his voice makes me feel as if I’m lying in a hammock. He’s waiting for my response. I’m having trouble talking.

Finally, the words “apology accepted” drop out of my mouth. I can’t stop staring at him. He has a classically proportioned face. Strong forehead, protractor jawline, straight nose, full lips. The kind of face that on anyone with less personality might seem benignly handsome. I like guys with something distinctive, a crooked nose or a scar across an eyebrow, something that hints at a story. Jamie Davenport’s face is a blank page. Except for those eyes, that is.

Still staring. It’s starting to feel like a contest.

I break the spell and nod once, turning to go, but then I hear, “You could have waited.”

I spin around. “For what?”

“Blurting out ‘1845’ like that. She had seven seconds left,” he deadpans.

I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips. “I don’t think either of us believes time was the issue.”

He grins, a knowing, appreciative grin. My stomach inexplicably flops and I realize I’ve barely eaten today. That must be it. “Anything else, Professor?”

“No, that will be all,” he murmurs. “Ella from Ohio.”

“Okay, then . . . posh prat.” I turn and walk to the door. Glancing back (the kind of glance you can always disavow if necessary), I see he’s shuffling papers again and biting his bottom lip, as if to keep from smiling. Someone brushes past me into the classroom. English Rose. She approaches the podium and I find myself pausing in the doorway to adjust the strap on my bag.

I hear her say, “Congratulations, Professor.”

“Shh,” he replies. “The real professors will hear you.”

“You’re quite wonderful, Jamie. I was well impressed.”

“Cheers, Ce.”

“If my being here is too distracting, surely I can switch out—”

“Come now, don’t be daft, Ce. I love looking out at a sea of dubious faces and finding yours.”

My bag slips from my hand and thuds to the floor. They both turn at the disturbance. “Sorry,” I mutter, grab my bag, and escape.





Chapter 6


I took my scrip of manna sweet,

My cruse of water did I bless;

I took the white dove by the feet,

And flew into the wilderness.

Richard Watson Dixon, “Dream,” 1861

Outside I am greeted by the sight of my two classmates huddled in a pocket of sunshine, arguing quietly. She shakes her pink head while he throws his back and groans.

“Hey,” I say, stepping forward.

They break apart and give me two big, fake smiles. “Hello!” she squeaks. “I’m Margaret Timms. Sorry, Maggie, actually. You made quite the impression in there. With those dates. And whatnot.” She has the most adorable baby voice, a little husky, but high and bright.

I stick out my hand. She looks surprised, but takes it. “Thank you. Ella Durran.” I worry I’m crushing her thin little bird fingers, but she keeps smiling.

The three of us stand at the precipice of an awkward silence until Charlie, putting on sunglasses, says, “Maggie was actually wondering . . .”

I turn to Maggie. She looks as if she’s being held at gunpoint. “No, I—sorry, I was just—” she stammers. I quirk my head. After one more excruciating moment, she bursts. “I was just wondering if you know that ‘Oxfordian’ also happens to be the geologic designation for the early stage of the late Jurassic period?”

Charlie and I stare at her with Tweedledee/Tweedledum looks of confusion.

“It’s science,” she adds, wringing her hands together. Then, looking at her feet, “Sorry.”

Charlie slowly shakes his head. “I should have never let you shag that geologist.” He turns to me. “Maggie was attempting to ask you to join us for tea this afternoon.”

“Charlie,” Maggie groans, “I was getting there.”

“Had we waited for you to get there we would have missed tea altogether.”

I can’t help but ask Charlie, “Is this invite from just her?”

He stiffens slightly, cocks his head back, and assesses me. “I would not wish to be mistaken for having any carnal intentions.”

Seriously? I try not to laugh. “I wouldn’t have.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re gay?”

He side-eyes me. “You don’t think I’m just eccentric and terribly British?”

“Definitely. And gay.”

Maggie gives me a grateful look and then, vindicated, pushes Charlie. “See?” She turns to a cool, vintage bike (that is, yup, pink) and unlocks it from the rack. “We call him the closet door.”

Confused, I glance between the two of them. Charlie sighs. “They go through me to come out.” A laugh erupts from me, but Charlie is unfazed. “So. Tea?”

Smiling, I nod. “I’d love to. Thanks.”

“Huzzah. The Old Parsonage in a half hour. Maggie has to . . . collect something.”

She gives me the same repentant smile as before. “Sorry.”