Anne of Manhattan by Brina Starler

Now

The Redmond Writers House, a shared space for all M.Ed. courses under the umbrella of the fine arts parent program, was tucked into a block of buildings catty-corner to Washington Square. An unobtrusive three-story walk-up, it was sandwiched between a famous recording studio that produced some of the seventies’ biggest hits and a set of overly expensive apartments. Before the school had bought it, the building was home to a famous songwriter/poet/beatnik, who hosted parties known as much for their spectacular array of drugs as they were for the famous faces that showed up night after night. Then the man got tired of his fame, sobered up, and if rumors were to be believed, moved to Montana to start a cattle ranch. The school snapped the building up for, well, a song.

But now the top two floors were rooms for lectures, rooms for studying, rooms set up for casual group discussions. It was an interesting setup, not at all what Gil had been used to in Berkeley, where classes were held in a sprawling, gothic-style building that had been built to hold hundreds of students at a time.

This place probably couldn’t hold more than seventy-five, elbow to elbow.

He made a point of arriving early on the first morning of classes, right as the doors opened, to give himself time to explore the first floor. It had been love at first sight, when visiting last spring, before transferring; the entire ground floor was a dedicated library. Three original fireplaces had been bricked over decades before, and now contained arrangements of silk flowers or sinuously twisted clay sculptures. Bookcases lined the walls, and although the rooms were small and crowded, with intimate seating arrangements, tall arching windows let in plenty of natural light tinted by multiple verdant green plants spilling out of hanging baskets. The entire library had an airy, bohemian feel to it, which suited Redmond’s more relaxed attitude down to the ground.

He imagined Anne felt right at home. It probably gave her hives to walk through the rooms with their overcrowded, jumbled bookcases and windowsills cluttered with forgotten pencil nubs.

Wandering into one of the library’s back rooms, Gil grabbed a seat next to a narrow window overlooking the small courtyard the school shared with several other buildings in the block. Grateful the building had excellent air-conditioning that seemed to be holding up well in the middle of a late-August heat wave, Gil ignored the way his T-shirt clung damply to his back from the short walk from the subway and pulled out his laptop. He spent the next hour catching up on email, checking to make sure he’d ordered all the materials he’d need for each of his courses, and reminding himself he absolutely wasn’t going to be distracted on the first day of classes by the possibility of seeing Anne again at some point during the day.

Surely, they would have some overlapping classes, since the program was tiny.

His lips curved in anticipation of her reaction when she realized he’d transferred into her program. Was it immature of him, at age twenty-four, to still relish the prospect of seeing that little scowl she’d always seemed to save just for him? Absolutely. Was that going to dampen any of the enjoyment he was about to get out of it? Not particularly.

A glance at his phone told Gil he needed to get going or risk walking into class late. He packed away his laptop and the books he’d been glancing over in anticipation of that morning’s course on ancestral word-of-mouth storytelling traditions and the impact they’d had on modern literature. Making his way up the narrow staircase to the third floor, he exchanged nods with some other students squeezing past on their way down. Checking out the brass nameplates next to each door as he walked, it didn’t take long to find the room quirkily dubbed the Dashiell Hammett. In honor of the building’s former owner, each room was named after a famous writer or poet. Tomorrow morning’s class would be in the Octavia E. Butler, on the second floor. He’d passed the room on the way up and caught a glimpse—it was filled with long, cushy couches and comfortable-looking chairs, with multiple coffee tables scattered throughout. The difference between that room and this was striking.

Pausing in the doorway, Gil took in the long, curved tables and wooden chairs that created a half circle of rows that fanned out from a lecturer’s podium, partially filled with students either chatting in quiet voices or setting up their laptops. Finding an open seat at the end of the second row back, he drew out his own laptop again, and was setting his phone on silent when a flash of red in the doorway made him glance up.

There she was, stalled out halfway across the room, fingers clenched around the strap of the backpack she’d been swinging off her shoulder.

Gil offered her a crooked grin and patted the empty chair next to him. She stared at him for a moment, her expression inscrutable. Then her shoulders dropped, the strain of her muscles loosening a fraction, and she moved to his side. Sitting down, she lined up her own laptop and phone on the space in front of her with precise movements, then turned to Gil with raised eyebrows.

“All right, spill.”

“Spill what?” He held back a laugh as Anne’s eyes narrowed predictably at his innocent question.

“What are you doing here, of all places? Are you stalking me, Gilbert Blythe? Because honestly, this is weird.” Her fingers drummed on the Formica table surface as she stared him down.

Now he did laugh, holding up both hands, palms out. “I’m not, I swear. I won’t lie, I knew you went here when I transferred in, but that isn’t why I’m here. Redmond had the closest curriculum to Berkeley. I won’t have to make up credits like I would at NYU. Plus, I liked the vibe here.”

“Marilla calls it artsy-fartsy.” She sent him a little grin.

“Marilla’s a national treasure.”

“She really is,” Anne agreed. “But why didn’t you tell me at the bar that you’d be here?”

Because he wanted this excuse to talk to her again didn’t seem like a thing he should say out loud, Gil shrugged instead. At least with age came the ability to filter from brain to mouth, as opposed to that humiliating time he’d blurted out an awkward invitation to homecoming in front of half their grade. Which she turned down with extreme prejudice.

“I guess I forgot.” Weak, but he was sticking to it.

She sent him a flat look that projected skepticism as loudly as any words could have, but didn’t challenge him. The professor came in then, cutting off any chance to continue their conversation. But Gil couldn’t help stealing sideways glances at her occasionally, an odd sense of déjà vu hitting him at the familiar way she flicked her hair over her shoulder with impatience when it would obscure her vision. Once, he looked over to find her looking back, gray eyes meeting his for a moment before flicking away again. The faint red that crept up her neck after was fascinating.

When the class ended, Gil lingered, slowly packing up as Anne exchanged hugs and laughter with a few classmates she hadn’t seen since last semester. He had about two hours until the next class, it wasn’t worth heading home in the meanwhile. Feeling the drag of waking too early after a restless night, he would cheerfully kill someone for a cup of coffee. Maybe if Anne was also free, they could catch up without having to shout over the relentless thump of bass or dodging drunks.

Just when he was about to give up, feeling foolish as he shifted some books around for the third time, Anne returned to scoop her belongings into her backpack. She twisted her hair up into a massive bun and secured it with a thick elastic band, heavy strands slipping free almost immediately.

Shouldering her bag, she glanced sideways at him. “Heading out?”

“Yup.”

He’d said “yup.” God, kill him now. He was twenty-four. Twenty-four.

In silence, they made their way down the stairs and across the lobby; the wave of mid-morning heat hit as they stepped out the front door in a way that Gil knew would have him sweating within a few minutes. Stopping on the sidewalk at the bottom of the short set of brick stairs, they shifted to the side to avoid being bumped into by the steady stream of people going in and out of the building.

Anne lifted her hand to shade her eyes, squinting a little. “What’s next for you?”

“Educational law,” Gil said, already thinking about dropping it. He’d still have the credits without it, and it was drier than overcooked chicken.

“Sounds fun.” She wasn’t successful at hiding her amusement, although he wasn’t convinced she’d been trying all that hard.

“Oh, so much, you can’t imagine.” He glanced at the time on his phone. “I’ve got about an hour and a half until I have to be at the business building, and I’m in desperate need of caffeine. What do you have? Want to grab something?”

“Sure. I actually don’t have another class today.” Anne crossed the street, the side shadowed by large, leafy trees, he was relieved to note. “This year is a much lighter course load, just a few classes each semester. I pushed hard the first two years so that I wouldn’t feel overwhelmed when it came time to work on my thesis.”

Pushing open the door of a small coffee shop not far from the Writers House, she hitched one shoulder up in a half shrug, and joined the line that stretched almost to the door. “I know myself—I get a little obsessive. I didn’t want my other grades to suffer because I’m giving most of my attention to my thesis.”

Gil wisely refrained from reminding Anne he knew exactly how laser-focused she could get when she wanted to hit her goals. They were doing surprisingly well; it was actually sort of nice not to fight for once. So instead, he made light conversation as they waited for their orders. Squeezing into a small table near the front window, Gil unwrapped the oversized muffin he’d ordered and broke it in half, offering her one side. Despite her insistence she wasn’t hungry when ordering her drink, she took it with a wry smile.

Breathing in the sweet smell of blueberries, she made a little humming noise of pleasure, then laughed as she took a bite and had to scramble to catch the muffin as it fell apart. Watching her pinch together the pile of crumbs on her napkin with amusement, Gil solved the problem by breaking his up and eating it in three big bites. Anne rolled her eyes at the way his half of the muffin disappeared in under a minute.

“I didn’t think I needed this until I smelled it, so thank you,” she said. “I meant to eat breakfast, but of course I was running late, and the fastest thing was a banana. Which didn’t last as long as I thought it would.”

“I’m not a fan of bananas. They’re so . . . “ Gil shrugged. “Bland, I guess.”

“Did you know that the bananas we eat today aren’t the same bananas they used to eat at the turn of the last century? There was a fungus outbreak and it wiped out a whole variety of bananas that used to be bigger and more flavorful.” Anne popped the last of her muffin into her mouth, holding up one finger as she chewed. Trying not to grin around his cup of coffee, Gil took a sip while she swallowed, then brushed the crumbs off her hands neatly. “So, scientists developed the banana we eat today by cloning it, of all things. But now there’s another fungus threatening the new bananas, so who knows what they’ll do next. Probably create some sort of Frankenstein banana monster in a lab somewhere.”

“Your love of random, weird facts hasn’t faded any, I see.”

“Hey, that was a Quiz Bowl question! I do like weird, random facts, though,” Anne admitted, as she crumpled up her napkin and threw it across the table. She just laughed when he caught it before it hit him in the face. “Did you know that most people associate the woolly mammoth with prehistoric times, but in reality, they were still alive when Egyptians started building their pyramids? And in that vein, Cleopatra’s reign is closer in time to the invention of the modern car than it was to the building of the Pyramids of Giza?”

“Did you know that elephants have ten-pound brains and can track up to thirty members of their herd at one time?”

“Did you know that usually siblings share about fifty percent DNA, but if you have an identical twin, you share one hundred percent DNA, which means instead of yours and your twin’s children sharing twelve percent of their DNA, as with typical cousins, they will share twenty-five percent, which makes them closer to half-siblings?”

Gil sat for a moment, then shook his head. “Nope, that one hurts my head, I’m leaving it alone. Did you know if you drove your car straight up into the sky at sixty miles per hour, it would only take one hour to get to space?”

“Obviously,” Anne said in an obnoxious voice that he remembered fondly. “Did you know that a quarter of all your bones are in your feet?”

“And I think I’ve broken every single one over my years of playing soccer when I was a kid.” Gil laughed. “Do you seriously remember all this from the Quiz Bowl sheets? Because I’m lucky if I remember what I ate yesterday for lunch.”

“Not all of it.” A light flush colored her cheeks. “I read that one somewhere just last year, actually.”

Moments like this were why Gil had a hard time killing his fixation on Anne. Sure, she was beautiful, with hair he wanted to bury his hands in, and a soft pink mouth he wanted to start kissing and never stop. If that was all, he could have moved on without difficulty. Purely physical attraction felt shallow to him and had always been easy enough to dismiss. But her quirky, offbeat intelligence, and how funny she was, kept him coming back long after he should have admitted defeat.

“So . . . how’s your dad doing?” Gray eyes studied him, serious again, a softer look in them than he was used to being turned on him.

Gil’s stomach twisted a little, remembering how pale and quiet his father had been when he had stayed at his parents’ the week before he moved in with Fred. “Hanging in. You know him; when he sets a goal, he refuses to back down. And he’s decided he’s going to beat cancer. I’m not sure that’s the way it works”—he knew his smile was more bitter than he’d meant for it to be, but the idea of losing the man who helped him catch his first fish and taught him how to make pancakes was gutting—“But everyone says a fighting, positive attitude is good, for his mental and emotional health, if nothing else. The doctors are hopeful, though. That helps too. Obviously.”

“How are you holding up?”

“Me? I’m fine. I’m not the one with cancer,” he scoffed, crumpling his empty cup with a tight fist. Why did everyone keep asking that? He was fine.

Even if some days he couldn’t look sideways at the possibility of his dad dying from this, way too young, without feeling like there was a pile of bricks caving his chest in.

Anne didn’t look like she quite believed him, but dropped the subject, clearly recognizing he was done talking about it. Clearing his throat, Gil reached for his backpack, sweeping up his trash in one hand. The cheerful mood had been broken. He didn’t want to leave things on this note, but he didn’t feel like talking anymore.

“Sorry, but I really do need to get to my next class.” To his relief, Anne didn’t look annoyed at his sudden ending to their coffee break. She followed him out to the sidewalk, pausing as he stopped and pulled out his phone. “Listen, do you want to exchange numbers? Seeing as we’re in the same class and all. Makes it easier if either of us gets stuck on something and needs to hash it out.”

“Oh. Um . . . sure.” For the first time since they’d left Writers House, Anne looked wary again. But she pulled out her phone anyway, fiddling with it for a moment before waving her hand without looking up. “Okay, go ahead.”

As he recited his number, he wondered at the way her mood had cooled by several degrees at his request, her fingers stiff as she sent a text off to his phone. Absently, he saved her number, contemplating the sudden change. It happened at the bar too, when he’d put his hand on her back, trying to use his own body to block the crowd from jostling her on their way out the door. He could understand that, he probably shouldn’t have touched her without asking first. It had been instinctive, even though he knew she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and always had been.

Still. This felt like something different.

Putting the puzzle of Anne’s abrupt turnabout in the back of his mind, to pull out later and pick apart, Gil ignored the distant look in her eyes and sent her a warm smile. “This was nice. Thanks for keeping me company.”

She thawed a little at his casual tone, another tidbit he filed away, and offered him a half smile back. “Sure. If we don’t have any other classes together sooner, I’ll see you next Monday.”

They parted then, heading off in different directions.

If Gil paused at the intersection to watch until the flash of copper curls was swallowed by the afternoon crowds, well, that was his business.