Got Your Number

might say flashed through her mind, but suddenly they were on the sidewalk across the two-lane street and he looked at her. He stopped chewing and wiped his mouth, then squinted. She smiled, and when he set aside his book and lunch and stood, her heart lifted. She waved over passing cars. He removed his glasses, then jaywalked through slow-moving cars toward them.
    "Roxann?" he said, jogging up to her. "Roxann, is that you?"
    He was more handsome than ever, pale, pale blue eyes surrounded by black lashes. His eyebrows were jet black, thrown into relief against the silvery shock of hair that fell over his wide forehead. His chiseled nose and wide forehead were the same, along with his strong chin. And his smile—how could she have forgotten the gift of his incredible smile? It lit his entire face, and animated his body. That smile was the energy bank that he and people around him drew upon.
    The sights and sounds around them receded. "Yes, Carl, it's me."

Chapter Fourteen

    "I HOPE YOUR COUSIN doesn't mind that I stole you away," Carl said, holding open the door to his office.
    "She said there were a few places on campus she wanted to visit," Roxann said, passing under his arm. She was assailed by that big-person-in-a-small-person-place feeling again. As if all the things around her were props, and Carl was the leading man on stage. Very surreal.
    He stepped in, closed the door, and hung their coats on a hook on the back. When he turned, they simply stood and smiled at each other for a long moment, just as a script might call for. He was divine—longish silvery hair, flattering glasses, chiseled features, sparkling blue eyes, clean-shaven jaw. Action.
    "You haven't changed," he murmured. "Still so beautiful."
    She blushed. "I have changed, but thank you."
    "God, I've missed you." He clasped her shoulders. "Did you get my message about the award? Are you married? How long are you staying?"
    She laughed, and he looked sheepish.
    "Where are my manners? Please sit down. Would you like some coffee or tea?"
    "No, thank you." She sat in the cane-bottomed chair he proffered, comforted by the clichéd clutter of books and papers in the crowded office. How many times had they worked here, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee? "Yes, I received your message about the award, and while I'm flattered, I'll pass. That's why I didn't call you back."
    "I understand."
    "And no, I'm not married."
    He smiled. "I never married, either."
    She was certain her pleasure showed all over her face. "And I'm not sure how long we'll be here. We're staying at Dr. Oney's."
    "Oh. I was hoping..." Then he shook his head. "Never mind. I guess that means you're still working with the women's advocacy program that Nell coordinated?"
    She nodded. "Full-time. More or less."
    He steepled his hands and struck a solemn pose. "I'm so proud of what you've done with your life—the youth of today just don't seem as interested in social responsibility."
    She hooked her hands around her knee, compelled to move past polite platitudes. "I wish I could say I entered the program with pure intentions, but looking back, I think I was only killing time until I heard from you."
    He did have the good grace to squirm before offering up a remorseful noise from his throat. "The board's inquiry came at an unfortunate time."
    She nodded slowly. "I wonder how they knew about us."
    He shrugged. "Someone must have told them, although it didn't seem important at the time to ask who—the damage was done. I assumed you had shared our relationship with another student."
    Roxann bristled. "I didn't."
    He didn't believe her, she could tell. "Well, it's neither here nor there."
    An awkward silence fell, which Roxann stubbornly refused to break. She waited, for what she wasn't sure—perhaps a bended-knee apology for not having defended their nonsexual relationship?
    "So...you're happy?" he inquired.
    She nodded. "I haven't regretted the path my life has taken."
    "I'm glad."
    Roxann surveyed the numerous awards on his wall, including a shelf of soccer trophies. It struck her as a bit juvenile for anyone other than a ten-year-old or a professional athlete to display his trophies, but she wondered how much of her resentment came from the glaring proof that his life had gone on, seemingly un-fazed, after she left. "I see you've been successful."
    He smiled. "Thank you."
    They spoke at the same time.
    "I saw—"
    "—your photo—"
    "—in the alumni—"
    "—newsletter."
    They both