Complements

Robin Lewis isn't looking for X, not a relationship.

Manderson College boasts one of the most prestigious math departments in the country, and a social life won't do much to impress the faculty. What will is a dedication to perfection and putting in long hours of study: a system that works great for Robin until she literally bumps into Hawk Stephens, the department's night custodian. Soon, she discovers Hawk can do more than sweep the halls. If she's not careful, he'll sweep her right off her feet.

Robin wants to resist the attraction, but it's hard to ignore the way he seems so perfect for her. But when she finds out Hawk is so much more than he seems, embroiled by the fallout of his own regretful decisions, she questions if two such broken people can ever add up to a whole.

When Prof. Ferris tells me the details of my first assignment, I’m certain I’ve misunderstood.
“I’m … what?”
She looks at me with concern, perhaps doubting that I am really the gifted, capable student my GRE scores and recommendations suggest. Maybe she’s questioning, as do I, if I’m really qualified to be a degree candidate in this university at all. As I’m lucky to be. As I’m only able to be because this job will help me pay my not-insignificant tuition.
She stares down her nose through a pair of green-rimmed glasses and repeats what is, in fact, very simple information. “You’ll be giving your first presentation tomorrow morning, to our community education Remedial Algebra class. They meet at eight o’clock. The departmental secretary will email you the building and room number.”
When I was hired by the Mathematics Outreach Program, I envisioned myself giving life-altering talks in front of wide-eyed primary school kids, maybe even a few middle school classes. I’ve prepared my presentations assuming I’d be working with the preteen crowd. Next to the desk in my office, round tubes filled with rainbow-colored, whimsical posters mock me. I’m quite certain the legally-able-to-vote crowd won’t think much of my bug-eyed number people or the caricatures of mathematical operators I spent hours drawing over the last month.
Prof. Ferris fixes her expectant gaze on me. As a new student, I’ll be required to find a faculty member to serve as my advisor by the end of the first term. Making a good impression on Prof. Ferris will hopefully inspire her to pass a glowing recommendation onto Prof. Lamertus, my target faculty.
Allowing a smile to crack across my face, I simmer before answering. “Of course. Remedial Algebra at the community education center. Looking forward to it.”
Before I started my position-slash-student life at Manderson University, a thick manila envelope arrived, filled with guidance on how to prepare presentation materials. Scanning my memory of those inserts, I try to remember if anything specifically suggested a chance of working with adults. I do recall phrases like “bright primary colors” and “brief, non-technical words,” and fret if I’ll serve as an example of why one shouldn’t “assume.” Regardless, I can’t dwell. As things stand, I now have less than a day to retool my materials for the new audience, not to mention all of the work assigned during the first week of classes waiting on the desk. I’ll be up till midnight as it is.
An hour later, I grab a cup of coffee from the cafeteria as I haul a bag of supplies bought hastily from the campus bookstore. My officemate, a mousy brunette and sweat-pants devotee named Betsy Wade, snickers at me as she heads out for the night.
“You’re never going to prepare a whole presentation in one night,” she says.
With her wire-rimmed glasses and nasally tone, she defines every cliché of female book nerd ever concocted, right down to the haughty, know-it-all tone and snorting laugh. The second year student and I barely speak, thank God. Though I don’t like judging people until I’ve had a chance to know them, two weeks have been enough for me to conclude that Betsy is what my grandmother would have called a “lemon-sucking sourpuss.”
“It took me four days to do all of my materials when I prepared them last year,” she snarls out. “And you’re definitely not me.”
I perform a mental inventory of everything I have on hand. “You don’t know me well, Betsy. I work best under pressure and against the wire. I can, and will, make this happen.”
For the next several hours, I alternate for thirty minutes at a time between crafting and doing my course work. By the time I finish my assignments and have some adult-friendly visual aids, the sun’s already set. I groan as I realize the bus route that passes my apartment stopped operating a half hour ago. I can still bike home, but there’s no way I’ll be able to carry the poster boards that I’m barely managing safely now. I’ll have to come back to campus early with my car to pick up everything for the morning, which annoys me to no end. Finding parking available to students anywhere near Yang Hall is like trying to find a single flea among a pride of lions. As I ride down the elevator and try to think of solutions, the obvious occurs to me.
Stumbling out at the first floor, I know I look comical trying to balance my lunch box, my laptop bag, and everything else. Thankfully at this late hour, the only other people in the building are hardcore grad students who couldn’t be pried away from their computer screens with a crowbar. I’ve never actually been in the shipping and receiving room during the two weeks I’ve been on campus, but I’m delighted when I reach the corner of the building and the door I’ve passed many times without a second glance. It’s unlocked.
Expecting the lights to be out, I’m surprised instead when a fluorescent glow spills over me as I crack the door. I push it with my hip, not realizing how the rug just inside of the room wedges … until my foot hooks on it. Before I can get my bearings, I’m lose my balance and the floor is coming up fast to meet me. A wave of pain hits, and whatever made its way down with me bends beneath me. Expletives dance a fiery tango in the air. I’m assessing the damage before trying to rise, making sure not to destroy my hard work anymore than I already have, when I see a hand out of the corner of my eye.
“You okay?”
Unnaturally blue eyes survey me through a spray of ash-blond hair, concern and amusement mixed in his expression. At first, I’m convinced that I’ve actually hit my head during my fall, because I’ve never seen a boy … a man, who looked this good rush across a room to offer me assistance. Then again, I haven’t fallen flat on my face so epically since I was eight and my ballet class performed a number from Swan Lake. I wonder if there’s actually something to the klutz strategy of flirting.
My eyes meet his, but I’m still not moving. “I think so.” A 180-degree survey tells me the crash zone isn’t as widespread as I first feared, confirming that the nudging sensations on my chest and hip must be my laptop bag and lunch box. With a sigh, I give a spot-on impression of downward-facing dog and rock back on my feet. He pulls back his hand and instead wraps an arm around my hips, tugging me up.
“Easy there,” he says. “That was a nasty fall. Move slowly. Did you break anything?”
With an exasperated sigh, I look at the crushed cylinder still on the floor. “I don’t think so. I’m fine, but I can’t say the same for my posters.”
He withdraws his supportive arm and leans over to fetch the tube. The end cap has already popped off and is laying under a table a few feet away. He holds it out like a telescope and examines the contents.
“I don’t think anything’s creased. Just a dent in the cardboard on the outside.” With a sly grin, he crosses the tube over his front and balances it on his left forearm, like a knight presenting a sword to his liege. “Your poster is safe, milady.”
“Thanks.” Realizing what a goof I probably look like in front of this Adonis, I blush a beet-red. Which makes me wonder what someone with model good looks is doing in the shipping and receiving room of my university building at this hour. He’s dressed in a dark work suit with the arms cut off. Vibrant hues of blue, green, and black are inked across his prominent left bicep, painted in a crisscross pattern that is both foreign and familiar. His dirty blond hair is longer in the front than the back, so that a few pieces cover his eyes as he moves. This is what David Beckham looked like when he was twenty-two, I think, and dare myself not to remember a picture of the famous footballer in his underwear.
He catches me staring and my eyes flash back up to meet his, though I can’t find any words to trail the move.