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j-j-ehlby-writes · 6 years ago

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Fate (c.e.) (1/6)

Chapter One- Coincidence

Pairing: Professor!Chris Evans x Student!OFC

Word count: 5.4k

Summary: fate (noun): the development of events beyond a person's control, regarded as determined by a supernatural power. (verb): be destined to happen, turn out, or act in a particular way.

Amara is about to start her senior year of college with her newly single best friend, Elizabeth. She goes out one night and meets a handsome stranger, Chris. Sparks fly. Fast forward a week and she finds out Chris is her professor. What happens when she also meets Sebastian, a cute guy from another one of her classes?

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“Do you really have to go out tonight? I was hoping we could watch The Notebook and The Last Song again while shoving tons of junk food in our mouths while I bawl my eyes out at how my perfect love story couldn’t be like Ronnie’s and Will’s or Allie’s and Noah’s.” My poor, heartbroken best friend, Elizabeth complains while watching me straighten my hair.

“We’ve been binge-watching Nicholas Sparks movies for the past three days. I need to rejoin civilization, even if you’re not ready to.” I run the straightener down the last chunk of hair before shutting it off and setting it back down in my bathroom sink. I love her to death and I’ve been as supportive as I possibly can through this break-up, but there’s only so much Nicholas Sparks and junk food that a girl can take before she goes nuts.

“But, I’m shattered.” She whines, leaning against the doorway.

“I know, which is why I’m not forcing you to go out with me. You take as much time as you need to recover. Just remember, we start our senior year of college in a week.” I pat the top of her extremely messy bun and continued applying my liquid foundation.

She sulks, “You’re no fun,” before finally leaving me in peace.

I finish with my foundation before moving to my eyebrows. I fill them in with a deep brown eye shadow to shape my heart-shaped face. I apply a shimmer, cream colored eye shadow to my eyelids to make them pop. I use black eyeliner to draw on my top lid. Last, but not least, I added mascara on my top lashes. I spritz some body spray all over for the finishing touch. I double-check my appearance in the full-length mirror on the back of my door. With a nod of satisfaction, I’m finally ready to go.

“Damn, you look hot Rems. You could turn a gay man, straight.” Elizabeth bellows from the couch, covered in numerous blankets and pillows, already snacking on another pint of ice cream. I feel bad leaving her after her asshole of an ex broke up with her after four years together over text message. Oh, the ass-kicking I wanted to deliver to his doorstep… They started dating in high school, went through the long-distance thing while we went away for school and he stayed in our hometown, and beat the odds until recently when all they’ve been doing is fighting. As her best friend since ninth grade, after our common ex screwed her over, thus us becoming friends, I heard all about it. I was starting to think that maybe they weren’t meant for each other and so were they. It technically was a mutual break-up because they both agreed that their relationship wasn’t working anymore, but he instigated it. Therefore, it’s his fault my best friend has been wallowing in self-pity on the couch in our living room for the past seventy-two hours. You can see why I need a break.

I wink her way while slipping my cross-bodied purse over my shoulder. “That was the plan!” I lean over the back of the couch, placing a quick smooch on her cheek. “Call me if you need anything.” Her shaking her head is the last thing I saw before I shut the door. Freedom at last.

I descend the three flights of stairs to the underground garage where my car sits. I climb in and am on my way to my favorite little bar in town. It‘s a Wednesday night so I knew I could escape there without having to be bothered by too many people. I just needed a getaway. I pull into the parking lot moments later and walk in. The bartender knows me because Lizzie and I have worked here since we started school. I find my seat at the bar and my favorite drink is there waiting for me. I chug it down before slamming the glass back on the bar.

“Bad day?” Robert, the bartender and owner, asks already making another one. He’s owned this place for longer than I’ve been alive. He’s almost like a second dad to both Lizzie and me. Without the over-protectiveness and judgmental attitude. And he’s not like other people his age. He likes today’s music, but nothing pop or rap. If anybody blares that “nonsense” in his bar, they are out. He’s more of the rock and alternative type, which he plays in the bar a.k.a. one of the main reasons I come here.

“Bad week. Liz and Robbie broke up on Sunday.” That was all I needed to say for him to have my favorite food ordered. I look around the bar, not surprised to see only handful of people at the tables. Wednesday is a slow night, which is the way I like it. I can hear the music over the speakers better that way instead of everybody’s constant, loud chatter.

I decide to go easy on my second drink now that I got the first one out of the way. I don’t want to get hammered tonight. That isn’t the reason for this outing. I check my phone to see if Lizzie sent me anything only to find nothing, thankfully. I put it back in my purse just as my food is placed in front of me. Deep-fried green beans with ranch dressing and a bacon cheeseburger with pickles, ketchup, and crunchy peanut butter. The chef here calls it the Skippy burger for obvious reasons. It’s the most amazing burger I’ve ever tasted. I will never order anything else from here, ever.

Well after I had inhaled my food like the lady that I am, I continue to sit at the bar and listen to the music. I take out a small notebook from my purse and continue writing in a book I was writing. I also like coming here because it’s a great place to get my creative juices flowing. It’s basically what I would be doing at my own apartment, the music is just louder and there’s more people around. I was just pausing to think of what to write next, when someone speaks to me.

“Whatchya writin’?”

I look to see who that deep, baritone voice came from. To my right is probably the most beautiful man I had ever seen sitting a couple seats down from me. His golden brown hair is slicked back. His eyes are a light color, but he’s too far away to decipher exactly what color they were. He’s fair skinned and not a blemish in site. He’s smirking at me with beautiful full lips and straight white teeth. He has facial hair, which I normally find revolting, that was hiding an incredible jawline, only added to his sexy factor. And that’s only his face. He’s built. His torso is long and defined. He has broad, muscular shoulders that stretched his poor t-shirt he wore. His arms are thick, too. He could easily bench me more than enough times- and I’m not small by any means. His biceps make the sleeves of his white, short sleeve, V-neck stretch just enough to show how big they truly were. From what I could tell, he looks to be tall- one of his feet is resting easily on the floor while sitting at the bar stool. I can’t touch the floor if I tried. He’s just gorgeous. Plain and simple. And he’s talking to me.

“I’m sorry for prying. You were so intensely writing, I had to ask.” He sends me an apologetic smile which nearly knocked me off this stool. Dear Lord…

Do I be snarky and say mind your own damn business? Or do I tell him the truth about what I’m writing? He seems like a decent guy just from the few sentences he’s thrown my way. And he’s hot. Way too hot to be a bitch to.

“Just jotting down all of the ways I could kill every single person in the bar and make it look like an accident.” So, I decide to go the sarcastic route. At least I had hoped that I came across as cynical and not sound like a total lunatic that needs to be committed. According to the sweet sound of his laughter, I was successful.

“Oh yeah? What are some of those ways?” He inquires, angling his body more towards me preparing for my answer.

I fake a gasp, pressing my notebook to my chest, hiding the “contents” from any prying eyes. “A sociopath never reveals their methods.” His laughter continues, his hand is thrown over his heart, making my heart feel like it was soaring. Don’t ask me why.

“Is that your spin on ‘magicians never reveal their secrets’?” His eyes sparkle even in this horrible lighting. How is that even possible?

“Maybe,” I shrug. He’s right though. I guess that was my twisted take on that saying. I just thought it would work in this situation if I tweaked it to fit.

The beautiful stranger moves to the chair right next to mine. “I’m Chris.” He holds his rather large hand out towards me.

I place my hand in his. His fingers curl around my hand, dwarfing it. “Amara.” Amara Remington. Elizabeth calls me Remi and she’s the only one allowed to. I call her Lizzie and I’m the only one allowed to as well. It’s a great friendship we have going here.

“Well Amara, what’s a beautiful girl like you doing at a bar on a Wednesday night?” He takes another sip from his drink. Every move he makes is so fluid and natural… Is this guy even real?

“It’s the slowest night of the week. I like to come here for the food and to listen to the music.” If I was going to get anywhere with this guy, friend drama is not something to bring up right away. I most definitely want to see if this will go anywhere. Even if it’s just for a night.

“I could tell by the way you inhaled that burger. It must have been good.” He chuckles while I most certainly did not. Thank God for the poor lighting in here, I must have turned either beat red from embarrassment or stark white from mortification. That burger was so messy. I was licking my fingers right and left and wiping my face after every single bite. I must have looked like a pig! And he still called me beautiful?

“I can’t believe you saw that and are still wanting to talk to me.” I want the floor to turn into a black hole and swallow me up. How did I not see him before? I for sure would have noticed him when I sat down. I must have been so engrossed in my food that I was oblivious to my surroundings. Damn that delicious burger.

“It was endearing, actually,” He admits.

Is he nuts? Or just blind? “How could that have possibly been ‘endearing’?”

“I like a girl who isn’t afraid to make a mess while eating and who doesn’t care about counting calories and all that weird stuff that people do nowadays.” He shrugs like it was no big deal. “So, I was wondering if you weren’t too full from dinner, maybe we could go get some dessert? I saw this little bakery down the street that I’d like to try out.”

Was he asking me out? If so, jeez he’s forward. But hey, I’m not complaining. I know exactly which bakery he’s talking about and it’s phenomenal. That’s where Liz and I go for our comfort food during our time of the month. It’s remarkable. I could go for one of their fluffy cupcakes. I happily agreed, left some cash on the bar, and we walked out.

When we were walking down the sidewalk, my previous assumption about him was true. He’s taller than me. I have to look up at him in order to talk to him, making him at least 6’0”. I found out he’s from Boston. He just moved here to start a new job. He has two sisters and one brother. His favorite sport is football, he’s a diehard Patriots fan. He loves Disney as much as an adult as he did as a child. He was passionate about space and politics, going off on an elongated tangent on our current Commander-in-Chief. He even had to interrupt himself when he went on his rant. I didn’t mind watching him. One of my favorite things is watching someone talk about something they’re passionate about.

We finally made it to the bakery and each got a treat for each other that we wanted the other person to try. I had him get a triple chocolate brownie to be safe, and he had me get a piece of key lime pie since I had never had it before. We stroll down the block to the small park that was completely empty. We eat our desserts and just talk about random things. He'd ask me questions and vice versa. He’s so easy to talk to. I feel like I had known him for years instead of an hour.

After we're done eating, we decide to hit the swings. We have a contest to see who could get the highest the fastest. I welcome the challenge even if I knew I was going to lose. My shorter legs are at my disadvantage here. Establishing that he was the winner, he decides to be reckless and jump off when he got to the highest he could. He almost made the perfect landing, but he stumbled a little and wound up falling to the ground. I laugh so hard, I have to clutch my stomach at his silliness while I tried to slow myself down.

When I’m low enough to where I could get off safely, he’s walking towards me, looking determined. He doesn’t stop, even when I almost hit him. He calmly grabs the cold chains and keeps going until I’m well off the ground and our faces are impossibly close. It's the first time since I met him that I felt nervous. I tighten my grip on the chains and lock my ankles together underneath the seat. His eyes flicker to my lips for a split second before speaking.

He grunts, “One last question.” All I could do was nod, so he continues, “Do you believe in coincidences?”

I take a second to think about the concept of “coincidences.” I do believe everything happens for a reason. There was a reason why I decided to come out tonight instead of any other night. There was a reason why I came to this bar at the time I did and had the food I did because that caught his attention. And there’s a reason why I had the ideas I absolutely had to write down, which got him to talk to me. Same thing goes for him. Every decision we’ve made up until now has brought us here in this park, on this swing, in this position. So, do I think that it’s a coincidence that we were brought together tonight?

“Yes.”

In a second, his lips lock with mine. I respond quickly, hands pulling his face even closer as my legs wrap around his waist as his hands support my backside. As we deepen the kiss, he lays us down onto the rocks with me straddling him. Our lips move in sync as we both deepen the kiss. His lips are everything I thought they would be: soft and plump. His kisses are gentle, but full of passion. I feel how passionate he was all the way down to my toes. One thing I liked was he never pushed his tongue in my mouth. I hate when people automatically thrust their tongue in someone else’s mouth as soon as their lips make contact.

His hands wander up my back and tangle into my hair. Mine wander down to his pecks and around his shoulders, which are incredibly firm. I’ve never been so close with a guy this fast. But, despite everything inside telling me not to, it feels… right. Every fiber of my being tells me this is right, that I was supposed to be here in this moment with him, that I was meant to be with him…Which is why I need to stop this now.

I try to pull away, but every time I do, he would just bring his lips back to mine making me not want to leave. I knew I had to though before this went any further. I gently push on his chest so I can sit up, separating our lips. “Oh God, I need to leave now.” I get off of him and start to walk away.

“Where ya goin’?” He calls after me, sitting up on his elbows now.

“Home before we both do something we regret. I had a great time tonight. Hope your new job goes well!” I jog down the road, back to the bar to obtain my car.

I make my way home resisting the urge to let the butterflies in my stomach influence the smile that wants to form on my face. Lizzie is not going to believe the story I’m about to tell her… I’m not even sure I believe it. Did that really happen or did I imagine it? When I park my car in the underground ramp, I take out my notebook to see if I had written it, thinking it happened. But nothing I wrote tonight reflected the events that happened in real life. But how could one human being be so perfect? He was the easiest person to talk to, made me feel so at ease with him, and incredibly handsome. And the way he made me feel? It was indescribable. Butterflies in my stomach when he looked at me, palms sweating when he was close to me, the sparks I felt when he touched me… Chris. Such a simple name for the perfect guy.

I climb up the stairs back to the apartment. I close the door and lean against it, still in a trance. Now that I'm in the privacy of my own home, the cheek-hurting smile that was begging to come out makes its appearance.

“You’re back earlier than I expected.” Elizabeth was talking while she was in the kitchen, but when she comes into the living room, she gasps. “You totally met a guy!!” She shrieks after seeing my face. “Tell me everything! And I mean every detail. Don’t leave anything out!” She drags me to the couch, forcing me to sit down.

So, I do tell her everything. From the second I got to the bar, to coming home; from every thought I’ve had to everything I’ve felt. She squeals through the entire story, expressing her excitement for me. She then asks me when I was going to see him again.

Every thought I’ve had within the past couple hours is gone. I never got his number, where his new job is, or even his last name. There’s no way I can get into contact with him. I sigh falling over onto my best friend’s lap. “Never,” I groan.

“What do you mean?”

“I have no way to contact him or know where to find him. I never got his phone number or his last name.” I groan again wanting to crawl into a ball and mourn the loss of the love I will never have with this guy.

“There’s more ice cream in the freezer.”

“I’ll get a spoon.”

For the last week of freedom we had, we wallow in pity on the couch. The thoughts of Chris are always on my mind. His smile, his laugh, his kisses… Ugh why didn’t I at least get his number? I wonder if he feels the same way about it or if he’s completely forgotten all about me by now. That thought depressed me even more.

We watch every rom-com we can find and consume copious amounts of ice cream in this last week. So, when the first day of school comes, we reluctantly peel our butts off the couch to rejoin civilization. We shower and get ready in our rooms. I straighten my hair before putting half of it up into a bun, and do my make-up with eyeliner and mascara, and fill in my eyebrows. I brush my teeth and wait for Liz to be done so we can leave. Our classes start at the same time so we decided beforehand to ride together.

Once we got to campus, we agree to meet up for lunch at one after our first couple classes. I head to my first class, English 5116: Advanced Writing of Fiction. It’s one of my final classes for my major in English with a concentration on Creative Writing before I start my internship next semester. I heard from past students that it’s a hard class, but that was with the old professor. Said professor retired last year, so they had to hire a new one. There wasn’t any news of who the new professor is or his or her teaching style, so this should be interesting.

I find the lecture room with plenty of time to spare. This lecture room is like any other. It’s smaller than normal ones on campus; there are only five rows of ten seats to each row, all curved so it formed a semi-circle around the room. There’s a wooden podium off to the right side of the front and a huge projector screen just waiting for something to appear on the screen. I descend the stairs, and choose a seat close to the front. I found out during my freshman year that I learn better when I’m in the first couple rows. I take out the designated notebook for the class, write the date on the top line, and wait.

There’s still ten minutes ‘til the class starts so I also take out my story and see if I could continue where I left off. More and more people pile in as it gets closer to start time. There isn’t any sign of the professor yet. I hope that he or she is late. I think I have where I want my characters to go next and I don’t want to lose my train of thought.

But then everyone hears the bang of the door closing, startling everyone. “Alright, everyone. Welcome to Advanced Writing of Fiction. I am Mr. Evans, the professor for this course. You may call me Mr. E. or Evans. I will answer to either.” He trots down the stairs, handing stacks of papers to the first person in each row until he gets to the front of the room. My heart does that leaping thing just listening to him speak. What the hell is wrong with me? I look up to see why that happened. A gasp escapes and I think my heart stops completely.

Chris? The guy I met in the bar was standing at the front of my classroom. The guy I had an amazing make out session with is my professor. Oh boy…

He keeps talking about something I couldn’t tell you about because my mind went into shock. He looked so different in a tight, white button-up with a black tie, black slacks and shiny black dress shoes. His hair is done the exact same way it was in the bar. His facial hair looked shorter than it was before. But it was his eyes that looked the most different. In the bar, they looked vibrant and full of life. Now, they look flat and uninviting. I wanted to know why.

“I will not have a formal sign-in sheet,” an overwhelming relief falls over the entire room. “But, there will be a daily written submission due at the end of class every day.” Just like that, said relief was gone. I didn’t mind really. I love making short stories. “The submissions can be from something you’re currently working on, or something you make up on the fly. It doesn’t matter to me. But please, a five-page maximum. I do have a life outside this class.” Chuckles peppered the room.

“I am a little bit old fashioned, so you will have to physically turn it in to me. I will be copying them and handing them back to you at the beginning of each class. I will be keeping a profile of said copied excerpts until the end of the semester. I will meet with each of you three times this semester. First meeting will be to get to know you and your writing style. Second will be at mid-terms to check-up and see how your works have improved throughout the first half and see what there is left to improve on. And the last meeting will be a final assessment of how you have advanced in the writing of fiction.” His pun is cleverly placed and very funny. I wonder how many times he practiced that one at home.

“Now, there will be no formal tests.” Again, relief washed over the room. “The excerpts that you write are your tests to see if you are grasping the concept of what I am teaching you. If you need extra help, my office hours are on the syllabus. Feel free to make an appointment during those hours and I will happily help you with whatever you need.”

“He can help me with something else.” I hear a girl whisper suggestively in the row behind me. I roll my eyes. Does she really think he’s going to be anything more than her professor?

“Since today is the first day of class, how about we go around the room and introduce ourselves? Say your name, major, and what kinds of things you like to write about.” He pulls a chair out from behind the podium, placing it in the middle of the front, sitting on it backwards. He starts in the back row so I was safe until the end since I'm the first person in the front row. Everyone’s answers to what major they were and what kinds of things they liked to write about were all different. From aspiring authors to journalists and poems to novels; so many different combinations.

As it got closer to me, the more nervous I got. Would he recognize me? How will be react to seeing me again and realizing he made out with one of his students? Will he freak? No, probably not. He most likely wouldn’t want anyone to know what occurred between us. Would he request that I transfer out of this class because it’d be too weird? I don’t know what I would do if he did. I need this class to graduate this spring. I might have to beg and plead for him to let me stay if that’s the case.

When it got to me, I try not to look at him for fear of seeing his real reaction. But I had to know what it was. When our eyes lock, nothing happens. His expression never falters. No sign of recognition, fear, shock- nothing. That should be a good thing, right? I can stay in this class and not be weird… But then why does my heart hurt?

“I’m Amara. I’m an English major with a concentration on Creative Writing. And I mostly write novels.”

“What kind of novels?” He pries for more.

“Romance, mostly. Some fantasy. Just depends on my mood,” I shrug, “but they’re definitely all fiction.”

“Well I look forward to reading every one of your submissions.” He concludes, turning back to the rest of the class. “Now, with the rest of the time we have, which is about an hour, I want you to write whatever you want to write about. Your first day, the greatest party you’ve ever been to, the love of your life, anything you want. Just keep it clean, please. This will give me an idea of what I’m dealing with this semester.” He stands up from the chair. “When you’re done, you can leave.” He goes back behind the podium and just stands watch.

I look down at my notebook and nothing. Nothing came out. Zero ideas. Nada. Zilch. El zippo. What the hell am I supposed to do now? I guess I could jot down something from the story I have with me… But that’s personal. I don’t know if I want him to read something so personal to me. Not yet anyway.

I glance back up at him, only to find him staring back at me. I observe the classroom to see everyone writing furiously in their own notebooks. When I bring my eyes back to him, he's holding up a piece of paper. It reads: “Class after this?” I shake my head. He sets the paper back down, scribbling something else down. “Be the last one out” was the next thing he said.

Oh gosh, he does recognize me. And he wants me to stay after. My heart started racing just thinking of what he might want to say to me… I nod once before focusing back to my still blank paper. What could I possibly write about that will get my mind off what’s going to happen after class? I could write about how I felt when my childhood cat died. That’s still personal, but less personal than my novels. It was decided then.

An hour and three and a half pages later, I break out of my trance to see I was the last person still working. Chris is still behind the podium, watching me with what looked like amazement. “You okay?” He asks, breaking the silence. It was in that moment that I realized I had tears running down my face. I immediately run my hands over my face, trying to erase all the wetness on my cheeks and chin. It’s been four years since my cat died and I still get emotional about it when I talk or think about it.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a sore subject.” I jot down my name at the top before tearing out the pages.

“You had a pretty intense look for the entire time you were writing again.” He smirks at me again. I pack up my stuff then bring my submission over to him. He continues, “You always have that look when you’re writing. I’ve never seen someone so engrossed in their work before.”

“You’ll see why when you read it.” I hand it to him reluctantly.

“You know, I knew it was you the second I saw you.” He blurts after a silent moment. “I was wondering if I was ever going to see you again, and now here you are.”

“Your student.”

“My... student.” He repeats slowly.

“What are we gonna do? I can drop out of your class, if it’d be too weird.”

“Why would it be weird? We’re both adults. We can be rational about it. It was before I knew you were my student. No harm, no foul.” He shrugs, brushing it off as if it were no big deal at all.

“So, we’re okay?” I ask confused by how calm and nonchalant he was about everything. Maybe he didn’t care about me, like I cared about him…

“Absolutely. I’ll see you on Wednesday.” He grabs the rest of the papers and started up the stairs. I follow when he disappeared from the room.

He can forget everything just like that? He has been on my mind every second of the day since that night. How could I feel so much for him and him feel nothing? He was like a completely different person from when I saw him last. The Chris I met was passionate, careless, and full of life whereas this one was cold and stoic. I guess being in his class will be easier than I originally thought…

I shake it off and went to find Lizzie. She is going to die when I tell her everything.

Chapter Two- Fortune

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