Forbidden Love

A New Friend

I check my watch for the thousandth time, itching to flee from the classroom. Professor Romero keeps sending me smoldering looks that make my insides turn to jello. Every time his eyes brush over me I feel a wave of heat, which ends up turning my cheeks an unflatteringly bright red.

It hadn't taken long for me to abandon my ideas of his douchiness. He had meant the best, and even if he did sound cocky with his "your welcome" statement, that was better than being a man who followed a woman around. I flush, remembering the way his arm had rested on my shoulder.

The feelings that swirl through my body are wrong. Especially because they're aimed towards a teacher. Is it terrible that all I want is to feel his lips on mine? Is it awful that I want to hear him say my name in that rough voice of his? Is it horrible if every time I glance at him I feel butterfly wings in my stomach?

My heart hammers as his eyes meet mine for a brief second full of tension. It isn't necessarily the sexual kind, although something of the sort lingers beneath our gaze. Nonetheless, I feel shivers rake through my body, leaving me shaking.

The person next to me sends a concerned glance my way, "Is everything okay?" A girl with short blonde hair smiles, eyes narrowing in on my shaking hands.

"Just overwhelmed, I guess. I moved from Spain a few weeks ago and yesterday was my first day back in school." I force a tight smile on my face.

"Must be hard to make such a big move!" The girl raises her eyebrows, "Do you speak Spanish?" She looks hopeful as if no one in America spoke Spanish.

"Yeah, a little." I nod, anticipating what her next words would be.

"Say something," She demands, turning in her seat to watch me.

I roll my eyes, "Me llamo Catalina. ¿Cómo te llamas?"

"Me llamo Georgia. Vamos a ser grandes amigas!"

"You speak Spanish as well?" I grin, this time I didn't have to force it.

"A little."

"Ms. Vanderpool? Ms. Martinez?" Professor Romero calls out, Georgia's head turns towards him. A twinge of pink graces my cheeks as his eyes settle on me. Georgia buries her head back in the computer in front of her, sparing me a quick look.

I try to refocus on the text before my eyes but his gaze drills holes in my skull. My eyes scroll along the paragraph, scanning every line with hazy eyes.

Finally, the lecture is over and I spend no time escaping the room. He continues to watch me, even as I've crossed the threshold. It's like he actually cared. Like I was more than just some student. But how could I be when we'd only talked twice.

I'm quickly joined by Georgia. She half-jogs beside me as I keep a brisk pace. Now that I know my way back to the dorm, thanks to Professor Romero who led me home last night, I can get back faster.

"Hey, you okay?" Georgia pants, gesturing for me to slow down, "You were in quite a hurry to get out of there."

I set a slower pace, "Yeah, I'm just having a rough day. Like I said, just moved back from Spain and I still need to adjust to the time difference." I murmur, wondering why I have to answer to this girl, especially because I just met her. Granted, she was probably the first person I'd met, not including Mr. Romero, of course.

"It seems different," Georgia prods, attempting to look me in the eye while we walk, "I don't mean to be nosy or anything." She averts her gaze, realizing how she's acting.

"It's fine and you're right. I guess, there's something up with Professor Romero. I don't know, it's like..." I pause, trying to think of a good reason for the feelings I have.

"All the girls in class have a crush on him, you know." Georgia states matter-of-factly, "It's perfectly normal."

I take a deep breath, "That's what it must be. Just a crush."

"Hey, you want to go get coffee?" Georgia asks, pointing to a cute little shop, "It's my favorite place to study... and the barista sometimes slips vodka in if you ask nicely!" I grin, happy to rid my mind of the infatuation that's currently growing in my body.

I follow her into the coffee shop and back to the last booth. The shop is lit with tiny crystal lights that hang between the walls, weaving a luminescent web above my head. The booth we sit in is small, with velvet cushions and a vase full of silky roses in the center.

If it weren't a small coffee shop on campus I'd think it was a high-end bar downtown. The setting was borderline romantic, but since I was simply dining with a new friend the feelings were lost on me.

"So what's it like in Spain?" Georgia leans across the table to stare into my eyes.

"It's, well, it's a lot different. The architecture is like nothing else and it's busy. Tall skyscrapers, crowded sidewalks, street scalpers, I guess it's sort of like New York City. I wouldn't know though, since I've never been there." I fade off, awkwardly glancing towards the waitress who's been waiting for a minute or two.

"What can I get you?" She asks, turning towards Georgia with a grin. Clearly, the two of them know each other.

"I'll have a Caramel Macchiato please and thank you," Georgia orders, rattling off the two words without a second thought, "And if you wouldn't mind adding a little-"

"No problem," The waitress grins, jotting down Georgia's order, "And you?" The waitress turns to me.

"I'll have the mocha," I close the small menu, setting it back on the dark wood.

"You were telling me about Spain," Georgia prompts, reverting back to her leaning position.

"Oh yeah. I guess I really miss it. I almost wish I was still there, but my family moved back and so I moved with them. I'm really close with my brother and wanted to be able to see him often." I flush, realizing how sad I sound, "Do I sound really pathetic right now?"

"Not at all!" She cries, her bleach-blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders. Her icy blue eyes widen.

"Good," I sigh, "Good."

It feels comforting to talk to someone about everything that's going on in my life. Especially the pain I felt when I left Spain. Back in Spain, I had friends. Back in Spain, I had a job. Back in Spain, I had a boyfriend. Back in Spain, I had a life. Moving to Louisiana was like starting over. Having a new beginning, which I guess some people need, but not me. I didn't want a new beginning.

I wish I'd been telling the truth when I'd told her I moved because of my brother. But I wasn't. I was running. AM running. And I'm never going to stop.