Love Novice (Completed) Season 1 In Ben and Am's Romance

Chapter 25: Poetry

Wow.

The unexpected rawness of the words. The emotional delivery. I'm burning up and my chest teams with unraveled feelings. I expel a deep sigh and give Ben a sideways glance. His intense and searching eyes survey my face. All at once, I can imagine his face leaning to me, closing the distance between us—his lips on mine, slow, warm, yet urgent.

But that's not what happens. Ben turns to the podium as the next poem is on the screen. I lick my lips, my breath uneven, my chest still tight, and feel a gentle, almost feather-like caress of fingers over the top of my left hand, tracing a path from my fingertips to the sleeve of my shirt. Once, twice. I want to turn my palm up and lace my fingers with his. Experience that connection we had in the library again. Only more.

"And this request comes from Linda B.," says Dr. Froeber. "It's a hard one to read, but a fascinating one to look at, so make sure you examine the screen. I'll do my best to do it justice."

Linda. Her name is better than a bucket of cold water. Ben's here on a date with Linda. I jerk away from Ben's touch and stick my hand into my right armpit and attempt to squeeze it into numbness. I don't look back at Ben. I fume inside; the absurdity of the situation isn't lost on me. Is it the impact of poetry? I shouldn't be overreacting to Ben's touch like this. But his proximity amplifies how deep the poignant lines of the poem reached into my gut, responsible for stirring the lust I had no right to feel for him.

Dr. Frober fulfills the rest of the poem requests and adds two more of his favorites to round up the evening. The desire to run away from interacting with Ben in front of Linda takes over and instead of listening, I contemplate my exit strategy. Everyone claps. I grab my bag ready to use this opportunity to scutter away. But damn. A middle-aged woman in a dark green dress, walks up right next to me, blocks the aisle, and makes an announcement about the topic of the following month's reading. She keeps talking, asking everyone to fold their chairs and take them to the storage room—she waves behind her, indicating its whereabouts. Double damn. Why can't I be a chair and escape into the safety of the back room.

Ben suggested on the phone that I could 'just leave'. There's no way I can slip out, but I can delay the inevitable meet-and-greet with Linda-the-librarian. I rocket out of my chair and approach Dr. Froeber at the podium. I ask him some meaningless questions, babbling praise and beaming at the tall and bulky aging professor. Maybe Ben sees I'm busy and leaves.

Who am I kidding? I can feel his eyes drilling holes in my back.

Another woman steps up and sees me taking a breath as the invitation to join the conversation and launch into her own tirade of praise for the professor. Seriously? She couldn't wait her turn? I huff, clutch my damp raincoat to my chest, and face the very couple I was set on avoiding. I'm doing it but I don't have to like it.

Ben stands in the same spot he sat minutes ago. The attendees removed most of their chairs, and an employee is folding the remaining ones. A surprising amount of litter covers the hip poured-concrete floor where the small audience spent barely more than an hour. The middle-aged lady announcer from earlier is moving the detritus with a push broom away from us, eyeing our trio with tight lips and narrowed eyes. Leftover people linger in small groups by the stacks.

Three folded chairs lean against Ben's right thigh. Linda, to his left, has her arm snaked through the crook of his elbow, preventing him from grabbing the chairs or carrying them to the storage room. They aren't talking, but rather watching me, waiting for my approach, like two figurines from the Barrel of Monkeys that were joined together by a child.

"Hi." Linda waves the delicate fingers of her free hand. That spurs Ben into action.

"Amélie." He remains where he was, burdened by Linda and the chairs, summoning me to him. "Let me introduce you to Linda."