Definitely, Maybe in Love

destroying the environment. Yeah, I know, this isn’t news, but I’m trying to prove that the continued usage of developed land could be even worse; it should be revitalized back into nature. No new patches of forests or mountainsides or wetlands are suddenly going to appear in the middle of an urban system. We’ve got all we’re ever going to have right now, today. And it’s not enough.”

“Isn’t that an overly simplistic way of looking at it?” he asked.

I stared across the table at him. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look, do you want to hear the rest of this or do you want to argue?”

His eyebrows pulled together like he was about to say something else, but then he shut his mouth and sat back.

“Like I was saying.” I gave him a look. “At this rate, we’re going to be living in a dystopian world in three generations.”

“A what?”

“Dystopia. The yang of utopia. Think: opposite of the Garden of Eden. Like The Hunger Games. Have you read that?”

He shook his head, bewildered.

“It’s a novel, similar to 1984 in the—”

“You’re getting your research from novels?”

“Of course not. I was making a comparison.” I kneaded a fist into my temple, annoyed with all the derailing. “Anyway, what I mean is, we have to take back industrial land, that’s the only way to save it. I’ve got the environmental research, but Masen, my professor, wants me to learn more about the business end, the economics of it, the legal side.”

Frustrated at the thought, I cupped my hands over my face, feeling—not for the first time in three weeks— at a complete loss. If I thought too much about it, I would worry myself sick. Then…I would drown.

“I’ve got a hard deadline coming up,” I mumbled through my fingers, mostly to myself. “I’ve read some articles and books and sat in on a few urban econ lectures, and I’ve even talked to a couple econ majors. How can no one at Stanford understand what I’m talking about?”

“Email me your outline.”

Knowing I must have misheard, I peeled away my fingers and looked up. “What?”

“Your facts are wrong.”

I dropped my hands. “No, they aren’t.”

“They are. I can help.”

“No, you can’t.” I pushed back my chair, wondering if he was purposefully insulting me or if this was his personality. “Why would you want to help me, anyway?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he answered. “Maybe I’ve been wanting to make up for that.”

“Do you have another foot?” I asked skeptically.

He stared back. “What?”

My bad joke was lost on him. “Nothing,” I said. “Anyway, I’m not letting you read my outline. I don’t even know you.”

He leaned forward, resting his crossed arms on the table. “Spring, do you know what I’m studying to be?”

“A lawyer,” I said. “You’re in law school.”

“That’s correct.” He rubbed his chin, reminding me a bit of Professor Masen. “My undergrad was in finance, but I’m studying corporate law with an emphasis in property development.”

I stared at him, my brain grinding into gear at what his words implied. A second later, I felt cold fingers slide up my spine, and my heart started pounding under Henry Knightly’s heavy gaze, but it was for a different reason this time.

“Does that mean…”

“That means,” he said, “if you’re an environmentalist, then I’m your worst nightmare.” We stared across the table at each other, an invisible wall bricking between us. “But it also means that if you want to learn about the economics of land development”—he steepled the tips of his fingers under his chin—“then I’m the man of your dreams.”

Chapter 8

I lingered outside the doorway of the private study room on the third floor of the library, unwilling to step inside just yet.

I still couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe my stupid luck. Of all the people who could help me—who were willing to help me—with my research project, it was Henry Knightly.

Stupid, fracking karma.

After breakfast at the cafe, I ran home through the rain and looked him up online. Or his family, rather. They were land barons, all right, had been for generations. When I’d Googled the Knightlys last year, digging up dirt when Knightly Hall was under construction, I had only scratched the surface. They did indeed own land all throughout North America, the biggest chunks around Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana. Prime farm and cattle real estate.

What they must have done to the landscape, I didn’t want to imagine. They’d had no issue bulldozing a strip of green to erect their namesake building at Stanford. Why would they treat twenty thousand innocent acres in the northwest any differently?

Halfway through my statistics class, my phone had vibrated with a new email. Again, he’d asked me to send my outline. I put off the inevitable for as long as I could, but as I calculated how many days I had left before Masen would be breathing down my neck, I finally realized I had no choice. I sent him my outline and fifteen minutes later, he emailed back, wanting to meet.

“Are we doing this or not?”

I jumped at his voice coming from inside the study room. How had he known I was there? Had he seen my shadow? Heard me tiptoe toward the room? Jeez, could he smell me? Could money buy super senses?

“Spring, I’ve got my own class in an hour.”

I closed my eyes for a second, gripped the strap of my backpack, then entered the room.

Knightly sat at a small table, a stack of books off to the side, and one of those slick black mini-laptops in front of him. He wore the same shirt and tie as this morning, only the top button was undone now, and his tie knot was loose. It was a good look on him. Now if he’d flash one of those smiles, this might be bearable.

“Hey,” I said, “sorry I’m late, I—”

“It’s fine.” He didn’t look up as I sat down.

Okay, so we were back to Mr. Charm then.

“I’ve been going over your outline and the list of resources you cited,” he said, clicking the down arrow about twenty times, staring at the screen.

“And?” I asked when he didn’t go on. “And you think it’s crap, right?”

“Not all of it,” he said, highlighting a paragraph on the screen.

“Well, that’s a relief,” I muttered, leaning on an elbow. “I didn’t assume we were going to see eye-to-eye on this, obviously. I know about the land your family owns.”

He finally lifted his chin but didn’t speak. I’d expected him to jump in, to debate with me like at breakfast, to say something. But he was just sitting there with a blank expression.

His silence made me tense.

“I…I know what they—what you—believe in,” I added, unable to stop myself from filling the silence. “And you should know, I didn’t come here to argue with you, or to hear a lecture, or for either of us to change our minds. I’m here because I have no other choice. Just so we’re clear. Okay? Don’t think you can