"So that happened."

Over our coffee cups, Maven and I wear similar manic, embarrassed grins the following morning.

In the sprawling courtyard of the New York Public Library's main branch, my partner and I sit at a wrought-iron table-for-two. Bryant Park on Forty-Second wears London Plane Trees just beginning to turn gold, their branches arching over patterned cement paths and dozens of tables. Ours included. Farther out, past pillars of cement, wait flower beds dying with annuals; woody, warm-hued perennials; and stubborn white tulips that refuse to droop. Red bricks line the way for more wrought-iron tables before opening up to a football field worth of bluegrass.

One of the world's largest libraries waits before it all. With white marble, with massive columns and shaped windows, it stands quite beautifully in the midst of Midtown's skyscrapers. Bryant Park is like a little oasis in the midst of the city, filled with life and architecture that I don't see at every other block.

I take a sip of my caffeine, decorated with whipped cream and pumpkin spices, as I survey the park. It's mid-morning, but it's also a Sunday. Plenty lounge around in the dozens of table sets throughout the park, and more walk along the grass and pathways, making for a buzz in the air. Still, it's quiet for Manhattan.

Maven nods, resting his elbow against the table and his chin in his hand. "Evangeline's a bitch, but she's a clever bitch. She probably saw us look or smile at each other or something."

Witch bitch.

"Probably." The crisp air of fall, motionless today, prickles at my neck, along with some other emotion. "There's something wrong with that girl," I mutter.

Maven's lips only twist into a smile. "They can make fun of us for sneaking around and . . . you know." The slightest rosy blush works onto Maven's face to match some of the perennials. "But they can't say that we don't know how to kiss anymore."

They. He's talking about the Academy's dancers, all of whom chuckled at Blonos's words last night as she exposed me to the yacht. I've never had a boyfriend, I don't know how to kiss, I did a horrible job at my first kiss. I was too busy wanting to drown myself than to speak up and say that I've been too busy to get a boyfriend and learn. Up until now.

I have to fight to swallow my sip of coffee. It almost goes up my nose.

"We're the best at kissing, Maven. They're going to watch us as Giselle and Albrecht, and then they're going to be jealous of how good we are at kissing."

That sends us both into fits of laughter, and Maven only stops when he chokes on his coffee, grabbing a napkin and putting it to his nose. I watch as his curls shake, my own face turning red. We attract more than a few stares from our fellow park-goers, who glance at us curiously.

It takes Maven a moment to recover.

While Elara's allegedly happy that her son finally got a girl—even Mister Calore, apparently, is fine with me seeing his younger son, though that could be attributed to disinterest—Cal, on the other hand, is not pleased.

To even see me at all this morning, Maven had to lie to Cal and say that he was going to Columbia, and I quote, "to get some books." Cal had been in the midst of interrogating Maven about me and what we've been doing. It sounds like he didn't break Maven too bad.

We'll see how I do tonight at our lesson. I have ten hours to prepare myself, give or take.

"I know that we haven't really talked about it," I say, careful to look Maven straight in his jarring blue eyes. "But I do like you, you know. You're like, my best friend. I like our talks. You get me, I think."

I try to make my words cool, casual, but Maven sees through them.

"I like talking to you too, Mare," he returns, shrugging. I like to think that I can read him too. He's happy. Extraordinarily happy. "I like hanging out. I like holding your hand. And I'm not going to lie, I really like making out with you."

"Even if it's in front of fifty people, including your brother, mom, and grandma, in the middle of a hot tub in New York Harbor?" I tack on, still keeping it casual.

Maven tilts his head side to side in consideration. "That's my favorite, actually."

Again, I have to work hard not to snort my coffee. A moment later, I put the cup down on the table to spare myself. In the process, Maven grabs my hand.

Unlike his brother's, his touch is cool, so similar to autumn in New York. I tighten my grip on his hand, leaning in a little. Only the tiny circular table between us stands in our way, and the proximity urges me on. I can help but think that autumn spices have replaced the juxtaposition of wine on his tongue. "I guess it wasn't the most horrible thing ever," I agree with a grin.

"So."Maven blinks lazily at me. It's cute, I have to admit. "If I like you, and you like me; if I like talking to you, and you like talking to me; and if we both like making out with each other—"

"What does that make us?" I finish for him, stopping with my head halfway across the table. I, too, rest my elbows on its surface, framing my jaw with the palms of my hands.

His next words are blurted out so that the same people who have been staring continue to stare. We're lucky that Mister Calore pays good money to keep his family's faces relatively unknown, because I'd rather not become the next Princess Diana.

"Do you want to be my girlfriend, Mare?"

At least I'll be able to tell Cal that Maven asked, not me.

I nod slowly, a smile blooming on my face along with an enlivened rush inside of me.

A few hours later, in dire need for a change of scenery, I return to the New York Public Library and settle in its Rose Reading Room.

The walls adorned in creamy marble bricks, tiles gleaming with the reflections of golden chandeliers, and massive arched windows on either side of me, the long, cavernous room reminds me of the Academy, a hollowed-out ship, or an ancient painting brought into real life.

Higher than the Academy's stage rafters is a gilded ceiling, coffered and carved, with paintings of pink clouds among blue skies. Only cherubs are missing. Colossal oaken bookshelves line the walls, stretching so far up as to cover parts of the windows. A volley of colored spines are packed into the shelves, numbering thousands, but at least they're better organized than the shelves of Julian Jacos. At the far end of the room waits a massive librarian's desk, and it's more of a separate room with its own gorgeous wooden wall, doors, and windows.

Then there are the two dozen long, wooden, and intricately-designed tables that arrange into two columns down the Rose Reading Room. Four chairs fit to a table comfortably, and three bronze reading lamps glow atop each.

It's at one of them that I sit at now, AirPods on Cal's Epic Playlist. I snagged the seat closest to the bookshelves and windows, but I happen to be thoroughly absorbed in glancing between my MacBook and regular old notebook. I haven't forgotten about the GED that I want. It means more than ever now that I'm talking to Mom again.

So, I pour through the unusually-neat notes on the American government that I've been taking for the last few days. Geography notes proceed them, and notes on American history follow them. That's just for one subject of the GED.

Still, I also get distracted, eyes flickering around the library or head bobbing along to Cal's stupid playlist.

I just so happen to be staring across the room towards the opposite windows when I receive a light tap on my shoulder. I start in my chair, entirely zoned out and engrossed in "Come on Eileen" up until this moment.

While the library has an abundance of books, it's also a legitimate museum, packed with tourists, students, and scholars.

A familiar scholar gazes down at me, having spotted his fellow Scarlet Street Fighter even in her incognito black cap and jacket. Julian Jacos, once I've settled down and realized that it's just him, offers me a little wave of his hand.

I blink a couple of times, orienting myself. I was thinking of Julian not too long ago, and now it's as though I'm at NYU again, staring at him from across his desk. I don't bother telling him what a coincidence it is that we've run into one another. We're a block from the Academy, and Julian's, well, Julian. Professor, book-lover, terrorist. You know.

"What are you studying for, Miss Barrow?" The professor's voice is masterfully quiet, having spent years in libraries.

Still collecting myself, I only stare at him for a moment.

In spite of Julian's life and his bevy of accomplishments, I don't take him for the judgmental type. After all, looking at him, he wears grey sweatpants along with a blue sweater and tie, socks, and Birkenstocks. I try to hide my dismay. His eyes are the kindest that I've ever meant, made even softer by the air of the library. I focus on that, and it's impossible to lie to him.

"I want my GED. I study when I have time," I tell him, attempting to replicate his whisper.

Julian, having already seen my notes and my computer screen, could've guessed that. He smiles anyway. I notice for the first time that he carries a book bag over his shoulder, quite literally teaming with texts. A little more weight, and he'd manage to give himself a hernia.

"That's good, Miss Barrow. Good for you."

If I thought that Julian was simply going to walk away, I was wrong. Next, he takes the liberty of picking up my notebook and paging through my notes. Absentmindedly, he licks the edge of his thumb to flip the pages. His eyes, probably in need of reading glasses, squint at my handwriting.

"Math is such a useless subject," he mutters. "A few need it to make our society function well, the rest don't. The same goes for science. Everybody should have a decent handle on the English language. Now history's another story."

Charmed by his nerdiness, I crack a smile. "Why's that, Julian?"

The man two seats away from me glares, wasting no time in shushing me.

Meanwhile, Julian looks taken aback. Or attacked by an enemy. An ignorant enemy, perhaps.

Deciding something at this moment, Julian nods to himself. "Come on, Miss Barrow. If you're not busy. Let's take a brief trip."

"How did you do in school, Mare?"

Halfway through our winding trip through the old building, I decided that Julian and I know one another well enough for him to refer to me by my first name. In a new room, similar to the Rose Reading Room with its tables and bookshelves but infinitely smaller, I return the professor's speculative gaze.

We sit across a table from one another, twenty rows of gilded shelves at our side. Narrow staircases lead up to a mezzanine bearing millions more books.

Julian, unsurprisingly, knows the library like the back of his hand. Two staffers greeted him by his first name on our way. He's also bragged about his access to all of the book collections and research rooms—humble as he is, Julian does take pride in his first-class status as a scholar.

"Fine, I guess." I'm no Maven, who might as well have a bachelor's degree by now, but I did fine. "I didn't take any fancy classes or do more than I had to at school. My mom wanted me to keep B's, so I did most of the time." I was always worried that she was going to pull me out of dance if I didn't keep my grades up. "I slipped and got a C in tenth-grade math, though."

Julian nods. He's already made it clear that he thinks math is a useless subject.

"You were focused on ballet," he tells me.

I return the nod. Training in ballet the way I did, I never gave extra thought to school. "It's all I've ever cared about."

I'm still confused why I agreed to sit down with Julian and discuss . . . whatever it is that we're discussing. He's seemed to have convinced me that he has a thing or two valuable to say, though.

Beneath the warm light of the bronze lamp in between us wait a scary number of books. Texts on world history, ancient politics, evolution, and pure speculation on humanity's existence rest before my eyes.

"While it might just be wishful thinking, I like to think that we're all scholars of something. Perhaps, if you gave any one of these books a chance, you'd find that you'd enjoy it." Forgetting something, Julian blinks. "Oh, and I'd like to help you study for your GED as well."

Very much confused, I give him a look. "Don't you already have a lot on your plate, Julian?"

The professor just scoffs. "Don't let the chaos of my office make you think that I'm behind on grading, because I'm not. Cal and I have my next four contemporary classes planned out. I don't have anything with the violin coming up. And as of the moment, they don't want anything from me."

They. I let out an amused, one-noted laugh.

The eager gleam in his eyes makes me think that Julian is either in desperate need of something to do or that he desperately wants to mold a high school dropout into a lover of scholarly learning.

"I'll make sure that you get a perfect score on your GED. Math included," he continues, shaking his wise head at the last part. "But I'd also like you to pick a book. I'll give you two weeks to read it. Then I'd like a two-thousand-word paper on it. I'll grade it afterward, and then you'll learn from your mistakes and pick a new book to write a report on."

At first, I think he's joking. I tilt my head to the side, giving a patronizing glance to the books, and I'd laugh if not for the fact that the professor's expression hasn't changed.

I point towards the books, and they seem a little bigger. "You're serious."

As though he can convince me by simply acting confident, he nods steadily. "I'll be like your professor. You can come down to NYU twice a week, or I can come up here. There's nothing that I enjoy more than teaching a new mind."

For the first time, I wonder if Julian's years in the opera, in academia, modern dancing, and violin playing have all been to distract him from one basic truth: he could've stopped his sister's death if he hadn't pulled away from her and the life that she had become inextricably involved in.

"Okay."

The word falls from my mouth, and I'm reminded of the time that I agreed to Cal's lessons. At least I can along with Julian, who has a calming effect whereas his nephew has an aggravating one.

"Excellent." His eyes already scan the books, having read all of them before and prepared to pick one out for me when I fail to choose. "So what's on the GED social studies test anyway? Government, American and world history, econ, geography—"

Already digging for my pen and notebook that I keep in my very student-like backpack, I interrupt my newest teacher. "All of the above, Julian." My eyes soften as I realize what he's offered to do for me. "Thank you."

The professor only grins his scholarly grin back at me.