Chapter 154

The sun was high and bright by the time Abigail pulled into the campus parking lot, the sky a clear, endless blue. The kind of morning that already promised good energy. She parked in her usual spot near the arts building, slipped her backpack over one shoulder, and took a deep breath before stepping out of the car.

The cool breeze carried a mix of coffee, freshly cut grass, and the faint buzz of students chatting as they hurried between classes. Abigail sipped the last bit of her smoothie, tossed the empty cup in a nearby bin, and started across the courtyard. Her guitar case swung lightly at her side, a familiar weight that always grounded her.

Her first class of the day—English Composition & Writing Workshop with Professor Fletcher—was one she’d grown to love. The room always smelled faintly of ink and coffee, and the professor had a way of making every discussion feel like a conversation rather than a lecture.

When Abigail walked in, the chatter of her classmates filled the small room. A few people waved, and she waved back, her smile easy and genuine. She took her usual seat by the window, the sunlight spilling across her notebook.

“Morning, Abigail,” Professor Fletcher said as she passed by, setting a stack of papers on the desk.

“Good morning, Professor,” Abigail replied, her tone bright.

“Today,” Professor Fletcher began once everyone had settled, “we’re focusing on voice. Not just what you say, but how you say it. Every writer has a rhythm, a cadence, a truth that only they can express. Today, we’re going to explore that.”

Abigail leaned forward, pen ready, her attention sharp. The professor handed out a short quote on slips of paper, one for each student.

“The moment you learn how to express yourself, you learn the power of your own truth.”

Professor Fletcher smiled. “I want you to take ten minutes. Write a short paragraph about what that means to you—personally, creatively, emotionally. Then we’ll share.”

Abigail’s pen moved across the page with fluid ease. She wrote about music, about how every note was an extension of her truth. She wrote about the nights she spent playing for no one but herself, about how her emotions found their way into melodies before words ever could. When she finished, she looked up, catching Professor Fletcher’s approving glance.

By the end of class, the energy was alive. Students had shared, laughed, even debated, and Abigail left the room feeling light—like she’d stretched a creative muscle she didn’t realize was tight.

Out in the hallway, she checked her phone: a text from Emma.

Hope class is going well, my love. Baby’s kicking like crazy today ❤️

Abigail grinned, her heart swelling. She texted back quickly.

Good class! I’ll call you after my next one. Tell the baby I said hi.

She slipped her phone back into her pocket and started walking toward the student center for lunch, humming softly to herself.

She still had a little over an hour before her next class—Music History: 20th Century & Beyond with Professor Shields. That thought alone might have made another day tense, but not today. Today felt different. She wasn’t nervous or uneasy. Just steady.

Abigail grabbed a wrap and a smoothie from the café, found a quiet table by the window, and pulled out her notebook. She doodled a few lines of song lyrics in the margin while she ate, the rhythm of campus life unfolding outside.

When the clock neared one, she packed up her things and made her way toward the music hall. Her steps were calm, her mind clear.

By the time Abigail reached the music hall, the sun was high, filtering through the tall windows and painting golden stripes across the polished floors. She balanced her guitar case in one hand, her notebook tucked under her arm, and felt good centered, calm, content.

She pushed open the classroom door, her voice carrying softly but confidently. “Good afternoon.”

Professor Shields looked up from her notes at the front of the room. A hint of amusement curved her lips. “Well, someone’s in a good mood today.”

Abigail grinned, sliding her bag onto the chair beside her. “I had dessert for breakfast,” she said easily. “And I plan on having more when I get home, so I’ve got something to look forward to.”

The students nearby laughed, and even Professor Shields let out a quiet chuckle. “Dessert for breakfast?” she said. “That’s one way to start the day.”

Abigail tilted her head, feigning innocence but with a mischievous glint in her eye. “What can I say? It’s hard to resist my fiancée in the morning.”

That got a few whistles and soft laughs from the students, and Abigail just smirked as she opened her notebook.

Shields moved closer to the board, but her voice dipped lower—quiet enough that only Abigail could hear. “Must be nice,” she said under her breath, the words almost lost in the background music.

Abigail’s paused, her gaze flicking up. Her reply was quiet but certain. “It is.”

For a moment, the air between them hung heavier than before, threaded with something unspoken. Then Shields straightened, clearing her throat, her tone professional again.

Professor Shields’ smile faltered—only for a second—but she recovered quickly. “Well,” she said, her tone cool again, “you certainly seem to be… enjoying life these days.”

“I try my best,” Abigail replied smoothly, resting her chin in her hand.

The professor wrote the day’s topic in deliberate, elegant handwriting:

The Evolution of Jazz and Its Cultural Impact

Abigail’s attention followed her movements, her pen already poised.

“Today,” Shields began, “we’re looking at how jazz became more than just music—it became a voice for change. It was a language of emotion, rebellion, identity.” She turned to the class, her gaze sweeping the room. “Why do you think jazz had such a powerful effect on culture, both socially and artistically?”

Silence lingered for a moment before Abigail raised her hand. “Because it was unpredictable,” she said, her voice clear and thoughtful. “It didn’t care about structure or rules. It gave people permission to express emotion without asking for approval. It was freedom disguised as rhythm.”

Professor Shields paused, studying her for a long moment. “Emotion without permission,” she repeated softly. “That’s… very well said, Abigail.”

Abigail smiled politely, jotting the phrase down in her notes. “Thank you, Professor.”

The lecture carried on smoothly after that. The sound of soft jazz played from the speakers, mingling with the faint scratching of pencils and the rustle of notebooks. Abigail sat near the back, tapping her fingers in rhythm, lost in the music’s sway and the thought of Emma waiting at home.

Every so often, she caught Professor Shields’ eyes flickering her way, but Abigail kept her focus on the music—on the reason she was there.

The energy in the room was calm, contained. For once, everything felt exactly as it should: peaceful, grounded, simple.

And as the class discussion deepened, Abigail couldn’t help but smile to herself, already thinking ahead to the moment she’d call Emma after class and hear that warm, familiar voice that made everything else fade away.

By the time the clock read 2:15, students began closing their notebooks and stretching in their seats. Abigail packed up her things, slinging her bag over her shoulder and grabbing her guitar case.

“Good work today, everyone,” Professor Shields said as they began filing out. “Remember to review the Miles Davis recordings before Monday’s discussion.”

Abigail nodded as she passed. “See you Monday, Professor.”

Professor Shields looked up briefly, offering a small smile. “Good work today, Abigail.”

“Thank you,” she said warmly.

She stepped into the hallway, the sound of jazz still echoing faintly behind her, and pulled out her phone to call Emma. The moment her fiancée’s voice came through the line, Abigail’s grin returned, the weight of the day melting away.

Abigail adjusted her bag over her shoulder as she made her way down the front steps of the music building, the soft hum of students filling the air around her. The sun was still high, painting the sidewalks in a soft glow as she pulled out her phone and pressed call.

Emma picked up on the second ring, her voice instantly bright. “Hey, baby.”

Abigail smiled, weaving through a small group of students. “Hey, gorgeous. Just finished class. Do you need anything from the store before I head home?”

There was a pause on the other end, followed by the faint sound of Emma giggling. “Well,” she said in that sweet, teasing tone Abigail loved, “I have a new craving.”

Abigail laughed softly. “Of course you do,” she said, shaking her head as she unlocked her car. “Alright, hit me what are we talking about this time?”

Emma hummed thoughtfully. “Don’t judge me, okay?”

“Never,” Abigail promised as she slid into the driver’s seat, smiling at the way Emma’s voice already made her day feel lighter. “What do you want, baby?”

Emma hesitated for dramatic effect. “I want pickles… dipped in caramel.”

Abigail froze mid–seatbelt buckle. “Wait—pickles and caramel? Together?”

“Yep,” Emma said brightly. “Don’t knock it ’til you try it.”

Abigail started laughing, the sound filling the car. “You are something else, you know that? I swear, this baby’s got the most chaotic taste buds I’ve ever seen.”

Emma giggled. “It’s not chaos, it’s creativity.”

“Creativity?” Abigail echoed, still grinning as she started the engine. “Alright, Picasso. I’ll grab you your caramel pickles. Anything else?”

“Hmmm,” Emma said, pretending to think. “Maybe some vanilla ice cream too? To balance it out.”

Abigail smirked. “Because that makes perfect sense.”

“Exactly,” Emma said proudly.

“Got it,” Abigail said, pulling out of the parking lot. “Pickles, caramel, and ice cream. I’m writing this down in the ‘only for my pregnant fiancée’ category.”

Emma laughed, her voice softening. “You love me though.”

“More than anything,” Abigail said quietly, her smile widening. “I’ll be home soon, baby.”

“Drive safe, okay?”

“Always.”

She ended the call, still smiling as she merged onto the road, shaking her head in amused disbelief. The things she did for Emma and for their baby somehow made every day feel like a new adventure.

The grocery store was calm in that late-afternoon way soft music, murmured conversations, the hum of shopping carts rolling across tile floors. Abigail moved through the aisles with a basket in hand, humming quietly to herself as she checked her mental list.

“Pickles for my pregnant fiancée,” she said under her breath, crouching to grab a jar from the bottom shelf. “Caramel for the chaos craving. And ice cream, because why not?”

She stood and made her way toward the frozen section, still smiling at how ridiculous but endearing Emma’s cravings had become. Just as she rounded the corner, her steps slowed.

Standing near the freezer doors, comparing cartons of heavy cream, was Professor Shields.

Abigail hesitated instantly, glancing around for another route to the ice cream section but there was none. She sighed quietly, muttering to herself, “Of course.” Then, just as she tried to turn her cart and escape unnoticed

“Abigail?”

She froze, then turned, forcing a polite smile. “Professor Shields. Hey.”

Shields smiled faintly, setting the carton back on the shelf. “I feel like we’re destined to keep running into each other at this store, aren’t we?”

Abigail gave a small laugh. “Yeah, seems like it. Maybe this place is cursed.”

“Or,” Shields said lightly, “maybe the universe just likes repeating itself.”

Abigail chuckled, adjusting the basket in her hand. “Maybe. Though if that’s true, I hope next time I at least have time to brush my hair before fate kicks in.”

The professor’s laugh was soft and low, the kind that almost sounded genuine. “You look fine, Abigail. More than fine, actually. You seem… happy. And that suits you.”

Abigail’s smile softened into something real. “Thank you. It’s been a good day. A good week, really.”

“Good,” Shields said, nodding. “You deserve that.” She hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the basket in Abigail’s hand. “Pickles, caramel, and ice cream? Quite the combination.”

Abigail grinned. “Pregnancy cravings. My fiancée’s been unpredictable lately, but I’m trying to keep up.”

The corner of Shields’ mouth lifted. “Ah, then you might want to grab some whipped cream while you’re at it — sounds like dessert’s getting creative.”

Abigail smirked, her tone light but layered. “No, I already have caramel. That’s all I need.”

Their eyes met for a brief second — a quiet, charged pause that neither addressed before Abigail’s phone buzzed loudly in her pocket.

She fished it out, the screen lighting up with Emma 💗 Calling. Her smile returned instantly, natural and warm. “Excuse me, Professor.” She answered the call, her voice softening. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey, gorgeous,” Emma said on the other end, her voice bright and sweet. “Did you get everything? Hurry home, baby, I miss you.”

Abigail grinned. “I’m on my way now.”

She looked back at Shields, her tone playful as she said, “Sorry, Professor I’ve got to run. My fiancée’s waiting, and apparently I have to hurry home for… more dessert.”

She gave a wink and a quiet laugh as she walked past.

Professor Shields blinked, her lips parting in mild surprise before she chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Have a good evening, Abigail.”

“You too,” Abigail said over her shoulder as she made her way toward the registers, still holding the phone close to her ear.

Emma’s voice came through again, teasing. “Who was that?”

Abigail smirked as she started placing her things on the checkout counter. “Professor Shields. Ran into her again.”

Emma’s tone turned playful but suspicious. “Again, huh?”

“Yeah,” Abigail said, amused. “Don’t worry I basically told her I need to hurry home to have sex with my fiancée.”

Emma laughed so hard that Abigail had to pull the phone slightly away from her ear. “Abigail!”

“What?” she teased, sliding her card to pay. “It’s the truth. I figured honesty’s the best policy.”

Emma was still laughing when she said, “Just get home, you troublemaker.”

Abigail smiled, tucking the receipt into the bag. “Already on my way, baby.”