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Ten years old and already he'd experienced more pain than she ever intended. He'd lost his father, his home, and his friends. As his mother, she'd only wanted to protect him and make him happy. Make him feel safe.
Fail on all counts.
She pushed away her gloomy thoughts. "I thought we'd paint your room this weekend," she offered brightly. "You pick the color--anything you want. And we can hit Target for some decorations."
"Okay."
His despondent tone cut right through her heart. "Can you do me a favor, Luke? I need the honest truth."
He looked at her with a bit of wariness. "Sure."
"On a scale of one to ten, how bad is my meatloaf?"
The faint spark of humor lit his brown eyes. "One."
"Yeah, I thought so. How does a pizza sound?"
He tilted his head and considered. "Can we eat in front of the TV, too?"
Ella laughed. "Sure, why not?"
"No History channel?"
She gave a sigh of surrender. "Fine. You pick."
He gave a small whoop and fisted his hand in the air. "Nice. I want pepperoni on mine, please."
"You got it. Luke?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
His face shifted to that half uncomfortable, half pleased look she recognized so well. But he gave her the words. "Love you, too, Mom."
He bounded out of the kitchen, forgetting to clean up his plate, and Ella didn't remind him. She went to order the pizza.
Chapter Four
"When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills."--Kate Chopin, The Story of An Hour
Two weeks later, Connor realized he was in trouble.
Another F stared back at him from his last paper. As Ella lectured to the class on the limitations of creative women in society today, Connor scrolled through his iPad for the picture he'd taken of the syllabus.
Yes, it was only a month into the semester, but he'd lost too much ground. He hadn't been able to pass one lousy quiz, flunked his paper, and now his short essay she'd handed back had tanked. Even with high grades moving forward and a decent curve, he'd be hovering around a precious C-, a bit too close for comfort.
No way was he letting poetry and angry female authors beat him.
Or Ella Blake.
He made a point to read the awful assignments, though he barely kept awake. This last essay called Death of the Moth should've been termed Death From Boredom. Woolf was another writer he struggled to understand, and Ella seemed to think she walked on fucking water. Who watched a moth die for what seemed like hours and decided to write about it? And why on earth would anyone assign a paper on such drivel? No wonder he'd flunked.
Men didn't do shit like that.
He'd been trying to get on her good side. He was unfailingly polite and charming before and after class. He complimented her and consistently offered to help out if she needed anything. She only gave him that icy stare that froze his balls and clipped out a "no." He was getting nowhere and now he needed to do something about his grade.
Anything.
He tried to listen to her ramblings on Edith Wharton and how the author used female roles in society to exploit and push readers' emotional limits. She strolled back and forth in a relaxed, steady pace as she spoke, occasionally nibbling on her lower lip in a thought, her face half hidden by the wide, thick frames of her glasses. Today, she wore her usual brown flat boots, a long wool skirt with no shape, and a green turtleneck sweater that reached all the way up to her jaw. Did she have some type of skin infection that kept her hidden beneath so much material? Were there actual breasts under there? Her fingers were long and tapered, but the short, squared-off, unpolished nails did nothing to accentuate them. This was a woman who didn't want a man looking. Or maybe she was just lazy and wasn't into men. Maybe she spent every night reading Wharton and Bronte and lived out fantasies in her head. Hadn't he read something in the news about the power of romantic novels to give women unrealistic expectations of life? Yeah. It had been in the New York Times, too. So it must be true.
"Mr. Dunkle?"
Ah, crap. Here we go again.
He showed no fear and smiled warmly. "Yes, Professor Blake?"
"I'm interested to hear your thoughts on the story, Roman Fever."
"I liked it."
The class tittered. She never lost her smile. If she wasn't wearing the wrong color lipstick, he may have believed her lips were perfectly bow shaped and lush.
"I'm relieved. What did you think about the ending? Did you feel sympathy for Mrs. Slade when she discovered her friend was unfaithful? Or did it strike you as justice?"
He tried hard not to rub his forehead. A headache threatened. Out of all the damn stories she had to pick to discuss, this was the only one he didn't read. He'd fallen asleep at his computer and decided to skip the reading for today. Now he was in trouble.
He quickly gathered the threads of information the class had given and tried to make a rational theory. "It wasn't justice, but was it deserved? Probably. See, the problem is women are very different than men. They sink to a level of jealousy and cattiness I think is well described in this story."
Satisfaction unfurled. That was a solid answer. She couldn't torture him over his opinion.
Except the strangest expression came over her face.
Her gaze narrowed. Her lips tightened. A tightly contained energy swarmed around her like a nest of bees, humming madly before the attack. In that moment, he realized he had done something very wrong.
"I see. So you believe men don't sink to basic levels of human emotion like women?"
He swallowed. "Kind of. Men are more physical, but they see things simpler. Let's be real here. Two men would never meet in a cafe to talk endlessly for an hour before getting to the point. Women are exhausting. One man would punch the other one, they'd fight it out, and then go get a beer."
The class laughed. Some of the guys nodded in agreement and hooted their approval. Connor began to warm up to the subject. "And another thing. Society is always on the men about cheating, but if you read these pieces you keep assigning us, you'll see there was a lot of infidelity by women. They just like to intellectualize and rationalize the act to death to make it better for them to sleep at night."
Ella Blake never wavered. Pure ice dripped from her voice when she deigned to speak. "Interesting. It seems because Mr. Slade is the male, he is easily forgiven for his infidelity, though he has cheated also. Thank you for proving my point, Mr. Dunkle. Next time, please make sure you actually read the story and not use your classmates' effort to spin your own inane opinion. Class dismissed."
She marched back to her desk.
Connor's head felt as if it had gone a few rounds with the heavyweight champion. Was she kidding? How did she know he didn't read it? And who the hell was she to make fun of his opinion? If he had read the story, didn't he have the right to his own viewpoint?
Some of the guys came to clap him on the shoulder as they exited the classroom. He spent some time gathering his papers and cooling down his temper. He needed his grade fixed or he'd be in some serious trouble by the midterm. It was time to have a bit of a heart-to-heart and pour on the charm. Again.
He tried not to grind his teeth as he approached. She pretended not to see him, but Connor knew she sensed his presence and was deliberately provoking him. An odd anticipation steadily built. He'd misjudged her. She wasn't as dull as he'd originally thought. He rarely dealt with women who challenged him, but he figured it was the teacher/student thing that had him intrigued now.
"Professor Blake?"
She looked up and damned if she didn't give him an almost satisfied grin. "Yes?"
"I need to talk to you about my grade. The paper. I need some help."
"I agree, Mr. Dunkle. Perhaps a tutor?"
Instead of sitting down, she grabbed her purse and seemed to be rushing out. He made sure to step right in front of her, blocking her exit. He gritted his t
eeth. "I don't need a tutor. I need to know what you're looking for in my papers so I can start passing this class."
"Ah, if you check your syllabus, you'll see I'm looking for creativity, original thought, and specified examples and content backed up from the text."
"I'm trying! Let's be honest for a moment. You don't like my opinions so you're punishing me. You want me to advocate these inane texts by using a lot of fancy words and lingo just so I can agree that women were mentally and emotionally tortured underneath the societal restrictions where men ruled. How is that fair?"
She tilted her head, seemingly considering her words. "Now that's an argument. Too bad there's not more of that in your papers. I have to go. I'm late for a meeting."
She strode out of the classroom, big skirt swishing, hair perfectly contained in the single, tight space of her bun. Connor took off after her, refusing to be swept aside. Not this time. "I did put that in my paper but you gave me an F."
