“Am I tense?” Okay, so maybe we should have the relationship talk, that’s a total relationship talk question.
“You exist in a space of constant muscular tension, yes.” He grabs his bag. “Weird, I know a really easy way to get rid of someof that, but now that we’ve wasted time with you bragging about your many attributes?—”
I smack him on the ass. “Very cute.”
He holds me tighter smiling against my neck. “Dinner tonight?”
I shrug. “Your place?”
His face falls a bit. “She’s stopping by to grab her shit tonight, might not be the best scenario, the ex-wife of two years seeing the undergrad eating pasta on the table I used to fuck her against you know?”
Harsh. I almost jolt from my spot. I mean, that’s just him when he’s with me and it’s not like this is anything serious. We both know I’m the rebound after his wife cheated on him with his best friend, besides, I’m still an undergrad, he’s still ten years older than me, it’s still, wrong for students and professors to be together even if I’m twenty-two and he’s thirty-two, with the sometimes maturity of a high school kid.
The haunting reality of the Dean’s List sits in the back of my mind like an unwelcome stalker, not that any stalkers are welcome I guess, but if people found out would it really be the end of my career that I was sleeping with him? No. But his? Yeah, and I can at least have some sensitivity toward that. He’s not a bad guy, he’s just not…commitment material just yet. At least not toward me.
So why do his words actually bother me? They hit. I know we’re just having sex, it’s just sex, but hearing him confirm it out loud, say it, cheapens whatever I had going on in my brain, I guess.
Ugh, I don’t know.
“Yeah.” I say quickly. “That would be a bummer, anyways, I’m going to go find my seat, knock ’em dead, sir.”
What the hell did I just say? I almost puke right then and there. I hate that phrase. Charlie used it and now I’m saying it? Worst day ever.
Because you killed him.
I didn’t though. I didn’t.
It wasn’t my fault.
You lied.
I had no choice! I clench my hands into fists.
Evan’s head jerks up, a smirk follows. “Save some energy for me, Lilah. I want you on this desk in as many angles as I can manage.”
Which, knowing him, is a lot. That’s what I need, a distraction. I need him. My brain isn’t in the right place right now anyway.
“Right.” I force a smile and bolt from his office and make my way to the lecture hall. It’s big for such a small class size. Ugh, two more classes and I’m done. I can’t believe I’m pulling it off. To say it was hard getting here would be a gross understatement, it nearly killed me, physically, mentally.
I put in my ear buds and plop down into an empty seat close to the back but not so far away that he’s going to be pissed I chose to semi ignore him, but the last thing either of us needs is for me to have front row seats and accidentally slip up and get caught staring at him with interest. I can’t mess up. That’s the thing, he thinks I’m just being cautious because he’s my professor. I’m being cautious for entirely selfish reasons. I don’t need my past haunting my present or ruining my future, and I keep him at a distance because nobody will ever replace what I had.
How could they?
I have to graduate and get my degree. That’s all my parents ever wanted after everything I went through in high school. It didn’t just destroy me, it wrecked parts of me I’ll never get back—which is why we moved to Portland right after the incident. One day we everything was normal. A week later I was standing in the rain staring at a casket. The toll it took on me emotionally was so severe I thought I was broken for a while, I thought I wouldn’t ever be whole, until Charlie found me freshman year and threatened to be my friend. She was truly the first bright spot after moving, finishing high school, and starting college. That and art. The one part of my past he was still tied to, because we both loved communicating with our hands more than our words. Proven later, when I used my words to damn him. I let out a shaky breath. Today’s been off. Weird. I don’t like it. Maybe I really should have let Evans strip me down in his office, bend me over his desk, and distract me.
I glance up again. Evans walks in looking every inch the professor he is while I turn on some Chase Atlantic in the background and keep it down so I can kind of hear what he has to say. Slow Down has just started to play when I notice Evans look up at the back of the room, the entrance to be exact. His face shifts, darkens. It’s not a normal look for him he seems almost—intimidated, which would be weird for a narcissist unless an even bigger one walked through the door and he’s acknowledging he’s bottom on the food chain. Maybe the president of the university walked in? Maybe the police? Is that sweat on his lip? What the hell?
I don’t turn around, though, because that would mean I cared, it would mean I was paying close attention to my professor/boyfriend’s clear freakout. So, I pretend to be bored. I keep listening to my music and then I see a pair of Dior Jordans—custom.
The Dior Jordans pause right next to my desk. I know those twenty-five thousand dollars shoes, I know them well. Because growing up, I know only one person who had an obsession with designer sneakers like that. Instantly my gut clenches. I can seehis closet, I can smell the Aqua De Gio cologne again, I can feel the softness of his t-shirt. A shudder runs through my body. If I really concentrate, he’s warm. Not cold. Not dead. He’s flicking my nose, then leaning in and begging for a kiss. My heart instantly pounds in my chest as adrenaline courses through me. Not real. Not here. Not him.
I’m instantly curious if we have a new professor or student. It would be weird to join this class halfway through the semester, and I know everyone in my major.
Students around the room start whispering to each other, some point, others look at Evans waiting to see what he’s going to say. I turn the music almost completely silent. The whispering is almost louder at this point than the song. What the hell is going on?
The hair on the back of my neck goes up. Why are people looking at me? Is it because he’s by my seat? Or because I haven’t acknowledged him yet?
Enough that every instinct I have starts screaming when the shoes don’t move forward. I steal a glance at Evans he’s not looking at me.
