“Okay.” She rolls her lips together then shows me her teeth. I give her a thumbs up indicating there are no traces of her spinach salad left behind. “Have a good day,” she says, clicking away, hips swaying, red hair swishing.
Students cluster near closed classroom doors, someone plays music from their phone speaker, and the coffee cart rolls in, the scent of burnt, cheap beans commingling with the smell of Pine Sol floor cleaner and book glue. My walk slows when the auditorium door pushes open, one suede dress shoe peeking out, holding it that way.
My pulse picks up. I close the distance, and reach for the door right as Cade pulls his foot back. The door almost whooshes closed, but I catch it, and step inside. Cade doesn’t notice, and I watch him take the stairs down to the stage, and then climb back up to the podium. He adjusts notes there, nudges his glasses up, and reaches for his bottle of water.
“Good morning, Professor Mercer,” I greet, startling him. The pink that washes over him makes something go wobbly in my stomach and behind my knees too. I tread through the space and settle into the same chair he sat in yesterday morning.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” he finally says, peering atthe light control switch. He likes it set to 100%, but then again, it is nine in the morning and bright lights are probably half of what keeps students awake. Once the lights are set to his liking, Cade looks up at me, my feet draped over the chair in front.
“You encourage students to sit that way when you do it,” he scolds, and why his little spankings are so hot, I don’t know, but they are.
“Sorry, Daddy,” I deadpan, letting my feet hit the floor with a thunk. “It won’t happen again.”
He rolls his eyes, sifting a finger beneath the collar of his white shirt. “Did you bring the forms?” he worries.
I reach into my breast pocket and pull them out, unfolding them until they’re open. I hold them up. “Of course, professor.” I read these questions when I first got this email, and again last night when I was reading Cade’s review of me, which by the way, was so fucking Cade. The only thing more Cade than that review is a pair of wool socks, I swear. “Thanks again for such a fucking glowing review, man,” I tell him, causing him to lose hold of the discussion prompts in his hand. Blue index cards go sputtering, and he drops to his knees, sweeping them with the sides of his palms.
“I emailed the final version this morning,” he says, righting each card so they join the stack in the correct direction as the rest. When he’s done, he gets to his feet, and at the same time, students start slowly filtering in.
We can’t say anything else, with the room filling upwith yawning students, most of them in sweat pants and hoodies, none of them wearing real shoes, and if I were a betting man, I’d say half of them just rolled out of their beds. The scent of stale beer and body odor wafts through the upper rows as a few frat boys slowly settle in.
I people watch, say hello to a few students who know me, and then, Cade clears his throat. “Hello everyone,” he greets, slanting his eyes my way. “We have a visitor in class today. Ignore him,” he starts, but a front-row funny guy interrupts.
“If you want us to ignore him, why’d you point it out?” he argues, a rise in his voice, like this question has outsmarted Cade and pushed him into a corner.
“So that you don’t all turn around and start whispering mid-lecture when someone does notice him. I’m telling you now. Professor Ryan is here, he’s reviewing me, and that’s that,” Cade says decidedly. “Last week we defined literary theory, and can anyone tell me the way we defined it?”
My eyes fall on a small freckle on Cade’s throat. When he talks, it shifts just a little, and I’m overwhelmed with the urge to press my lips against it, to let my tongue carve beautiful little designs into his flesh, paying homage to that tiny little freckle.
I keep my eyes on him, fuck the survey. I’m familiar with this course, and the content. I didn’t play God and assign myself to Cade so I can hear him talk about the ways in which literary theory forces us to turn passive consumption into active and critical engagement.
The door pops open, letting in an even brighter stream of light from the windows in the hall. A girl with a black backpack covered in mini Koosh ball pins ducks inside, quietly apologizing to Cade before slipping into one of the last free seats, near me. I keep my eyes on him, and he never lets his gaze come to me. Not even for a moment.
And that has me hard as hell.
Cade ignores things when he’s angry and can’t calm himself enough to choose the right words. Like the time Dr. Pratt altered the core curriculum mid-way through the semester, and dropped that bomb on us in person. I could see Cade’s perfectly organized brain shorting out, but he stayed tight-lipped, and nodded along.
Only this isn’t that. That vein that pops in his temple isn’t popping. He’s not angry at all. In fact, he’s currently bantering with a student in the third row, one foot braced on the stage, the other on the floor. He rests his elbow on his knee and his fist against his cheek, listening intently to the student who claims that some of the best books he’s ever read were books that he read in high school, but reread now, with greater intellect and understanding.
He’s totally kissing Cade’s ass.
But that’s not what has me hard.
It’s the way he’s so purposely avoiding me. I’ve already established that he isn’t angry, so that just leaves one reason.
He feels it.
That buzz between us. That lingering pull, the urge to come back together after we’ve walked our separate ways.He feels the intensity in my gaze when he catches my eyes on him in our office. Not only does he feel it, but based on how hard this man is going out of his way to ignore me, I’d say he feels theexactsame way.
And that’s what has me shifting in the collapsible little seat.
After borrowing a pen from the student sitting in front of me, I write nine words. They’re either the most perfect nine words that will get the ball rolling on whatever is happening, or they’ll terribly offend his sensibilities and put me on the cusp of no longer sharing my office.
I hope it’s the first. But I’m willing to gamble.
I never slept.Not a single moment. But I’ll admit, snuggling into that stupid folding chair (they should discount tuition for students having to sit in those for so many hours every day) andrelaxingduring the lecture was quite possibly my best idea.
He thought he’d avoid me, and we’d get through these peer reviews and back to our lingered looks and scholastic chats. I know he doesn’t like to be, but Cade is wrong.
