Love you too
At home, I lock the deadbolt and don’t bother with any of the lights. I kick off my shoes and fall face first into my bed. My entire life I always felt so different than my father. Where he’s inked, I’m not. Where he likes piercings and dark suits with sharp lines and bright colors, I liked muted things and pressed khakis. Where he picks up a thriller, I lift a classic.
I’ve felt like the odd man out my whole life, with Kat and my dad being more alike than not. But not having empty connections and dead-end relationships, holding off for the real thing, the big deal—he’s doing that. And so am I.
And as I doze off, the realization about who I am and what I want no longer feels as terrifying as it did just a few hours ago.
CHAPTER
TEN
CADE
I lean backin my leather chair, the late afternoon sun cutting through the open door of the auditorium . The hallway is quiet, but in a few minutes when class ends, it will be full of talkative students, lazily shuffling from one class to another. We had a quiz today, and everyone has finished, but one student has hung behind to chat.
Ethan, sitting on the edge of his chair in the front row, watches me with an easy smile, not the same easy smile that Noah wears but looser. More challenging, more playful. His notebook is open but he’s not looking at it. He’s not even holding a pen.
“Professor Mercer,” he says, “I still don’t get this ‘death of the author’ idea. If the writer’s intentions don’t matter, doesn’t that just let us interpret things however we want?”
The lecture topic before the quiz. I’m a bit surprised hestayed behind to talk about it—most students leave then email me at midnight when they’re finally getting to their reading assignment. I smile slightly and cross my arms and notice how his eyes follow the movement. “It’s not that intentions don’t matter. It’s that once the story is out there, readers bring their own experiences to it. Their feelings shape what they see. A book about desire, for example, hits differently depending on who’s reading it.”
Ethan leans forward, elbows on his knees, almost like he’s trying to get nearer to me. I remain tucked behind the desk near the podium. “Yeah, but it’s not just any reader. It’s you. When you talk about power and attraction in stories, your voice changes. It gets deeper. Like you’re not just teaching it. You’re feeling it. Or at least, that’s how it comes off.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to keep my tone light even as heat creeps up my neck. “Careful. You’re analyzing me now instead of the text.”
He grins, not backing down. His dark hair falls over one eye and he brushes it back slowly, methodically, almost like he wants me to watch him do it. “Maybe I am. You stand up there making everything sound so controlled, but there’s this energy underneath. Like the real subject isn’t just the book—it’s what happens between people. Between you and the words. Between you and us.”
I stand up and walk around the desk, leaning against the podium with one elbow. The air feels thicker, but not in a good way, in a heated, annoying, nagging kind of way. “You’re good at this, Ethan. Twisting the conversationfrom theory to something personal. Have you thought about working in the writing center?” Students there need great persuasion when it comes to leveling up their craft writing. This type of banter is just what they need to get them thinking.
“Maybe,” he says, volleying his head in indecision. Then he rises too, standing just a couple feet away. His eyes stay on mine, then drift to my mouth for a second before returning. “But what I really keep thinking about what you said last week. How stories can hide real wanting beneath the surface. The way you explained it… it didn’t feel like just words. It felt like you were talking about something orsomeonereal.”
My pulse picks up. This has moved past classroom debate. “Ethan, you’re pushing boundaries here,” I say, but my voice comes out lower than I intended, and I don’t want him sensing my frustration. “If you have any further questions on the lecture, you can follow the link in my syllabus to all of my online notes.” Though he has no right, he looks slightly dejected. “Think about the writing center. Good writing starts with solid thought processes, and you’re there. They could use you.”
“Do you still run it? Not Professor Shae?” he asks, stepping a little closer. His tone is curious but his eyes are serious and warm, neither of which I’m looking to find in the eyes of a male student.
Very briefly, I run through the list of people in the department who would take over the unpaid job of running the writing center, because I’m fairly certain Ethanwould only take the job if I was there. I nod. “For now, yeah, I run it.”
He smiles slowly, the kind of smile that makes the room feel smaller if it’s from the right person. Ethan is not the right person. “Well then I’ll stop by this week and check it out.” Another smile that has me pulling at the back of my neck, uncomfortable and tight. “And I hope you’re there when I stop by, professor.”
I look at him—at the confident tilt of his head, the way he’s waiting for my answer without any fear. The intellectual sparring has opened the door for whatever this is, but I don’t like it.
“Hello.” Darkness eats up the sunshine that littered the floor, and I glance to the doorframe to see Noah there, his cross-body bag slung over his chest, dark hair a little ruffled, like he’s had his hands in it. Or maybe Tara had her hands in it.
Sickness sours my mouth, and I face Ethan. “Have a good day.”
Ethan looks between me and Noah, smiles one last time and says, “writing center, I’ll see you.”
I nod. “Okay.”
A moment later, Noah has closed the door and faces me wearing a crooked grin. “That kid was totally baiting you.”
I collect the quizzes and stuff them into the orange folder, the folder I keep for this specific class. I slide it into my bag, next to my computer, and nudge my glasses up my nose with a knuckle. Noah is suddenly in front of me,his bag on the table with a thunk, sitting right next to mine.
I don’t tell him that he saved me because he clearly knows, and that’s what he’s referring to.
“How long were you standing there?” I ask, the back of my neck hot. Something about Noah watching me engage with Ethan makes me anxious.
He pulls papers from his bag, and I notice that today he’s wearing an olive green crewneck sweater, and baggy black jeans. His eyes shine, whiskey and honey over ice, and my stomach tightens when his clean scent stings my nose. “Long enough to know that he was definitely flirting with you.”
