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“Forget this moment. When you come to, you’ll only remember that we had an amazing date. We kissed and you loved it, and you wanted more. I promised you we would go out again. You think, dimly, you’re falling in love with me. Don’t you?”

His eyes, dulled and unfocused, find mine. His chin bobs. His lips quiver. He is afraid, and he fucking should be.

He grasps my leg. “P-please—”

I shake him off, the heel of my shoe tearing a hole in his pant leg. “Foolish boy.”

Straightening my dress, I wave a hand as I walk back into the dining room, newly refreshed. Every eye turns to me, to my vitality, the gloss in my hair and the shimmer of sweat on my skin. It’s a glamour, and a beautiful one at that. It makes them want me. Want the shape of me, the taste of me, to hear the silk of my voice, newly writ because I got to feast tonight. They all want, want, want.

Let them.

“I’m so sorry to say this, but I think Arjun had too much to drink!” I giggle, abashed and only a little amused. “I think he might need some help.”

FIVELacie

I creep out of the room early enough that I’m sure I’ll miss Marcella. I don’t want to see her after her triumph last night, looking like she was painted into that dress. I’m sure she charmed everyone. Everyone who mattered anyway.

Pressing my glasses up the bridge of my nose, I lock my door as soundlessly as I can, glancing toward her door. She must have left a light on: a soft, hazy green glow emanates from beneath.

I shouldn’t dislike her from the start, but it’s hard not to: gorgeous, mysterious, obviously wealthy. Taking Laurel’s spot—and, dammit, even her tenure track. Laurel worked so hard to climb that ladder, and she was almost there, almost at that mysterious threshold of publications and ingratiation that put her into consideration.

It wasn’t her fault that she bobbled during our joint presentation on Volsungasaga. It was mine.

That alone shouldn’t have ruled her out or gotten her fired. Something doesn’t feel right.

But maybe, a soft voice whispers, that precipice is so terribly close. Maybe I don’t even know the danger—I can’t see it for the high-altitude fog, not until I’m sliding down the slope into absolute academic anonymity. Maybe Laurel was slipping in other ways, I don’t know.

I just wish she’d text me back.

I turn, the swish of my demure pencil skirt against my opaque stockings reminding me how prim I must appear: an overgrown nerd in clothing that doesn’t quite fit her. And let me be honest: every time I bat away a thought about what I dress like, it comes with the anger that perhaps I don’t look the part because I’m trying too hard. Because I’ve wrenched myself into this spot and think it has to come with a certain uniform. And because, perhaps, without this armor I wouldn’t actually fit in. Maybe I’m not smart enough to shine on my own—I have to gild the lily for them to take notice.

But I am here for a reason. It’s not to make friends or be captivating. It’s to research the Nordics and get tenure and stop worrying for once what a miserable failure I could turn out to be. The pressure to succeed is immense.

I don’t even have to think about my childhood for that little nugget of trauma to rear its head. I don’t even need my Catholic guilt: all I have to do is think too hard about tenure review boards.

I tiptoe down the stairs, past the stink of undergrad vomit and stale pizza, patent leather Mary Janes sticking in spilled beer, and out the door.

The December morning wraps itself around me. I’m grateful for its bracing fingers. My nose turns icy, and I pull my cream knit scarf up my neck a little higher, then tuck my hands in my peacoat’s pockets. The Perk isn’t open at 6:30 AM, but that’s not my mission. No: I’m going to grab a black coffee and then go up to my hiding spot on the fifth floor of the Classics department.

No one goes up there except me and Laurel, I’m pretty sure. It’s quieter than the library—and dustier, too—but we don’t mind it. Laurel and I would meet after coursework and go over our notes up there late into the night. The janitorial staff would leave us to our work, and we would leave them to theirs, each grateful that the stony Gothic buildings weren’t haunted by ghosts, only quiet souls doing their absolute best to keep the world turning.

My heels click on the path as I dodge puddles from the rainy night. I think of Marcella—god, why am I thinking of her—in her dark green dress, the velvet hugging her, and wonder if she was warm enough.

No. No. This is not the time to develop a crush. Not with Laurel missing. Not with the faculty showcase coming on so soon, and my semester syllabus still only half written. Steadying myself with a breath of arctic air, I trundle past the library and through the near-empty quad. Squirrels, panicked in the cold snap, chitter and chase through branches of oak trees. A lone robin flutters off the ground and into a pile of damp leaves.

Panic tightens inside of me.

Don’t get attached. Don’t get attached.

I don’t even really know her. I shouldn’t even be thinking about her. But it’s impossible for my mind not to dredge up memories of that swipe of burgundy across her full lips, her smile gentling as she talked about her cat.

It’s ridiculous to feel this way. I’m just lonely. That’s all.

I stop quickly at the student center—an ugly newish building slotted at the side of the main quad—nodding to a few sleep-deprived undergrads as I pour myself a lukewarm coffee as bitter as death. I slug it down and then head back out into the cold December morning. The sky is moving from soft heather gray to a peachy yellow, birds beginning to chirp. Geese call as they fly south in formation overhead.

The caffeine hits by the time I reach the Classics building with the force of a soft summer breeze—which is to say, not quite enough. I promise myself I’ll head to the Perk later; I just need to finalize my syllabus first.

Grousing to myself about deadlines, I dig deep into my pocket for my key card. Of course, I come up only with dust bunnies.