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“That’s it exactly,” I say, realizing I’ve spent far too long just standing here, thinking. “The love Shakespeare is talking about is precisely what Ellie said. Real. And he goes out of his way to say that.”
“But what about the totality of his work?” a student says from the second row. He’s a young man, leaning back confidently, with pale yellow hair grown long around his shoulders. When I gesture at him, he continues, “Shakespeare wrote… how many sonnets? One hundred and fifty?”
One hundred fifty-four, but only a douchebag professor would correct him there.
“That’s not real, that level of devotion, of idolization. That turns the love into something surreal.”
“But we don’t necessarily have to judge them all as one, do we?” Ellie responds.
Something tugs at my heart when I hear her voice, the confidence mixed with the shyness. There’s something within her trying not to let her speak, but she’s pushing past it.
“If our argument is about how Shakespeare viewed love,” the man continues, “I think we have to.”
“I disagree.” Ellie glances at me, but her gaze is low, so she looks through her eyelashes. It makes her look so young, shy, and off-limits that it hurts. I can’t have her, but she belongs to me. “I think we can judge each sonnet as a self-contained piece of art.”
“Hmm,” the man says.
I really need to get a grip now. When the man—the student—brushes his hair with his hand, then sneers at Ellie, I want to charge into the sea of students and clock his cocky little face. There’s something unacceptable about him looking at my woman that way or even thinking of looking at her that way.
Nobody gets to… Wait, what the hell?
My woman? When did she become my woman? The first moment I saw her, honestly.
“We’ll have time for longer discussions in the seminar sessions,” I say. “For now, you’ll have to sit back and let me drone on for a while. Those were good contributions, though.” I force myself to say the next bit. “Both of you.”
For the rest of the session, I go into autopilot. It’s the only way I’m going to survive this. I also try not to look at Ellie for any meaningful length of time. Each time I glance at her, my mind catches alight, flames hissing with everything I’d do to her. Pull her to her feet, wrap my arms around her, and lean down to kiss her since I’m six-three and she can’t be any taller than five-five. Then I’d slide my hands down her body, grab her hips, and tear off her clothes.
I’d reveal her pale, flushed skin and then kiss every goddamn inch. Up her inner thigh, as I get closer to her heat, smelling her, getting drunk on her pheromones, her scent. My cock is rock hard. I’m in class, and my dick is hard. Jesus Christ.
I push my mind away, focusing on the poems, but that doesn’t help much. We’re talking about love. This whole module is about love. Obviously, I can’t say I love this woman, but I can’t describe my feelings as nothing, either. Something significant is happening here. I feel bonded to her, somehow, already.
Loyal to her. Protective over her. Already.
How? How the fuck?
Sitting in my office, I look over the quad. The afternoon sun shines down on the greenery. Students walk back and forth between the redbrick buildings, and more sit on the grass or benches. At the front of the quad, I spot a few non-students. There’s a café with outdoor seating right at the front, where people congregate when meeting students.
Even from where I’m sitting, I know it’s her from how she paces back and forth. It’s the shape and rhythm of her movements, and her clothes, too—the dark jacket and jeans despite the sun. It’s Vanessa. Oh, hell, is that why I recognized Ellie? Please, God, no.
Without thinking, I stand from my desk and hurry across my office, rolling down my sleeves. The college is okay about my tats if I keep them covered. I walk across the quad, my heartbeat drumming heavily again. It’s done more heavy beating today than it has in years. The closer I get, the more confident I am.
Vanessa turns. She’s short like her daughter. Her face crumples when she sees me. She looks behind her, then back at me, as if she wishes somebody was here so they could acknowledge the craziness too.
“Vee,” I say.
She winces. “My name’s Vanessa.”
“My bad. You used to go by…” I trail off. It doesn’t matter. “How are you, anyway?”
Do you have a daughter named Ellie? Is that why I recognized her?
She smiles tightly. “I’m fine. I moved out East a couple of years ago after… I’m fine. How are you? Are you a professor now?”
“English Literature.”
“You always wanted to be a writer. Or a tattoo artist, right?”
