Stuck With You

by Graham, Abigail

My lips press to a thin line. Why am I thinking about that? Not only is she totally off limits in every conceivable way, she's kind of a dick. Maybe I just have a thing for challenging girls. Women, I correct myself. This is a woman.

  "Good," she says. "No canned speech about how you won't let me down, where you forget not to call me coach. I like honesty, and silence is often the most honest."

  I smirk. "Glad we understand each other. I was hoping to ask about the details about this internship."

  "A local historical site is being added to the national register of historic places and one of our major financial backers has spent the last ten years restoring it. He's something of a history aficionado and he wants authenticity before it's opened to the public."

  "So what will I be doing?"

  "Whatever I need you to do," she says, with a hint of a wolfish smile. When she smirks, she tucks her bottom lip under one of her eye teeth and rocks slightly in her chair, like she's barely containing predatory excitement.

  I wonder if this is how a wolf feels when he runs across a badass she-wolf. I need to drop that line of thought before I start wondering if she's in heat.

  Damn it.

  She's challenging. I get why people mock her behind her back and snap to when she snaps at them. She's brimming with confidence. I like that.

  Absurdly, it occurs to me that she'd probably never respond to "what should we have for dinner?" with "I don't know, what do you want?" and then the endless cycle of "I don't want that, what else is there?" until I get fed up and we start arguing and yes, I am talking from experience.

  She knows what she wants.

  Right now, that seems to be rid of me.

  "I have the seminar syllabus for the seminar for you now. The bookstore is open early. Go stock up and get to work. It'll make it easier to keep up with your internship requirements if you're a little ahead."

  Trying not to gulp, I accept the syllabus and flip to the required texts page. A smaller man would have trouble carrying all this, and it's just her class. When I look up, she has a triumphant, and coquettish, smile on her face.

  "Think you can handle that?"

  There's a drippy, sexual heat to her tone and I realize, startled, that the tight swelling I feel in my jeans is my unruly dick, which has decided that two seconds of thinking about this woman is a good excuse to get so hard that I'm hesitant to stand up.

  "Is there something else? If it wasn't obvious, you can go."

  I swallow, my mouth is dry. "Right."

  She keeps looking at me, and it's starting to edge into “this is weird, why isn't he leaving?” territory.

  Holding the syllabus like it's a book, I hover it in front of my crotch and walk out of her office with whatever dignity I can muster while trying to hide my swollen cock. When I cross the threshold, I let out a sigh of relief.

  "Be a darling," she says, "and close the door."

  When she says “darling,” the word trills with a heavily suppressed southern accent. It just slipped out.

  A smirk twists my lips. So she's not a brick wall after all.

  Chapter Two

  Cass

  Well, that was something.

  My fingers drum on my desk. It's four thirty in the afternoon on Friday. My first course isn't until Monday morning, and I have no reason to be here. My prep work is all done, and I even have my photocopied syllabi and reading lists ready to haul to class. I want nothing more than to take this suit off and splay out on my bed with a bowl of popcorn and watch some mindlessly inoffensive Disney crap with my daughter. Unfortunately, I don't have her this week and Bill will not budge on that.

  It's hard being a megabitch. It's tiring, and worse, the more I do it, the harder it gets to separate prim, severe Dr. Mills from Cass, the girl from Hillock, Virginia. My public and private faces have been trying to merge for a long time, and Dr. Mills is the pushy one.

  Yawning, I walk out, duck under the convertible roof and, once inside, let my hair tumble down my back in loose waves. For a while I sit there, one leg hanging out, and sprawl in my seat. I'm in no hurry. Becky is with her father this weekend. So if I gorge on popcorn and watch Frozen, it'll be alone, and that's just too pathetic for a grown woman.

  I could go out.

  Lurching my leg into the car, I start her up and back it out, working the gear shifter. Men are always surprised that I can drive a stick, often so surprised that they can't think of a really good dick joke to drop on me when they see me working the knob.

  My little car is beat up, long paid off, and sounds like a fart, but it's mine. Sighing, I let myself relax into the drive home.

  This is me. Miata, sweatpants, my daughter, living out of boxes and eating out of cans. Dr. Mills is a show, a wall between my being and my professional self. My first history professor, Dr. Harriet Smuthers, once gave me a piece of advice that I have always adhered to:

  "You can be a piece of shit," she said to me, in confidence, the last time we met individually, "or you can be a piece of ass. The only way you're going to get anywhere in academia is by being a bitch. You're too nice, Cassandra, and you're too pretty, far too pretty. Men are going to expect you to let them play around in your panties if you want a job, and when you get tenure, they will tell jokes about you sucking your way to the top. When you start grad school, your new advisor or some of your professors will probably be more open about wanting to fuck you, because you're an adult now. Make them see a cold hard bitch that they have to respect and you'll have your own department some day, Cass."

  I knew on some level that it was true, because a student that got past Smuthers' own armor was as rare as hen's teeth, and sometimes I became a bitch by association just because the iron lady of the history department was nice to me, regardless of my own demeanor. I was different back then.

  The same, but also different. I didn't cover myself in steel yet. I don't completely hate what happened, because it left me with a daughter I adore, but I'm, well...I'm not a social butterfly.

  After taking a bit of a circuitous route, I pull into my spot outside of my apartment building, an old Victorian that used to be one single home. The house was gutted decades ago and now there's a narrow switchback staircase to the top. The hollow sounds of my feet on the steps make it sound like Godzilla is on his way to my apartment.

  Inside, my cat, Hamilton, throws herself at my legs. I scoop her up and briefly wonder what my students, or say, the new thorn in my side Tyler Sinclair, would think if they saw me now—swaying around my kitchen in a mock slow dance with my cat singing “My Heart Will Go On” while she just wants me to crack open a can of organic duck meat cat food.

  When she finally signals that she's had enough, I set her on the floor and go about feeding her, before I even think about feeding myself, as is the order of things. I kick off my Sensible Shoes, shed my blazer again, and wiggle my ass until my slacks slide down to a more comfortable spot on my hips. Having released my hair from the Bitch Bun, I tie it back in a sloppy ponytail and go foraging for food in the fridge.

  Well, this is looking grim. It's Friday night, and I have nothing in my refrigerator to eat besides a three-day-old take-out carton of Thai food, six eggs, mayonnaise, and a jar of peanut butter. Why is my peanut butter in the fridge?

  Hamilton looks up from her dish and mews.

  "You eat that first," I chide her.

  I'm such a slob when my daughter isn't here. I have to let my hair down sometime, after all. It'd be tempting to crack open a wine cooler, but they're warm and when they're warm, my favorite brand tastes like drinking a cocktail of cough syrup and mouthwash. At some point I will require nutrients, which means takeout or delivery.

  My phone buzzes.

  Ten years ago, I was a grad student, young, newly married, and I did not sit home on Friday nights with my cat and make excuses not to talk to human beings. Ten years ago, Dr. Mills had not been invented yet and I was still just Cass.

  Idly, I wonder what Tyler would have thought of her. I know
one thing: A guy like him always saw me coming back in those days, until I let one of them use me and dump me when I got knocked up.

  Well, I wasn't planning to wallow in my own bitterness tonight, but I guess it's either that or Netflix and chill. With myself. Falling back on the couch, I begin scanning delivery apps for something that isn't Thai, because it would be the third time this week, while the eighth episode of some show I'm not watching blurs past in the background.

  It's not even dark.

  Worse, every time I glance away from the phone, I realize I've lost a minute or three and spent that time thinking about my new protégé. When Ned asked me to do this, almost pleading, I was moved. When I looked over the records Ned gave me, I was skeptical. When the kid—

  Kid? He's a year younger than you were when you got engaged.

  —walked into my office, I was annoyed. The swagger, the cocked smile, the whole attitude just screamed arrogant, big man on campus prick. He took me right back to the terrible time in my life when that sort of thing...worked.

  I think I was a little too hard on him. It's not my job to punish him for being a young man, and Ned insists he's intelligent, even called him sensitive. Imagine a living meat wall telling you one of his football players is sensitive. It sounded absurd to me, and I could see nothing today that supported it. He was antsy to leave and acted aloof, like the whole thing was a big joke. More than that...more than that, he was checking me out.

  A few years of crafting my persona and reputation on campus has kept that to a minimum. Most of my male students have been too annoyed with my demands and rigorous coursework to fit me into their post-adolescent fantasies. I'd be lying if I didn't say I enjoy it a little. Someone has to teach them that you can't judge a book by its cover.

  Tyler was judging me by my cover. I don't usually feel naked in a wool sweater, but he managed it. Well, not naked. A little exposed. I could feel him looking at me, trying to suss out the shape of my body under my clothes. His eyes lingered on my lips, instantly making me regret the red lipstick.

  That's always been a calculated risk. If I wear a lighter shade it doesn't suit me, and if I wear something darker, I look like a mall goth, so red it is. I paint my nails to match, which is perfectly normal. When Tyler was looking at me, I felt all those decisions under scrutiny, being evaluated to look for a hidden message.

  Judging by the bulge in his pants when he left my office, he found it. I admit it, I sat there for a minute or so with my mouth hanging open. He was, ah, impressive. I shouldn't have looked, he might have noticed. Why did he have to wear jeans so tight he must have had to jump into them from a roof to get them on? Worn threadbare denim clinging to bunching, stretching muscles in his long legs and meaty ass.

  Oh hell, what am I doing?

  My phone flops on my chest. I got so lost in the moment that I dropped it, while my other hand worked itself into my slacks. I yank it away. I am not going to masturbate to an undergrad on a Friday with peanut butter in my fridge. My cat stares at me, her green eyes shimmering with judgment.

  "Don't look at me like that," I mutter.

  She meows softly and paces off with the calm assurance of a cat, probably to vomit in my sneakers. I tuck my off hand under my armpit to keep it from wandering downstairs while I look for dinner. There's a new place on the delivery app called Cosmic Dog, and they sell...hot dogs. Frowning, I contemplate ordering the Double Disgusting Dugout Chili Dog before I huff and jump up from the couch.

  Screw this, I am not this far gone. Throwing my hair up, I take a quick shower and throw open my closet, looking for something a little more casual to wear. I have nine identical suits and nearly identical blouses, in hues from gray to black. Next to that is my pathetic collection of casual clothes and my prom dress in a plastic sheath. Why I keep that in my closet, I don't even know.

  Part of me wants to go all throwback and pull on a band shirt, ripped jeans, boots, and my ancient biker jacket. It belonged to my dad but it's flattering on me, at least I think it is, and it has that air of authenticity that only comes from dry old scuffed leather. I pick it up from the hanger and hold it up.

  My students would be floored if they saw me walk out of my apartment in full Mallrats Mode. Sighing, I put it back. There is actually a non-zero chance that some of my students will see me, or former students, and I'd rather not deal with it. Sometimes I'm tempted to move to another town and commute, but I can't give up this apartment. It's cheap, and my landlord is forgiving.

  Instead, I grab some leggings, a long wool hoodie that hangs to my knees, and boots. I tie my hair back in a ponytail and leave my glasses behind—I'm actually farsighted and only need them to read, but wearing them all the time makes me look less approachable. After a brief touch up, I'm off.

  When I get to the car I realize I don't know where I'm going. I almost drove to Cosmic Dog to get that absurd hot dog in person, which isn't really any less pathetic, now that I think about it. Wherever I go, I'm going alone. Chewing my lip, I think to myself, is this how far I've fallen? I don't remember what single people do on a Friday?

  Some of my colleagues go to a particular bar downtown, on the far side of campus from here. I have a standing invitation to join, but if I walked up like this, they might not recognize me. If they do, I'm pretty sure everyone in the bar will suddenly stop talking and a sting of scary violin music will announce my presence.

  The hell with it, I'll just go. I don't even have to drive, it's a half hour walk.

  Flicking on a pair of sunglasses that I don't need in the twilight, I keep my head down as I pass campus, even though it's deserted. There's a winter semester orientation for freshmen tomorrow, and the rest of the students move in on Sunday. It's not a big school.

  For now, there's a handful of students—the ones who work on campus or in the dorms, that sort of thing, and I don’t want to run into any of them right now. There probably won't even be any students at the bar. I'm safe.

  After passing campus, I turn. We're actually in the state capitol, and the bar the professors frequent is near the capitol campus, seated on the banks of a slow moving creek about fifty yards wide. The one side is all windows and makes for a nice view. When I step through the door, a cheerful high school girl hostess says, "Table for one?" in a tone that sounds like, "Are you fucking kidding me, where's your boyfriend?"

  "Yeah. I can sit at the bar if I can order food."

  "Just snacks. Dinner menu doesn't start until five!"

  I almost point out that it's ten minutes to five, but nod glumly. Without my armor—my blazer and bun and sensible shoes—I feel a little naked and surprisingly vulnerable, like some soft creature with no shell. She deposits me at the bar with a snack menu which reads:

  Five Alarm Buffalo Chicken Won-Tons with Celery and Bleu Cheese

  Pork Potstickers

  Deep Fried Ravioli

  Pretzels and Peanuts

  Hand-Made Potato Chips and Honey Ricotta Dip

  Legendary Crab Rangoon

  I'm not eating peanuts for dinner and I'm not a wuss, so I tell the bartender I want the won ton thing when I order a dark draught porter from the tap.

  "Need to see your ID, miss," he says.

  I pretend he's flattering me and not covering his ass and deflate slightly when he doesn't offer some lame "oh, I had no idea you were this old!" flirt. Does he want a tip or not? Instead he just draws me a mug full of beer and sets it in front of me with a small bowl of peanuts, which makes me wonder why you'd ever pay for them.

  Huffing, I nurse the beer and look around. Place is empty, televisions are all muted, and the hostess up front is leaning against the wall, jutting out a petulant bottom lip as she rapidly types a missive on her stupid little phone. I'd bet money it starts with OMG.

  "I hate the world and everyone in it," I tell my beer.

  "Well, that's a shame."

  I look up and Tyler Sinclair is behind the bar in jeans, a polo shirt, and a barkeep's apron, bulging muscles flexing as he set
s a steaming plate of breaded, deep fried won ton-ish thingies in front of me.

  "Those are the best thing on the menu," he informs me, and in a lower voice, sotto voce, adds, "Stay away from the crab rangoon. Trust me."

  Dumbly, I stare at him, trying to process what to do or say before I mumble, "uh, thanks," and look down, signaling him to leave.

  I don't know if I'm supposed to cut these with a fork, but I do.

  Shit, it's hot! Temperature and spice. I down half my beer to wash the burning sensation out of my mouth and swipe at my lips with the back of my arm like some kind of barbarian. It is good, though.

  The crab rangoon thing creeps me out a little, though.

  Tyler is paying me no mind at all, and is soon mixing drinks for a young couple that just walked in. The bar springs to life, people filing in an erratic wave. When it rolls around to five thirty, it's worse. Tyler brings me a new beer, and then a third, with no conversation and only quick glances.

  I better slow down, I'm a little tipsy. The food was good. Nice, chunky bleu cheese—I love that. I fucking love it.

  I'm not drunk.

  "Cassandra?"

  Lamely, I realize that the person who said my name is one of my colleagues. We're not close. Baldheaded and skinny, he looks and moves like a bird, maybe a stork. I stare at him too long, assembling these thoughts into a coherent chain in my head.

  "Oh hiiii," I say, and down more beer. I'm going to need it. I should slow down.

  "Why don't you come sit with us?"

  He's with a group, all younger professors—untenured and adjuncts. I don't know the adjuncts. They probably don't hate me as much.

  I slap the bar with my hand.

  "Barkeep, I'm going to sit over there," I tell him.

  Tyler eyes me warily.

  "I'll have a waitress send your check over."

  "Nah, not yet," I slur, leaving my beer glass empty. "Have 'em bring me a..." I scan the cocktail board, "a Magnum Moscow Mule."

  He frowns. "Are you sure—"

  "I'm hella sure. Just do it. Jesus, kids these days."