by Alexis James
Pulling out of her embrace, I swipe the tears from my eyes and lean over the laptop, quickly pulling up flight information. I’m on a mission now.
“Uh … Soph, I know you want to be there, but you have two exams next week.”
“I don’t care. I’m going home.”
Her hands come down over mine, halting the frantic typing. “Look at me.” When I comply, my jaw firmly set, she continues. “You can’t just jet off to Miami every time there’s a crisis. You have a life here, a job at the college, tutoring, and the preschool. You have responsibilities that you can’t blow off now, not if you want to graduate.”
“I don’t care,” I whimper.
Her hard veneer warms slightly. “Yes you do. I know you do. I know you even care about the stupid TA job you do for Professor Dickface.”
“I can’t talk about him now.” My voice is starting to sound more like a whine, and once again I get to my feet and start to pace. “I shouldn’t be here, Char. I should be home with my family, not hiding out here in New Orleans trying to be all tough and independent.” The tears start in earnest now. “Do you know I’ve eaten bags of Cheetos and dry cereal for the past two weeks because I can’t afford groceries? I’m not independent. I’m stupid.”
“I hate to point out the obvious here, but if you can’t afford to eat, how can you afford to fly home?”
Coming to a stop, I offer a contrite look and shrug. “Cruz pays for all my travel expenses.”
She snickers. “Not so independent after all, huh?”
I glare at her and continue pacing once again. “Shut up. You know how hard this is on me.”
“I do, lady. I do know how hard everything has been on you. But I think this is less about you wanting to go home and more about your need to run away.”
My feet screech to a halt, and I prop my hands on my hips. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that I think you’re deeper into this mess with Professor Bonham than even you will admit. I think the idea of running is appealing, especially if you believe doing so might temper some of your feelings for him.”
My entire body sighs with exhaustion, and I flop down onto the floor in front of the coffee table. “Am I really that obvious?”
She shrugs. “To me, maybe. I doubt you’re that way toward him.”
“I hope not.”
Hours later as I lie in the dark with my phone on my chest. I’m thankful she talked me down off the ledge. She’s right. If I had gone home I would have put my graduation in jeopardy. Professor Bonham would have most likely cut me from his TA roster and I’d once again be on the outside looking in, stalking him from afar.
I don’t want to be that girl again. I don’t want to be the girl I am tonight, the girl with the fluctuating emotions and impulsive, desperate reactions. I want to be the independent, strong woman I set out to be back when I first got in my car and drove here from Florida all alone. I need to prove to myself I can do this, and if it means eating Cheetos every day for another week, so be it. I refuse to be the little rich girl my classmates once accused me of being, or coddled because I’m the youngest in my family. I’ll be damned if I let someone else pay my way and take the easy way out. I will prove to everyone that this baby of the family can take care of herself,
Charlotte is right about something else too: I was using this family crisis to run from Caleb. Granted, I know very well that no matter how far I run from him, my feelings will follow. That realization is almost as terrifying as knowing I’ll always be alone in this one-sided fantasy of mine.
Tossing down the pen, I drag my hands through my hair and bite back a curse. I’m getting nowhere with this lecture. Every time I’m on track, my thoughts travel away to something else, and then I’m right back to square one, trying to get my head in the game.
The past few weeks have been a nightmare. Between dealing with Rianne’s phone calls and sorting out all the weirdness that popped up between me and Miss Moran, I’m getting little sleep and have accomplished nothing. Even my father, who never sees anything but the best in me, has started to wonder what’s going on. Luckily, he’s easily swayed with a few well-placed phrases like, “I’m busy,” or “There’s a lot going on at school.”
Getting to my feet, I glance at the clock. Sophia should be here by now, but I’ve yet to hear the familiar pecking on the computer that denotes she’s once again focused on her work. She’s been nothing but that the past few weeks: head down, intent, and completely disconnected from me in every single way.
I should be happy about this sudden change, but something feels off. It’s unlike her—this girl I hardly know—to intentionally distance herself from someone, but what do I know? She could be like all the other girls her age and is letting her personal feelings get in the way of what matters, fixating on her own problems and allowing her mood to reflect that. I hate to think she’s so hung up on some college boy that she’d let him pull her off her path toward graduation and beyond. Not that I’d be surprised. Women tend to get overemotional in relationships.
There’s a rustle from the outer office, an undefined noise, and then I hear the soft murmur of her voice. Whomever she’s speaking to, the conversation is brief, because less than a minute later all I hear is silence.
Grasping the large stack of grades that need recording, I yank open my office door and stroll slowly toward her desk on the opposite side of the room. She’s sitting there silently, eyes forward, one hand resting over her phone. Her usually well-groomed hair is pulled up into some sort of messy bun on her head, and she’s wearing an enormous sweatshirt with Miami splashed across the chest and ratty jeans.
For some unknown reason, worry skirts through me. Something feels wrong—bothersome, and I wish I could explain it. I suppose I’m picking up on her mood, but something about the way she’s dressed, the paleness of her skin, the lifeless eyes denotes a bigger concern.
“Miss Moran?” She doesn’t flinch, blink, or acknowledge that I’ve called her name. So I try again and get the same result. Something has this girl spinning in the wind, and I’ll be damned if I can figure out what the hell is going on.
With a heavy sigh, I make another attempt. “Miss Moran? Are you all right?”
Finally, her eyes lift slowly, head tipping back to look directly at me. “I’m sorry. Did you need something, Professor?”
The weird, nagging worry intensifies as I look her over. She’s deathly pale and the bruised expression in her eyes makes them appear lifeless. “Are you all right? Not feeling well?”
There’s a long, silent pause, then she mutters, “Um … I’m sorry … what did you say?”
Annoyed that I have allowed her to get to me like this, I snap, “Go home, Miss Moran. You’re of no use to me today.” My snide remark does nothing to sway the lost expression on her face. I step back to allow her room to gather her things but do wonder if maybe I shouldn’t offer to help.
Oh no. Oh hell no.
I am not going there. Not with this woman … this girl … or anyone else for that matter. I don’t do sympathy, and I sure as fuck am not built to be someone’s shoulder to cry on. Best I just allow her to leave and hope that when she returns, she’s behaving as she normally would.
Phone in one hand, she grasps her backpack with the other and moves slowly toward the door, pulling it open and stepping out into the auditorium. She’s so lost in her head she doesn’t even manage to close it behind her.
Flinging it shut with my hand, the loud bang of wood on wood has a certain finality to it. Like the ass I am, I can only stand there and wonder what the fuck is going on. I don’t have time for this shit. I sure as hell don’t have time for overdramatic students who allow life’s troubles to interfere with their studies, their jobs. Any respect I might have had for her instantly falls away. I’m left asking myself where the hell my head has been the past few weeks. Giving Sophia Moran any more of my time, whether it be physically or in thought, is nothing but a waste. In a few short mont
hs she’ll be gone and will be nothing more to me but a distant memory.
My afternoon classes go on as normal and sometime during my final lecture, Miss Lewis comes in to complete the work that Miss Moran should have been focused on. She leaves before I have a chance to speak with her. Though, to be clear, I have no idea what I planned to say. Part of me wants to inquire about my beautiful assistant’s state of mind. The other part wants to inform her friend that I intend to have her removed from her position in my office. As I’ve yet to completely decide if I want to let her go, based solely on one unproductive afternoon, I set the thought aside and finish up for the day, locking the office just after six.
Soft, low lighting gives the auditorium an eerie glow, but it’s a far cry from the all-out darkness I experienced a few weeks ago. Thankful now that I remembered to speak to the cleaning staff about it, I move up the stairs toward the double doors. Just as I start to push them open, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye.
Sophia is seated in the last seat in the last row, tucked back into a corner and barely noticeable. Her backpack sits at her feet, her phone between both hands, the same lost expression ghosting the fine lines of her face. As before, she doesn’t seem to notice that I’m near. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s just as submersed in her own head as she was earlier this afternoon.
“Miss Moran? What are you doing here?” Moving slowly down the aisle, I step up close when she doesn’t respond. “Miss Moran, did you hear me?”
“My phone died,” she says, her voice flat and lacking emotion.
Thrown, I lower myself into the seat next to her. “Did you need to call someone?” She nods, rolling her phone between her hands. She offers no other statement or explanation, and that odd, nagging worry from earlier reignites itself in my gut. “Have you been here all day?” She nods again. “Do you need me to call someone for you?”
Her eyes drift slowly to mine. “No thanks.” Small, white teeth clamp down hard on her lower lip. I feel it in the pit of my stomach. “Um, can I borrow your phone?”
Without pause, I pull my phone from my jacket pocket, unlock the passcode, and hand it over. She punches in a number and seconds later says, “Hi. It’s me.” She pauses briefly then replies, “My phone died. I’m using a … um … a friend’s phone.” There’s a long moment of silence while she listens to the voice on the other end then, “You’ll call if there is any change?” Another long pause and then she nods. “Yeah. I have a late flight out Friday night.” She bites hard on her lip again and says softly, “I love you too.”
Every cell in my body reacts to those words and a mixture of dejection and anger take root. I don’t want to feel anything for this girl. Not sympathy, not a connection … nothing but contempt and annoyance. Whatever it is that she’s done to penetrate my exterior, I’ve got to work real hard on putting it back into place. Contrary to what she told the person she was speaking to, I am not her friend. I will never be her friend. If that’s the impression I’ve given her, then I need to rectify that. Right the fuck now.
Sophia ends the call and hands the phone over, whispering, “Thank you, Professor.” She faces forward once again, and I can do nothing but watch helplessly as her eyes fill with tears that roll unrestrained down her face.
My hands clench as I shove the phone into my pocket and try like hell to figure out what to do. The prick that I am wants to walk out that door and forget the past few moments. I’d be better off reacting as I normally do. Unfeeling. Cold as ice. But as I watch her sit there unmoving and shattered, something inside of me screams out to help her. I can offer her little in the way of empathy, but I can let her know she’s not alone. This is not about a nonexistent student-teacher relationship. This is about one human being helping another.
Reaching out, I place my hand over hers. “Miss Moran, what’s going on?”
She turns to look at me. Those intriguing mocha eyes are filled with so much pain. “Please call me Sophia.”
Against my better judgement, I nod. “Sophia, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”
She turns her palm over, entwining my fingers in hers as she faces forward once again. She does it so easily, so naturally, I can’t even croak out a protest. My stomach jumps with awareness and the silent battle in my head continues to rage on when she starts to speak. “My niece is sick. She was born Saturday night. She wasn’t breathing.” Inhaling a visibly shaky breath, she continues. “Now my sister-in-law isn’t doing so well either.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. You’re going back home?” I know the answer already, but I feel it’s important to keep her talking.
“Yes. I’ll leave after class Friday and return late Sunday.” Her eyes dart to mine, awash with fear and unshed tears. “I won’t miss any more work days.”
Her reassurance does little to remove the doubt. Her current state of mind proves that even if she’s physically sitting in a chair in a classroom, she’s useless unless her mind is engaged. “I appreciate that, Miss … I mean Sophia. But you need to work out your family issues.”
Sophia nods and the tears continue to run in torrents down her pale face. “Believe me, I wish I could. It’s sort of out of my hands, you know?”
This woman obviously has very close ties to her family, which makes me curious about why she’d go to school so far away. There are plenty of good colleges in Florida, certainly a few that are close enough for her to remain near to her family.
Her choices in life are none of my business. Wondering about her in any capacity is wrong. And yet as I sit here next to her in the semi-darkness, her small hand locked in mine, I have to admit that sometimes wrong feels so incredibly right.
She takes another deep breath and tries desperately to pull herself together. Her free hand wipes the tears away as she glances up at me and whispers, “Thank you for being here, Caleb.” My breath catches as she says my name, and by her shocked reaction it’s clear she said it without considering the bigger picture. Without considering anything at all. Suddenly, she pulls her hand from mine, mumbling, “I’m so sorry, Professor.” Grasping her backpack, she quickly gets to her feet then realizes I’m blocking her way. Those pearly whites come down hard again on her soft pink lip, and the screaming inside of me intensifies.
Rising, I stand a good foot above her and her eyes widen as she takes a step back. This is the first time since she’s worked for me that I’ve seen an honest, real reaction from her where I’m concerned. She’s scared, and rightly so. I’m sure she assumes I’ll fire her, or I’ll lash out like I normally do—which if I were being honest with myself, I know I should. Students don’t call me by my first name … ever. Certainly not beautiful, weepy students, who hold my hand in the dark.
Backing toward the aisle, I give her plenty of room to rush past me. The lavender scent of her skin causes my senses to combust. She walks out without another word, leaving me standing there, struggling to breathe, more confused than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
How the hell did I allow this to happen? And why her, of all the women in New Orleans? Why is this young, innocent student of mine getting under my skin?
Exhaling the breath I’d been holding, I prop my hands on my waist and close my eyes. Whatever the fuck that just was, it needs to stop now. I cannot allow the brief closeness between us to continue for one moment longer. She is my student, I am her supervisor and part of the faculty, and as such I have as much of a responsibility to myself as I do to her. I need to keep things between us professional.
The fingers of my left hand still burn with the residual feel of her touch. Clenching my fist, then giving it a shake, I skim my palm down the leg of my pants, as if that small maneuver will erase everything that just transpired.
Regardless of how I feel about the matter, I need to consider finding another assistant job for her and cutting her loose. The longer she stays on with me, the more at risk she puts us. Hell, to be fair, I’m the one who is putting us at risk. This brief closeness could easi
ly segue into something more, for her at least. Though, I admit I’d probably roll easily into her bed if she offered. I seem to have trouble resisting her, even when my better judgement is berating me loudly in my ear.
This woman has the power to wreck me completely. After all I’ve done to work my way to the top of my profession, I am not about to do anything to harm my reputation. Getting involved with a student in any capacity is taboo in this job. As it stands now, I am more involved than I ever should have allowed myself to be. Putting some distance between us is the only solution.
Closing my eyes, I breathe in the warm, humid Miami air. I’m exhausted from my travels the night before and from the overall stress of the week. The flight was delayed due to weather, putting me on the ground two hours later than was originally scheduled. My sister Isabella and I stayed up most of the night talking about all that happened with Mia and the baby. I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually close my eyes until after three.
She left for her shift at the hospital a while ago, but I can’t seem to move my butt out of this patio chair and get it in gear. My emotions are still all over the place; one minute I’m elated because Mia is feeling better and the baby is coming home soon, the next minute I’m teary-eyed and weepy about all that’s happened to them both.
Then there’s the issue of Caleb.
I sigh and take a sip of my now tepid coffee. I don’t know what to make of that man. He was nothing but gentle and sweet with me during my crazy disconnect from the world on Monday. Since then, he’s been right back to treating me like some kind of pariah. He doesn’t talk to me, he snaps and growls like some rabid dog, hoping to rid my presence from the room permanently. I suppose he could be angry because yet again I blew off another day that could have been productive. If he’d let me, I would have explained in greater detail the terrible things that have transpired since the baby’s birth. In his defense, he did listen patiently. Patiently for him, that is.