Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3)

by Erica Alexander

  Gus nods, never taking his eyes off Jerk Face. “Hey, Bonnie, why don’t you go now. Don’t worry about cleaning up. I’m closing early. It’s dead tonight.” Gus puts a lot of emphasis on the word dead.

  I look at Dylan and whisper, “I’ll be right back.” I take the cookie container and walk to the back, removing my apron on the way. Grabbing my backpack, I stuff the cookies inside, grab my sweater, and put on my jacket. I fish out my keys, and I’m back in less than a minute, making my way from the other side of the bar and taking a wide berth around the asshole. Gus shifts his position, keeping himself between us.

  Dylan walks to me and puts a hand at my back. I glance at Gus, and he tilts his head up in a clear indication for me to go.

  Jerk Face gets up. Gus puts a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t go yet.” Pushes him into his seat again. “I got your change, Pretty Boy. You’re going to need that to call a cab.”

  Dylan’s hand stays on my back all the way to my car. I mourn the short distance and miss the warmth when he takes his hand away to open the car door for me. “I’ll follow you and make sure you get back safely.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  I hesitate, then get into the car. He stands by the open door. I put the key in the ignition and turn. Nothing. Not even a flicker of a sound. I try again. And again. “It’s dead.”

  His hand appears in the space between us. “Come. I’ll give you a ride. Leave the car here. We can come back tomorrow and try to jump-start it.”

  “But …”

  “It’s late, Becca. The car will be fine. Send your boss a message so he knows you’re safe. I’ll take you home.”

  I take his hand.

  I get into his car.

  He drives me.

  We don’t talk. I’m fascinated by his every move, the gentle way his hands grip the steering wheel, how he checks his mirrors before changing lanes and how his thigh tenses when he steps on the gas pedal. He’s a careful driver. The ride is smooth. We get to campus far too fast.

  “Where to?” He slows down when we reach the main road into Riggins.

  “What?”

  The corners of his mouth quirk up. “Which building do you live in?”

  “Oh. The blue dorm.”

  He drives no more than twenty miles per hour, as if he too wants to slow down and extend our time together. “Do you know why all the dorms have different colors?” There’s mischief in his eyes.

  “So it’s easier for people to find them?”

  “That too, but that’s not the original reason.”

  He parks near my building, but keeps the car running. We’re away from the lights and hidden from curious eyes. I look at all the other buildings, each a different color. It’s dark now, save for a few streetlights here and there, but during the day the buildings sit next to each other like a brick-and-mortar rainbow.

  “What’s the original reason, then?”

  “Back in nineteen seventy-eight, an artist called Gilbert Baker created the rainbow flag in San Francisco. As you can imagine, a lot of people were not happy about it. But a few years later, Riggins, being the progressive university it was, painted all the dorms a different rainbow color as a silent support for gay rights. They never officially said anything about it. But that’s the real reason. The official reason, as you said, is to make it easier for people to find their buildings.”

  I look at the buildings again, seeing them in a new light. “That’s so cool, how do you know that?”

  “My parents were professors here. They told me that when I was a kid.”

  “I had no idea.” We stay silent for a while. Both looking at the buildings. “Is it hard? To work here I mean?”

  He unlocks his seatbelt. Turns my way. “Sometimes. I have so many memories of coming here as a kid. Helping them carry papers and books. Taking classes for college credit while still in high school and stopping to have lunch with them when they taught in the summer. Sitting in their lectures sometimes.” His gaze grows distant—he goes to a place I cannot follow but would give anything to experience. I’d trade the pain of love and loss for the relief of getting away from my mother in a heartbeat.

  “It’s bittersweet, I guess.”

  He nods. “In more ways than I imagined possible.”

  “What did they teach?”

  “Dad was an economics professor, and Mom taught history. Meals were always filled with world events discussions.” He smiles, his voice lighter, happier.

  “And you chose—”

  “Psychology,” he confirms what I already know.

  “Is it something you always wanted to study?”

  “Not really. I kind of fell into it, or more likely embraced it out of necessity.” He looks away, half of his face in shadows—the car’s interior light paints his skin blue.

  “What do you mean?” I speak so low, I’m not sure he heard me.

  “It was senior year of high school. A few months before graduation. I was all set to go to Dartmouth …” He’s silent for a while. I wait.

  “My girlfriend and I drove together every day. That day she got mad at me because she saw me talking to another girl. It was innocent, but Annelise had always been insecure. We had a fight on the way back home. She made me pull over and got out of the car. I tried to follow her, but it was a one-lane road with barely a shoulder. When the other cars started beeping behind me, I had to go. I looped around and came back looking for her. It was less than half a mile from her house, and when I didn’t see her I figured she had made it home.”

  He goes silent again. My heart constricts. I fear whatever he will say next.

  “I texted her. A dozen times. And when she didn’t answer, I thought she was still mad. I wish I had never listened to her and stopped the car.”

  I reach to him and squeeze his hand. He looks at our hands together, and I let go. When he speaks, his voice is so low I have to lean in to hear him better. “The call came three hours later. Someone—a jogger found her in a field. She’d been beaten unconscious and was half-naked.”

  “Jesus.” Tears sting my eyes. We have this in common, his girlfriend and I.

  “The police came after me. I was out of my mind with guilt and fear. They wouldn’t let me see her or tell me exactly what happened. They kept asking me the same questions over and over. She woke up the next day and told them what happened. She was never the same.”

  “It was not your fault, Dylan. You know that.”

  He looks at me and then drops his gaze. Three fingertips tap his knee.

  “Her family blamed me. She blamed herself. I tried to stay by her side, support her. She didn’t go back to school. This is a small town. Everyone knew what happened. She couldn’t stand to be pitied. And then there were the assholes and bullies—they sent her nasty emails and texts. I went after them, got into a lot of fights. She got help, went to counseling a couple of times a week. We thought she was getting better. But then …”

  I try to get closer to him, but the seatbelt holds me back. I unlock it, pull my legs up onto the seat, and take his hand between mine. The need to comfort him greater than my fear of rejection.

  He closes his eyes. “She killed herself.”

  “Oh my God.” I hurt for this girl I’ve never met. My lungs lock up, and I have to make a conscious effort to breathe. That too could have been me. The idea of ending it all whispered in my ears more than once.

  He blinks several times, his mouth turns down, his chin quivers. “All I could think of was the moment I stopped my car and let her go.”

  “You couldn’t have anticipated it. It was not your fault.” I squeeze his hand harder, try to break the hold the memory has over him.

  He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I trashed my entire room. My parents didn’t stop me. They stood at the door and watched. When everything was in pieces on the floor, my mom hugged me, and my dad brought in trash bags, and we cleaned the mess.”

  He brings our laced fingers to
his chest. His heart beats wildly against the back of my hand.

  “When I started at Dartmouth seven months later, I switched my majors. I couldn’t change what happened to Annelise. Or bring her back. But I needed to understand why she did it. And I wanted to make sure it never happened to anyone I loved again. I never saw the signs. Even now, knowing everything I know, there were never any signs she wanted to take her life. I’m still not sure that’s what she intended to do.”

  I muster all the bravery I can, and I take a risk. Pulling our laced hands back, I press his fingers to my cheek and kiss his knuckles as if the small gesture could take his pain away.

  Dylan shifts, disengages, tucks my hair behind my ear. His fingertips linger on my neck. I shiver. He grips the back of my head and pulls me closer, his lips inches away from mine. I close my eyes, inhale his clean scent. He leans in, breathes me in, and kisses my forehead. His lips stay there for a moment, and then he pulls away, slowly reversing his every move until we no longer touch.

  Dylan blinks away the memories. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You listened.”

  I could listen to him reading a math book. His voice has the same calming effect on me the therapist’s voice does. Hmm … they sound similar too. Never thought of that before. Maybe all psychologists learn to talk with the same soft tone.

  He looks over my shoulder. “I’d walk you to your door, but …”

  I look to the building entrance. A few people are hanging out by the door, smoking.

  “Yeah, probably best for me to go alone.” I’m glad it’s too dark for anyone to see inside his car. Last thing we need is gossip about a professor and me.

  “Can you text me when you get to your room?” He gives me his phone. “Put your number in, and I’ll text you.”

  I hear what he doesn’t say … so he knows I’m safe. I put my number in his contacts, give his phone back. We stare at each other, his gaze drops to my mouth. I lick my lips, wishing I could taste him.

  “Good night, Becca.”

  I open the door watching him, frigid air digs its icy fingers into me, and I shiver. I step out, close the door, walk to my building, look back. He’s still there. I go inside, get into the elevator. My phone buzzes. I look at it and smile.

  Dylan: Sweet dreams.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Once inside my room, I kick off my shoes and drop my jacket and backpack on the floor. Rest my back against the door. Close my eyes. “What an insane day.”

  My laptop calls to me, but I stop myself and grab my shower stuff instead. I need to think.

  I make my way to the showers, crossing my fingers that no one is there. I’m rewarded with an empty room. My body relaxes by degrees, first by finding myself alone and then by the hot water. The tension in my shoulders washes down the drain with the suds. I’m divided between wanting to stay in the shower and leaving before someone shows up. Exhaustion and the need to avoid people while feeling so exposed wins.

  I dry and dress in my cozy unicorn pajamas, wrap my wet hair in a towel and go back to my room, getting into bed. I should go to sleep, but instead grab my laptop. It’s so late that I doubt he’ll be there, but when I browse to the support page, I see his name. My heart picks up speed. I should be over this nervousness by now.

  I shake my hair loose, comb with my fingers, get my crappy earbuds. Wrap a blanket around me and lean against the cement wall. Cold seeps through the blanket and my shirt, making me shiver. I click his name to make the call.

  He picks up on the third ring. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again today.”

  I hoped he was up waiting for me to call again. Idiot. I’m so stupid. Why would he be waiting for me? We talked a few hours ago. He’s not my private therapist, or my best friend.

  “I wasn’t planning on calling, but then I saw you were there.” I pick at a loose string on my blanket.

  “How was your night?” The sound of light tapping comes through as he speaks. An image of long fingers tapping on a desk fills my mind. It soothes me.

  “It was … interesting.”

  “Interesting?”

  “Yeah, just some work stuff,” I deflect. Me and my big mouth.

  “And this work stuff was interesting because …” he pushes.

  “I met someone.” What the actual fuck. I didn’t mean to tell him this.

  The tapping stops. Silence builds like a fortress. Why is he not saying anything?

  “You did?”

  “Yes. Well … technically I’ve known this person for over a year, but we never really talked before.”

  “And now?” The tapping resumes, but it’s not as soothing as before.

  “And now we did. Talk that is.” Could I be more evasive?

  “What changed?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Don’t you?”

  What changed? He tried to protect me from the shooter. He invited me for Thanksgiving, and he flirted with me. He said he's attracted to me. He came to the bar when he couldn’t sleep. He was ready to fight that asshole to protect me, and then he drove me home. So much happened. I simplify it. “I guess we started talking, and I think I like him. It was …” Nice? Fun?

  “It was what?” The tapping speeds up.

  “Easy. It was easy talking to him. A little like talking to you. Except he doesn’t ask me all these questions.”

  “Can you see yourself having a relationship with this person?” The tapping stops again.

  Yes. Yes. Yes. God help me. I can. “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?” Tap. Tap. Tap. Silence.

  “I’m not sure if I’m fit for a real relationship.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  I gaze down. My hand has shredded the corner of the blanket into a tangle of strings. “You know why. I’m a mess. I’ve never had a real relationship in my life. I have no idea what it even looks like.”

  “Okay, let’s break this down. One: You’re not a mess. You’re a human being, and being human is complicated—”

  I huff. “Yeah, but I’m more complicated than most.”

  “You don’t know that. There are over seven billion people on the planet. Don’t compare. You can only speak for yourself.”

  Now I’m the size of a speckle of dust. He didn’t mean it like that, I know, but his words make me aware of my insignificance. “See? That’s why I’m not good enough.”

  “I didn’t say that. I never said you’re not good enough. Where is this coming from?”

  My insecurities. “Never mind. I’m babbling. Go on.”

  “No. Let’s not go on. It serves no purpose for you to hold on to these ideas. Tell me what you’re thinking. The truth this time.”

  I wrap the jumble of strings around two fingers and pull. They dig into my skin before breaking away. If only breaking away from myself was that easy. “I have nothing to offer him.”

  “That’s not true.” The soothing tapping resumes. “You’re kind, and funny, and you have a huge heart.”

  I run a thumb through the grooves the strings left on my skin. “How can you know any of this? We’ve never met. All you know is what I tell you, and none of it is good.”

  “I know because I have been listening. You have way more to offer than you think, and—” He pauses, the tapping increases, he releases a loud breath. “And I have another homework for you.”

  I close my eyes and thump my head against the wall. What now? “Ugh.”

  He chuckles. “This should be easier than the last one.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Your homework is to let it be. Don’t automatically shut down with this person.”

  “Let it be? What do you mean, let it be?”

  “If you’re attracted to this person and feel safe with him, let it be. Don’t run. See how this plays out. Give him, and yourself, a chance.”

  “What if I can’t? It feels like too much.” I’m holding myself so stif
fly, my shoulders burn. I arch my back to ease the pain, but the ache burrows deeper.

  “I’m not saying marry the guy. I’m saying talk to him, get to know him better. You might surprise yourself. This might end up being nothing, just another person you crossed paths with, but it could also be the beginning of something great. And you won’t know until you try.”

  “And if it’s a big freaking mess?” It’s already a mess. He’s a professor, I’m a student. It can never happen. But I can’t tell him that.

  “And if it’s not?” he counters.

  And if it’s not … what could it be, then? Resistance builds in my chest, it constricts me, makes it harder to breathe. “Please don’t tell me you believe in happily-ever-afters.” Sarcasm drips from every word I say.

  “I believe in happily-ever-nows. Each moment is a choice we make. To be happy or not.”

  His words press into my chest like a phantom CPR trying to breathe life into my deadened heart. A part of me screams that he’s talking bullshit, hippie mumbo jumbo. But another part remembers all the times I could have been happy, but held to my anger and misery instead. Warring thoughts take residence in my mind, bouncing against each other. My temples pound with the beginning of a headache. Have I been making the wrong choices all these years?

  “Talking to you feels like being punched in the face again and again.” I didn’t mean to say the words out loud.

  “What? I’m sorry—”

  “No, don’t apologize. It’s not a bad thing. It’s what I need, I think. A good brain-shaking to dislodge all the crap I stuffed in there over the years.” I laugh at my attempted joke. But the words spoken without thought, spoken without guarding myself, ring true with such a force they fill my ears with the sound of my racing heart. I press a hand to my chest, will it to slow down.

  Silence returns. He waits for me to speak again. But I can’t. I need to sit with this revelation.

  The tapping comes back, slower this time. “You there?” he asks, his voice is so low I can barely hear it. I don’t reply before I hang up.

  Chapter Forty