Don't Fall

by K. S. Thomas

  I’m about to remind him that I prefer my breakfast with less crunch than Drea when he returns his attention to my bagel all on his own. For someone I wanted to kill two nights ago, he’s kind of turning out to be the best thing ever.

  “What about you?” I ask, a sudden surge of desire to know everything about him.

  “What about me?”

  “Do you have a friend or two I should be prepping myself for?” I mean, he must have friends. He can’t just exist in a vacuum.

  Lane seems to need an unusual amount of time to think about this. Or maybe he’s just so focused on making my bagel his brain can’t handle anything else. I don’t know, either way, it’s not until after he slides a plate in my direction that he casually shrugs and says, “I’m not expecting much company these days.”

  “Why not?” Time to take a bite and let him do some talking for a while.

  He doesn’t seem too keen on doing that though. “Mostly because no one really knows I’m here.”

  “Huh?” Now that big bite doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.

  “You ever have shit go so completely wrong, you just need a break? A moment to step back from your life and examine your choices, figure out where you got off track?”

  I nod, still chewing. Truth is, I have zero idea. Don’t get me wrong. Shits gone all wrong for me plenty of times, but I’ve never actually felt as though I had any control over it, so spending more time focusing on it, always seemed more detrimental than helpful. Usually my approach is just to plow through, keep moving forward and hope to God there’s another side.

  “Well, that’s where I’m at. My present sort of sucks balls, so I didn’t want any of my past coming along while I figure out my future.” He brushes the crumbs from his fingers and clears his plate. “Better hurry up and finish that or you’re going to be late.”

  He doesn’t really know that. Just his way of ending the conversation. And I can accept that. For now. Sooner or later though, I’m going to want to know more about this past. In the meantime, I’ll just be working on not taking his ‘the present sucks balls’ comment too personally. Just because my present sucks a little less balls now that he’s in it.

  Lane

  The life of isolation and contemplation I’d envisioned for myself when I took this random job and chose this random apartment, really isn’t working out as planned. Mostly, because of me. Because I invited a girl to move in with me. And then I continued to pursue conversations with her. And then, I took on feeding her. Which now, has led to also feeding her friends.

  Maybe I’m not cut out for isolation.

  On the other hand, sitting in my room with the door shut pretending to be busy while I desperately wait for Tessa to finish up and leave is suiting me just fine. Provided I don’t let my mind wander. It inevitably takes off in the same direction every chance it gets. Her. And the things it conjures up upon arrival are beyond anything I’m equipped to process right now. And I’m the fucking psychologist.

  So, I sit here. Counting the squares on the checkered curtains. It’s an endless, almost infuriating task as I lose count over and over again, but at least it’s safe. Temporarily. Until I get too pissed to keep counting, and start cursing the person responsible for placing this pattern in my line of vision to begin with. Her. And then, all my troubles will be for naught.

  But, I’m not thinking about that.

  I’m counting squares.

  Chapter Six

  Tessa

  Time is not my friend today. I mean, it seems like it is, because I have access to it in a most abundant way, but it’s not my friend. It’s faking friendship. Feigning the whole thing. I don’t need extra time today. I definitely don’t want it. Especially not now when I have seven minutes to spare before class starts and I’m the only one sitting in this room with Lane. Make that Professor McMichael. Some days it just doesn’t pay to be so damn focused on your studies that your only objective in life is to get to class on time. At least not when the class is taught by your superhot roommate who no one is supposed to know is your roommate, so all you can think about is not doing anything awkward that would give it away, in turn making you do only awkward things that will totally give it away.

  I’ve spent days properly avoiding him and thus, avoiding thinking about him, which, admittedly, I do a lot. Even when I’m avoiding it. Which only reaffirms my need to continue to avoid him.

  “You’re brooding.” He doesn’t look up from the book he’s reading while seated behind his desk. I don’t know if this offends me or comforts me. It’s probably both. Which swings the internal pendulum constantly rating my feelings toward him into annoyed. He shouldn’t give a single thought to my current mood. He shouldn’t give me any thought at all. His thinking about me in any way whatsoever has only complicated my life thus far. I don’t like being thought of. It makes me think of why I’m being thought of and frankly, I don’t have time for that trail of obsessive analyzation right now. Not when I’m so busy analyzing my constant need to think about him.

  “You’re supposed to ignore me.”

  “I am ignoring you. I didn’t even look at you.”

  “Then how do you know I’m brooding?”

  He drops the book on his desk in an audible thump, his handsome face getting even more handsome when he starts to grin. “You’re a noisy brooder.”

  “Excuse me?!”

  He smirks. “You’ve popped your knuckles like three times already. You do the same thing when you’re staring at your laptop stuck on a project. You brood loudly.”

  I fight the urge to huff like a two-year-old and it’s not easy. “Maybe you observe loudly.” Wow. Really, Tessa?

  Lane says nothing, clearly even he deems my comeback unworthy of a response.

  “Also, you’re my professor and discussing my brooding habits, especially those you’ve witnessed in private during my personal life, is not just something we agreed we wouldn’t do while I’m your student in your classroom, but it’s also extremely awkward. And uncomfortable. For me.”

  He leans forward, looming over his desk, no longer smiling. “Maybe being observant enough to notice when someone is stressing out over something overrides my job because I care more about being a decent human being than a professor. And maybe me pointing out your knuckle-popping tendencies – which anyone within earshot would be aware of by the way, is only awkward when you make it that way. Maybe it’s actually just a byproduct of my good hearing.”

  “Maybe you’re a dick.” The words fly out of my mouth faster than I can stop them. Goddamn it. Why do I always attack before I think?! He looks startled. I laugh. Because this is insane. I’m insane. “Annnnd, maybe I’m a dick.”

  “Maybe you are.” He grins again. Thank the Gods. And curse me. Because now I want to call him a dick all over again. He scares me. I don’t know why. But he does.

  I take a deep breath and exhale. My mouth opens and just as I’m about to unload my current troubles for no good reason whatsoever, the door opens and several other students walk in before my mouth can commit the ultimate, and irreversible, betrayal.

  We exchange a glance as the room continues to fill. I’m not sure what it means. Probably not what I think it means. I think it means more. Not more than it does, just...more.

  Maybe I should drop this class. If for no other reason than because the room clearly has a ventilation issue. Where is the air conditioning? I’m freaking melting in here. Something I’m almost positive has nothing to do with the smoldering gaze he’s dropping on me yet again when we very specifically agreed to ignore each other while on campus. This thing he’s doing, definitely the opposite of ignoring someone.

  I actually don’t think he’s hitting on me. I don’t think he’s ever hit on me. And yet, he does seem to find me unusually interesting. Considering the man has a doctorate in psychology that’s probably not a good thing. At the very least, it’s not particularly flattering.

  “Holy crap it’s hot in here,” I mutter a
s I tug at the collar of my shirt, wishing desperately I had a second layer on to peel off for some sense of relief.

  The chick sitting next to me scowls. She’s wearing a hoodie. Zipped up to her chin. Maybe it’s just me.

  I skip the library today. I haven’t finished my last book yet, mostly because I’ve been too distracted to concentrate on anything, leading me to blankly stare at the same page over and over again any time I attempt to get into it.

  And it’s not all Lane’s fault either. Miriam has been checking in with a slew of vague text messages for days and I can’t bring myself to answer her. Too much has happened in the last few months, and while I knew jumping straight back into the daily routine of school and work would leave little time to process and grieve, I was still expecting some sort of normalcy to aid me in moving forward. Winding up in some weird roommate situation with my hot professor obviously doesn’t lend itself well to normal...anything.

  Even if I was confident in my abilities to fool Miriam into believing that everything is just hunky-dory around here, I don’t think I’d be able to keep from asking the question I don’t really want answered. Did she know? About Lane? About Meredith’s attempt to snatch my home out from under me? How could she not?

  I shake my head, trying to rid myself of all the thoughts I’m desperate not to think, and stumble my way toward the large oak tree near the parking lot where the grass is soft and thick and you can sit for hours without getting stiff or even all that dirty. Not that I have hours to waste, but a little tree time would do me good.

  “Here.” Drea’s hand is waving a donut back and forth in front of my face as she sits down on the grass beside me.

  “You already had a bite of this.” I take it anyway.

  “I thought it was cream filled. It’s not. It’s jelly.” She makes a face.

  “Thanks.” I bypass a snide comment about the thrills I get from being re-gifted her rejected leftovers. I’m hungry. And I like jelly donuts.

  “How was Sex 101 with Professor Michael this morning?” She’s smirking. I bet she’s been waiting to ask me that since last Monday.

  “Hot.”

  “I bet.” She giggles, her dirty giggle. I usually only hear it through a wall when she’s doing the nasty with Scott. Or about to. It’s not any less uncomfortable when she’s right here. And Scott’s not.

  “I’m serious, Drea. I think I’m in lust with him. Which I know is all wrong and I remind myself plenty, but then he looks at me...or he smiles and it’s like my insides are getting a steam treatment and all I want to do is strip naked.” I bury my face in my palms in an attempt to hide all evidence of my humiliation. Putting it into words was sort of my last resort to convincing myself this lingering feeling in the back of my mind was just a figment of my imagination. That this absurd concept of falling for my professor was just an elaborate torturous joke my grieving mind conjured up in an effort to distract me, and I’d secretly hoped that hearing it out loud would evoke hysterical laughter from the depths of my being. Raucous laughter, the kind that shakes your belly and makes your face hurt, because it’s just that funny. Only I’m not laughing. I’m not even grinning. It’s not funny at all. It’s worse. It’s true. I’m attracted to him. In a really big, really potentially disastrous way.

  Drea, of course, is busting at the seams. “Girl, we need to get you some action.”

  For one horrific moment I think she means with him. Then she elaborates, “Scott and his boys are going out tonight. Let’s crash. I know you think most of his friends are douchebags, but if you avoid conversation at all cost, I’m sure you can find one in the bunch who’s equipped to help you take the lusty edge off.”

  I cringe a little and shove the rest of the donut into my mouth. “Drea, you know I can’t do that,” I say, the words muffled by deep-fried dough and strawberry jam.

  “I know you’re going to start dry humping everything with a penis if you don’t go sit on one soon. Seriously, Tessa. When’s the last time you got laid?”

  It pains me to have to think about this. Because I actually have to think about this.

  “Jereme Winters.”

  Drea gapes at me. “Jereme pierced-brow Winters? That was over a year ago!”

  I wince. “I know! And why does every guy have to come with a title with you? Jereme pierced-brow Winters? Hot New Neighbor Michael? What do you call Scott when you’re talking to people who don’t know him? Scott Stupidhead Stanton?”

  She grins. “Close. It’s Scott he’s-a-stupid-ass-but-I-love-him Stanton.” Then she shoves me. “Are you done deflecting? Can we get back to talking about your orgasm deprived hoo-ha now?”

  “Who said it was orgasm deprived?”

  “Well, there’s the silver lining. I’m glad to hear you’re at least tending to your own garden if you won’t let anyone else come along and plow through it.”

  I almost choke. And I swallowed my donut ages ago. “There’s a visual.”

  “Good. Now keep that in mind until about nine p.m.” She makes to get up again.

  “Why? What’s at nine p.m.?”

  Drea dusts off her pants from where she was sitting on the ground. “That’s when Scott and the boys are meeting up at the Basement.”

  I groan. “The Basement? Drea, I’m there four nights a week. I really don’t want to be stuck there if I’m not even going to get paid.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about getting paid, honey. I’ll see to it that you hit the motherfucking jackpot before the night is up.” She winks and skips off before I can protest any further.

  I glance at the clock on my phone and sigh. I’ve got another thirty minutes to kill. I sit back and lean against the tree trunk behind me, an uncomfortable lead-ish feeling spreading through my body as I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I hate being set up. I hate not having sex too. Mostly I hate that neither are even issues I have time to contemplate. I have bigger fish to fry. Meredith for one. If Lane’s lease is any indication of what’s to come, I hardly think she’s giving up the condo without a fight. Even if it was what Aunt Edi wanted. The continuously sinking feeling in my gut says her lack of calls is nothing but a quiet before the storm. Until it passes through, sex and all the other trivial crap my twenty-two-year-old self should have the luxury of fussing over will just have to wait.

  “This seat taken?”

  It’s him. Again.

  “I have a feeling it’s about to be.”

  He chuckles. “If you’d rather I didn’t, I won’t join you.”

  “Since when?”

  He drops down into a squat beside me. “Good point. So, wanna tell Dr. Mike what’s bothering you?”

  “Not really.”

  “You sure? I saw you sitting over here muttering to yourself. Seemed like you could use a set of ears to absorb some of what you’re putting out there.”

  I didn’t realize I was talking to myself. God. What was I saying? And how loud was I saying it?

  “You don’t feel like you’re breaking your own rule a hell of a lot this morning?”

  “My rule?”

  I sit up straight. He can’t be serious. “You know...the professor – student rule.”

  His gaze drops to where his hands are folded over his legs. It’s like he has to think about the answer. Either he’s trying to hide his reasons for ignoring it, or he seriously forgot he ever came up with it.

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t be coming over here to talk to you.”

  “Then why keep doing it?”

  He shrugs. “I like talking to you.”

  For some reason, this answer stumps me. Don’t get me wrong, I believe I provide very titillating conversation a great deal of the time, but I find it hard to believe it’s so great Lane would be willing to risk his job over it. Even if he isn’t in it for the long haul. This whole new life thing he’s going for should probably stick for longer than the summer.

  “You like talking to me.”

  “I like talking to you.”

  �
��Even though I frequently say things to you like ‘fuck you’ and ‘you’re a dick’. If you enjoy that kind of conversation, you’re the one who needs therapy, buddy.”

  He laughs, the same surprised laugh as before. “You may have a point there.”

  I smirk smugly. “Well, obviously.”

  He looks at his watch. “I better get going. I have a class.” He stands up and I almost follow his lead. I stop myself. I don’t want it to look like we’re going anywhere together.

  “If you’re really that keen on talking to me, I’ll be having late night coffee out on the balcony again.”

  “I’d like that.” He smiles. And I melt. Nine p.m. can’t come soon enough.

  Lane

  This teaching thing is suiting me better than I thought. If it wasn’t for the fact my father would likely disown me, I might even consider making the career change permanent. Provided I make it through Tessa’s graduation without getting myself fired for inappropriate relations with a student.

  I pull into the apartment complex and park in my designated spot. Just as I’m getting out, I see the postal truck leave and realize I’ve yet to check my mail since moving in here. Not that I’m expecting much with most of my stuff still going to the house and all the bills on epay, but I probably have a stack of spam mail waiting for me by now I may as well clear out, so I set out to track down the mail room.

  Following the sidewalk, I make my way around the community pool and past the gym. It’s wall to wall twenty-year olds all wearing barely there workout clothes, with the guys pushing themselves to their breaking point while the girls are doing just enough to look like they’re working out without actually breaking a sweat. I hate gyms. I keep in shape, but taking care of my body shouldn’t come at the cost of losing my mind, which I would, trapped in a sweatbox with those yahoos.

  Still shaking my head to clear the sight of some guy’s forehead about to pop an artery from straining so hard, I finally locate the mail room. Unlike the gym, it’s completely abandoned.