The Fall of Troy

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  “She may not be,” he said sadly. “But I’ll give you the hard truth, my friend. You loved this more than you ever loved her.”

  My eyes shot to his, immediately ready to strike him.

  “She was bright and beautiful and funny, and she enticed you. But love is like art. The best art—the truest art—isn’t the kind that’s bright and pretty on canvas and catches your eye when you walk past it with a smile; it’s the kind of art that stops you in your tracks and rips the breath right from you because it reflects a piece of you. Love, like art, should be the mirror of your soul, reflecting the parts of you that you need to see. Maybe they’re pretty… maybe they’re ugly… but they are you. Amélie never reflected anything in you except her own brightness.”

  My hand vibrated on the desk.

  I hated that I knew what he meant, so I refused to admit it. The strained moment of silence finally ending when Jack stood, looking apologetic for his outburst.

  “Désolé… I’m sorry,” he murmured quietly. “You just deserve to be happy, Léo. I just want you to be happy.”

  My mouth thinned. I wanted that, too, but I didn’t have answers. I didn’t know how. My head jerked with a nod and a few seconds later he was gone.

  I reached for the sketchbook and pulled it toward me. This time when my eyes closed, I saw her; I saw Troian.

  And in her, I saw all the broken pieces of me that I wanted to be healed.

  After Jack’s words, I hated to think she was the defiant piece of art that could show me my soul. I hated to think how that could be either my downfall or my salvation.

  She was too young.

  She was my student.

  She was broken.

  Even if she could heal me.

  What if I couldn’t heal her?

  In one fell swoop, it became clear that I despised him entirely.

  It was my fault really; I’d poked the lion. Poked and prodded and begged and pleaded.

  But now, I was running from it. From him.

  It was the coward’s way out, but I didn’t see any other option. Work had been a string of anxiety attacks intermingled with alcohol—serving, not drinking; I kept looking for him. Waiting for him to show up. He didn’t.

  And then Monday, I decided I couldn’t face him. After math, I told Kev I really wasn’t feeling well and that I was going home. His amused stare said he didn’t believe my excuse but that he would find out the truth one way or another.

  Wednesday, I was sure I was ready. I was dressed—I took the time to get dressed; I made sure that I looked hot. Okay… I made sure that I didn’t look like a total slob which was pretty much my norm. I was ready. And then I wasn’t. I chickened out again, this time only texting Kev that I would be MIA for our favorite afternoon of abuse.

  KEVIN

  I hate to break it to you, Troy, but being a coward isn’t a legitimate career.

  Ass.

  But now it was Friday and I couldn’t run any longer without running for good.

  I stared at the closet again, debating what to wear and trying not to think about Léo Baudin.

  I didn’t know what was still more unbelievable to me—what I’d done or what he’d said. His words told me that he wasn’t interested in my attentions. His body begged a different story—hot and hard, all because of me. We fought for power and control. But neither of us would admit that we were fighting over broken and fallen kingdoms.

  God, he was my professor. He was twice my age. He. Was. An. Ass.

  All things I should have thought, lost in the memory of his stare raining down on me.

  He was going to be livid today because I’d missed so many classes. I was surprised my mother hadn’t gotten a call that I was kicked out of the course already for skipping Monday and Wednesday. Perhaps he was afraid I’d tell them what happened in his office—I laughed at that thought. Léo wouldn’t give a shit who I told. He didn’t seem to give a shit about anyone, even himself.

  I knew that feeling well. It was why I was drawn to him. Because self-loathing to the point of self-harm was an acquired taste—and he and I were gluttons for punishment. Exactly. It wasn’t because the loneliness in his eyes reached for the loneliness in mine and the touch of the two felt like something warm and safe—like something worth holding on to.

  I pulled out black jeans and a tight black tee, an outfit to mourn the death of my sanity. Covering myself with my best attempt at carelessness and stone-cold confidence, I absentmindedly threw my copy of les Fleurs du Mal into my bag; at the very least, I could hit him with it if he was too rude, or hit myself with it if I got too impulsive.

  Light streamed out of the classroom door at the end of the hall. Don’t go toward the light. My chest rumbled. I may have lost my mind, but I hadn’t lost my sense of humor.

  “Miss Milanovic,” he drawled with a deadly lilt to his voice as I stepped into the room; it was like he’d been waiting for me—the hangman and his noose. The corner of his mouth tipped up and my heart faltered as it prepared for battle. “And here, I thought you were going to be the first casualty of the class.”

  And was he happy that I was or that I wasn’t?

  I met his eyes. I met them and fought to stay afloat. The memories of his brutal kiss and of his mouth that spoke delicious endearments pulled me under. I let my gaze trail down his body, watching it tense almost imperceptibly as I remembered how it felt like hot stone against me.

  “Take a seat, Miss Milanovic,” he ground out. “Or have you forgotten how this class works.”

  My gaze jerked back up to his and the familiar fire to fight burned through my veins. I relished it. The hot anger that I had now had a release for.

  I walked farther into the room, but instead of veering for my seat, I stuck to the front and walked right in front of his desk instead, shooting over my shoulder as I walked by, “I haven’t forgotten anything, Professor Baudin.” And then added with the barest whisper at the end, “Have you?”

  I took my seat with a ridiculous smile on my face. A small skirmish to be sure, but one that I’d won.

  “How are you feeling?” Kev had on a bright blue shirt and white tie.

  “Braver,” I retorted, sliding into my seat and tugging out my notebook. “Can I look at your notes from earlier in the week?”

  “Can I finally hear why you’ve avoided class all week?” He held his notebook up but only right in front of him and out of my reach—taunting me for answers.

  I groaned loudly. “Fine,” I snapped. “But not right now.”

  “Before studio?”

  “Fine,” I grumbled, taking the notebook from his hand. “Is that why you’re dressed so spiffy? Because we see Luke tonight?”

  He grinned. “Nah. I’m meeting Jake afterward. Plus, as much as I like to look, Luke doesn’t play for my team. Unfortunately. Or maybe, fortunately, since that means I get to admire guilt-free,” he finished with a wink.

  I chuckled to myself as I flipped through the few pages of carefully organized facts. Looking at how the notes were outlined, I imagined Léo as he was writing them on the board and my stomach clenched.

  I hated how I could so easily miss the man who was cruel to me and the little nuances that had trapped themselves in the recesses of my brain. The way he lost himself in what he was teaching. For a brief moment, he wasn’t vicious or voracious; he was what he spoke about. But he was always speaking, never doing. I’d looked up his work online; it was… masterful. His pieces were the kind that you lose yourself in with the same awe of someone in a laboratory, watching their concoction of chemicals destroy cancer cells. His work was life changing.

  But here, he never used his hands except to write. And to hold my face subject to his. I wanted to see that side of him—the gorgeous genius who hid behind the arrogant asshole.

  Somehow, I managed to copy Kev’s notes as well as take my own for the class, handing him back his notebook with just a few minutes to spare.

  “Coffee,” he mouthed to me just as class time
was about to be up.

  I nodded, trying not to think about how Léo’s eyes barely touched me all class. I expected a reprimand. In some sick, twisted—attention-craving—way, I was hoping for it. And it never came.

  Like nails in a coffin of his confession, each minute that he didn’t notice me was more and more proof that I’d gone too far. And that whatever I thought about what we shared was a product of my tainted brain.

  As soon as the clock struck four, I jumped out of the chair like it held an electric shock to let you know class had ended.

  “Good grief,” Kev exclaimed with a laugh. “Got ants in your pants? Or maybe a lion?”

  Color rushed to my face at his words and I immediately searched for Léo; still shuffling his papers together, it looked like he hadn’t heard. Thank God. I wonder if he would notice if I strangled this kid right now…

  Kev began walking toward the door. Scowling, I jogged to catch up and give the little shit a piece of my mine—or maybe just spill my future cup of coffee down his nice white shirt. Before I could say anything, my phone began buzzing with a call.

  I pulled it out of my pocket without thinking. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  I recognized the name—a name that should have had me declining the call—but my thumb was in the habit of always answering this call, like it finally meant he was going to notice me.

  Dad.

  I watched in horror as the phone connected to the man I’d ignored for months and months now. My sneakers screeched on the floor as I tripped to a stop; the call time started counting. Color, words, thoughts… they all drained from my head like helium from a balloon. I was deflating into the vast nothingness that I’d been clawing to escape.

  Why now?

  Why was he calling me now?

  “Miss Milanovic.” I flinched, turning at the speed of a snail to look at Léo. I hated being called that. Almost as much as being called an ‘unremarkable, attention-whore.’ More or less.

  If I could focus on it, I might have seen the concern and violent protectiveness that immediately clouded his ocean stare. But I couldn’t. All I could focus on was that my dad was calling me… eight months after I caught him fucking my best friend.

  Rock, meet Hard Place.

  “Hello?” I almost collapsed at the sound of my dad’s voice on the line. And then Léo, well, the look in his eyes could bring me to my knees.

  Either way, I was going to fall.

  It was a split-second decision, one that I could over-analyze and over-regret later. But as much as I didn’t want to talk to my dad. I couldn’t bear one more reproach about how I was just the sad little attention-grabbing girl with daddy issues.

  I raised the phone to my head like it was a gun. Better that this wound was self-inflicted.

  “Hello?” I rasped, holding Léo’s gaze for a beat before I turned and fled, walking right past Kev’s confused stare.

  “Hello? Troian?” my dad repeated.

  “Y-yeah.”

  I heard a sigh in the moment of silence, like I’d just taken the biggest weight off his shoulders.

  “I… I didn’t think… I didn’t expect that you were going to answer.”

  Yeah, neither did I. One more scar I could blame my professor for.

  “Well, it’s me,” I replied, unsure of what else to say.

  My dad and I had always been the focused, unemotional ones; my mother with her feelings that were more colorful than the rainbow was an outsider in my teenage mind. Until this happened and the genes I got from her activated—at least when it came to anger and self-loathing.

  “Are you busy? Do you have a minute to talk?”

  It was four o’clock; I was surprised he had a minute; Damien Milanovic lived by the clock. Run at six. Shower. Breakfast at seven. Office at eight. Lab at nine. Lunch at one. Coffee break and walk at three. Lab at four. Dinner (in the lab) at seven. Home at nine. Bed at ten. Daughter at never.

  “Do you?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you be heading back into the lab now?”

  I bit into my tongue, hating that I insisted on reminding him just how much I knew about his life because I wanted to be a part of it.

  “No. I… ahh… don’t work late at the lab anymore. I’ve been trying to spend more time at home.” I was nineteen, not ten. I knew what that meant. He and Lilith were still going at it and she’d changed his ways. “So, I’m on my way home now—”

  “I should go,” I bit out, tasting the blood from where I must have bitten through my cheek.

  “No,” he exclaimed. “Wait, please.”

  Vaguely I realized that I was now outside and walking down the hill toward the Wise Bean. Kev was a few, courteous steps behind me, pretending to check Twitter on his phone; we all knew he was listening.

  “What?” My blood boiled—and not even just because of him. I was an attention-starving idiot. I should have hung up on him—I should have never answered him. But I wanted it. The stupid thing in my chest wanted to hear him—to hear his excuse, his apology, and his plea for forgiveness; it wanted to finally be seen.

  Dr. Shelly was going to get a fucking earful, I decided. Six months and she hadn’t fixed shit. My bitterness was colder than the sting of the snowflakes that launched against my cheeks.

  “I want to apologize to you, Troy,” he said defeated. “I need to apologize to you. I need you to understand—”

  “What?” I laughed. It was like the ball bouncing in a game of Jacks; my incredulity flew up into the air, but before I could collect all my thoughts and feelings and put them into a polite, appropriate response, it hit the ground again and my virulent wrath exploded. “Understand what? That you’re a perv for wanting to screw an eighteen-year-old girl or that you’re a terrible father for screwing my best friend? Because let me tell you what, practically ignoring me and my life from the second Mom left had you excelling in that category already.”

  I felt Kev’s hand on my arm, but I yanked mine away, piercing him with a stare that said I was ready to rip his head off too in order to keep speaking.

  “Understand what, Dad? That she made you do it? Is that what you’re going to tell me? That she dressed like a whore and lured you into screwing her? Or maybe,” I raved with a laugh that I didn’t even recognize as my own. “Maybe you’re about to tell me that you were so distracted that you didn’t even notice that she came and shoved herself onto your d—”

  “Troian! Enough!”

  I skidded to a stop. I’d never heard my dad yell before, even when he ‘fought’ with my mom; he never raised his voice like he did just now. He was always too rational for that. My heart pounded in my chest like a drummer frantically trying to catch up to the marching beat. Kev now stood in front of me, gripping both of my upper arms to steady me. I was sure I looked like a crazy person, red face, panting, and screaming into the phone—words I couldn’t believe I’d even thought about saying to my father.

  “I didn’t call you to apologize for what happened with Lil.”

  Oh God. My throat closed further.

  He called her ‘Lil.’ My scientist father never described a number without two digits past the decimal place and never called anyone by anything less than their full name.

  “I called to apologize for how I messed things up between us… to apologize for how I’ve treated you all this time. There is no excuse for that, and I take responsibility for it along with the consequences, knowing it may never be enough.” He let out a frustrated sigh. I knew how hard that was for him—to live with something he couldn’t fix. “I’m not good at this, Troian, but I’m trying. For you. And for her. So, I’m sorry for how you found out, but Lil was never our problem—I was. She was just the one who showed me a way to a solution… if that’s something that you want.”

  My breaths grew so shallow and I looked down at my torso, wondering if the rest of the world could see me bleeding to death from all the bullet holes that betrayal had put through my chest. “Oh God…” I whispered thickly. “Is she there right now? Is Lili
th there? With you? Right now?” The question came out a jumbled mess of anger and disbelief.

  “Troian,” he began sternly and it felt like cold steel sunk into my stomach. “What does that—”

  “Is. She. There?” My teeth clenched so hard I could feel the muscles in my head pulsing.

  Another huff.

  More silence.

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe—” I pulled the phone away from my face and hung up on myself just as much as him.

  I stared at the black screen, half-expecting it to ring again; it didn’t.

  “Oh, honey.” The first thing I noticed was how warm Kevin’s hands were on my face. The second thing I noticed was that they were on my face in order to wipe away the quickly-freezing tears that carved icy trails down my cheeks.

  “I hate him…” I whispered only half-heartedly. What did it matter that she was there? He was calling to apologize. I should have listened.

  No. He should have never called me around her. Not now. I was his daughter. She was a part of his life, like this, for all of eight goddamn seconds. She had no right to play a role in what he said or didn’t say to me.

  My eyes squeezed shut. What was wrong with me?

  “Alright, gorgeous. This whole tear thing you got going on is not going to do. Let’s go inside and you are going to spill your gigantic bucket of beans. After that, I’ll warm you up, give you a fresh shot of confidence, and make you feel like you’re ready to take on the world again, okay?” I focused on Kev’s voice as he continued, a small smile tugging at his lips. “And by me, I mean coffee. Let’s face it, hun. I’m a good friend and a great stalker, but I’ll never be coffee.”

  Laughter bubbled all thick and watery from my lips. He was a good friend. I was hurting and angry and sad, but this kid—with his vibrant clothes and obnoxious truths—could make me smile amidst the hurricane in my heart.