In Ruins

by Danielle Pearl

I guess that’s a reasonable request. “He just said that you grade very subjectively.”

  Zayne nods. “Fair assessment. Life is subjective, Carleigh.”

  “I know.” I think. “But you can see how that kind of uncertainty might make someone nervous when so much rides on our grades. And when you add the internship…” I trail off, because my mind is inevitably back on Tucker, and the possibility of him losing his scholarship.

  “Hmm…” Zayne makes a sound of understanding, but that also says, life is uncertain, Carleigh.

  “And it’s also the professionalism thing. B— My friend told me about his friend who took your class a few semesters ago, and had a girl in his group give him a bad peer review as, like, revenge for…well, sleeping with her and I guess not following up.”

  Zayne eyes me sideways, the only acknowledgment that I just brought up the subject of sex with my professor, even if not directly. “And…?”

  “And his grade suffered.”

  Zayne pulls off Route 27. “And you don’t think that’s fair…”

  Really? “That some vindictive one-night stand took advantage of your system to ruin someone’s GPA?”

  Zayne throws me another glance. “I’d argue the system worked as designed.”

  Huh? “How?”

  Zayne shrugs. “My purpose is to help prepare you for the real world, Carleigh. And in the real world, it’s not considered professional to screw one’s co-workers. Because it can cause drama, and affect one’s work. So you can blame this girl because you say she abused the power of her peer review, but I’d say that whoever this guy is, he had the power to keep it in his pants, at least until their project was complete.”

  I swallow thickly. Because he’s right. But also because I’m guilty of the same unprofessional behavior with Tucker. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I force out. “But I still don’t think it’s right to give someone a platform they can use to ruin someone’s grade with a lie.”

  Zayne watches me thoughtfully. “Duly noted,” he says, and then his eyes return wordlessly to the road.

  He turns into a parking lot, and I note it’s exceptionally full for the middle of the night. He parks in front of a storefront with a chic brushed aluminum sign that says “Sweet Chill Gelato.”

  “You drove twenty miles to take me to an all-night ice cream shop? In November?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Gelato,” he corrects me, like it’s significant. “Come on.”

  I follow him out of the car and into Sweet Chill. It isn’t completely full, but there’s an impressive crowd for past midnight, including a short line at the counter. But Zayne places his hand on my back and guides me around it right to the front.

  “Zayne!” the proprietor, who can’t be more than a couple of years older than me, calls out in greeting. “Move aside, people, this is the man responsible for me dropping law school to make this bitchin’ gelato!”

  There’s a small chorus of cheers, and I stare at Zayne, who smiles humbly, and shakes the owner’s hand over the counter.

  He gestures to me and holds up two fingers, and he’s handed two bowls full of creamy gelato, and gives one to me. “Give me your phone,” he says, and I hand it over, confused. But he pulls up the camera app, tells me to hold up my ice cream, adjusts the cups so they’re showing the Sweet Chill logo, and snaps a photo of the two of us.

  He hands it back. “It would be great if you could Instagram that,” he tells me.

  I blink at him. Is that such a good idea? It’s late, and us being out together…It might not look so good to some people. But Zayne seems unconcerned, so I decide to just go with it, and I open the app and do as he says.

  “Hashtag Sweet Chill, hashtag world’s best gelato.”

  I narrow my eyes at him playfully, but follow his instructions. I’m happy to support the store.

  The owner smiles and thanks me.

  “Digital marketing lesson number one seventy-four—get beautiful girls to Instagram your product.” Zayne smiles wryly, and I can’t help but return it. And it’s back, the spark of thrill.

  We take our gelato—which I again call ice cream, and get passionately corrected—to an empty table in the back of the store. As I lick the last of it off of my spoon, I notice Zayne smiling at me indulgently.

  “Good?” he asks.

  I practically moan. “Mmhmm.”

  Zayne chuckles. “Did it improve your night?”

  I meet his gaze meaningfully, and nod.

  He smiles approvingly, but also a little regretfully, and I wonder at that, too.

  The drive home is quiet. I’m stuck in my head, with Tucker’s ghost, and I want so much to just stop thinking. I want every thought to stop leading back to the same person. I want everything to stop reminding me of him. But I don’t know how. And the thought that keeps haunting me is—why isn’t he feeling like this? How is he moving on so easily? Ever since our breakup I’ve doubted so many things, but for the first time I wonder if Tucker ever actually loved me as much as I once thought.

  “That was the lacrosse house, wasn’t it? That I picked you up from?” Zayne asks out of nowhere.

  I swallow thickly. “Yeah.”

  He nods. “The team’s rented the same place for years. Since I was an undergrad.”

  “Hmm.” My response is ambiguous and noncommittal.

  Zayne eyes me warily from the side, and it has my nerves on high alert. “That ex of yours—the one you were hiding from. He was a guest? Or a resident?”

  I slide my teeth over my bottom lip. “Resident.”

  Zayne hesitates, but it doesn’t stop him from asking, “Is he one of my students, by any chance?”

  I wait almost a full minute before answering. “Yeah,” I say softly.

  Zayne nods thoughtfully. “I thought so.”

  I hug my jacket tighter around me. I don’t want to talk about Tucker.

  “I do wish I knew that before I assigned your teams for the project,” Zayne murmurs. “Though I’ve noticed it since. But why didn’t you ask to switch? I would’ve understood. I could have put you in a different group.”

  “He told me not to,” I practically whisper, and vaguely I wonder why I’m even telling him this. But I do appreciate that Zayne doesn’t pry. He doesn’t ask me what happened between us, or who was to blame. He simply sympathizes without saying much at all.

  It’s several minutes before I think to ask, “You said you’ve noticed it before? Noticed what?”

  Zayne’s gaze flicks between mine and the road. “You know, the way he watches you,” he says matter-of-factly.

  I frown at him.

  “Oh, come on, Carleigh. Don’t tell me you don’t see it? He’s always watching you, even when he’s not looking at you. He even watches me when he thinks I might be looking at you.” Zayne laughs a little sadly.

  And I get it. The whole thing is definitely very sad. My heart hurts so badly I barely even register the flicker in my belly at him saying Tucker thinks Zayne looks at me. And I’m glad when the conversation dies off, and Zayne drives me back to Stuyvesant Hall in relative silence. I thank him for the gelato, and I don’t even bother to question the curious way he looks at me as I climb from the car.

  * * *

  The next day Devin is beyond disappointed by my account of my non-date. She is quite the Ben fan, and an even bigger proponent of the advice that the best way to get over a guy is to get under another one. But that’s just not me.

  I hadn’t planned on mentioning my midnight ice cream excursion, but that Instagram photo sold me out before I ever even got in last night. Devin was waiting up to interrogate me about it, and in my emotional state, I ended up telling her about Tucker. And isn’t that just fucking perfect? My boy-crazy roommate wants to know about the famously hot professor who took me on my second non-date of the night, and my response is to recount my sad and sordid history with my ex.

  But this morning I’m in better spirits, and after waking to an e-mail from Zayne thanking me for
my company last night, I find myself gushing about him to Devin. I tell her about his desire to really help his students, to go above and beyond what’s expected of him, about how funny he is, how smart.

  “Someone’s hot for teacher,” Devin teases, and I roll my eyes. “Oh admit it!” she presses. “Someone’s got a crush on her sexy, young professor, and I have a thought or two on how you can get an A…” She smirks suggestively.

  I toss a pillow at her, but can’t help my laugh. “This isn’t a romance novel,” I chide. “Or a porno.”

  But I wonder. Not about exchanging sexual favors for a grade, but if I am nursing the beginnings of a crush. Not real feelings or an actual desire for something to happen, but just an innocent schoolgirl-type crush on a man I admire and happen to find attractive. Maybe that’s what that spark is about.

  Unless…

  Unless it’s more than that. After all, I am a known champion at denial. And I just don’t know the answer. I’m not even sure I’m asking myself the right question. But whether it’s just admiration, a crush, or something else, it doesn’t change the fact that nothing could come of it.

  But there’s that tiny glimmer of hope in the corner of my mind. Not for something to happen with Zayne, but for the implications of me possibly wanting something to happen. Because if I’ve developed even a whisper of feelings for him, then maybe I am on the path toward finally getting over Tucker.

  I can’t talk about myself or my feelings or non-feelings for another moment, so I change the subject to Devin’s favorite subject—Devin.

  She’s been talking nonstop to Max, one of the lacrosse players she met on Halloween, and they finally went out last night to one of the bars. Which is why I was a little surprised to find her home last night. I knew I wouldn’t see her at the lacrosse house, because she never leaves a bar before two a.m., but I assumed that when she did leave, she’d be doing it with Max.

  I ask her how it went and she gives me a look that tells me it could have been better. She says they got into some kind of argument at the end of the night. It seems Julia and a few of our girlfriends were there along with some of Max’s teammates, one of them said something obnoxious, and sides were taken.

  “So we’re drinking the last drinks of the night, and one of the guys who’s been flirting with Julia for, like, an hour, asks her if she’s had too much to drink. So I’m thinking he’s being responsible, but then he goes ‘or should I put a little something extra in there to get you in the right headspace.’ And at first I think I didn’t hear him right, you know? But then another one of them goes, ‘what headspace? You mean unconscious?’ And he laughs. And the first guy, who’s holding Julia’s fucking hand, goes, ‘works for me.’ Can you believe this shit? And the guys start laughing!”

  I gape at her. It’s almost unbelievable that they’d joke about drugging a girl’s drink directly in front of her. Almost. But then, it’s also not that shocking. “Max laughed at that?” I ask her, horrified.

  “Well, no. But he didn’t say anything to his boy about it, either. He just kind of smiled uncomfortably and pretended he didn’t hear. So I asked if he was really going to let the kid talk like that, and he just brushed it off, saying it was just talk, that they would never really do something like that.”

  “How the fuck would he know?” I ask her. “Why would they even think there’s something wrong with it? When everyone seems to think it’s either hilarious or harmless to joke about.” I try not to seethe, but it’s infuriating.

  “Yeah, well. That’s what I said. And Max just didn’t want to start drama, and well, you know me. I started drama.”

  Normally I’d disapprove of Devin’s propensity for causing a scene, but for once I don’t think her reaction was for attention. It was certainly more than justified, and if it had been me, I’ve no doubt I wouldn’t have stood for it either.

  “And the sad thing is, it isn’t even the first time I’ve heard one of them say that kind of shit. At the parties, you know? And it’s like, I’m supposed to willingly take a drink from these asshats? From someone who’s friends with them?”

  I shake my head. I have no words—she’s one hundred percent right. “I just don’t get it. How they don’t get it. These aren’t bad guys…mostly. They’d be horrified to hear if their friend raped someone. But suggest getting her fucked up so her judgment is off, or so she can’t fight back? Well, that’s just strategy, right?” I grit my teeth in frustration. “It’s this ridiculous idea that it’s so cool to get laid, that it’s also cool to take advantage of a girl to do it, you know? It’s like they don’t even realize they’re glorifying sexual fucking assault. Or they don’t care.” I laugh humorlessly. It’s so openly insane that it would almost be funny if it wasn’t so fucking horrible.

  Because I’ve heard these comments too, in passing. In passing! And when I stop to actually think about the reality of rape being joked about so flippantly, I become genuinely outraged. I think about Ben’s friend’s comment last night about “free alcohol for hot girls.” I can’t help but wonder if that “house rule” is about selective hospitality, or something more sinister, and a shiver crawls up my spine at the thought. And yes, Ben had the presence of mind to know it was offensive, and to vaguely chasten the kid, but he didn’t actually explain what was wrong with what he said, and I wonder if Ben even knows.

  “And like, they’re grown men,” Devin continues. “People don’t say this shit in the real world, do they? It has to be a college thing.” But she sounds uncertain, and I don’t have an answer either.

  Devin huffs. “And it’s freaking 2016! These guys wouldn’t approve if their friend said something racist, or homophobic, but it’s fucking hilarious to suggest rape as the next evening activity.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so up in arms about something so legitimately relevant. As infuriating as the subject is, I’m actually glad to connect to this side of her. I guess it’s a universal concern, at least for college-aged women, and how sad is that?

  “Why do you think that is?” I ask Devin, who blinks at me. “I mean, why do guys consider it hilarious to joke about? What’s cool about drugging a girl?” It’s beyond my comprehension, and idly I think it’s probably a question for a guy.

  “You think I understand the idiotic minds of guys?” Devin rolls her eyes. “I wish, Carl. Honestly. It makes no sense whatsoever. If I were a dude and I needed to get a girl fucked up to get laid? I’d never admit that. I’d be ashamed as fuck.”

  “What did you just say?”

  But she doesn’t even hear me. She continues complaining about Max not thinking he did anything wrong, lets out an exasperated growl, and then without even taking a breath, she hops up from her bed and says she has to get to class. She does a little wiggle like she’s shaking off her frustration, blows me a kiss, and heads out the door, just like that.

  I don’t bat an eyelash at her abruptness; I’ve grown used to it by now. But she’s got me thinking about the last thing she said that wasn’t entirely self-centered. That she’d be ashamed to imply she had to resort to drugging someone to get laid. And she hit the nail on the head. That’s what doesn’t make sense. Guys are all about bragging, and there’s nothing impressive about having no choice but to incapacitate someone to sleep with them.

  You’d think it would be the opposite. That guys would brag about having a girl want them enough to sleep with them without any mind-altering substances. That would make sense to me.

  And suddenly, an idea takes shape in my mind. A montage of the awful jokes I’ve heard, and potential replacements for them. Because if we want guys to change their humor, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to provide them with some material.

  * * *

  I’m so proud of my idea that I’m tempted to grab my team members before class rather than wait until tonight’s meeting, but I hold back. Not that Tucker arrives with enough time for even a short conversation before class starts anyway.

  Zayne announces a revision to his peer r
eview process, and all ears perk up. He says that any student who makes specific accusations of unprofessional behavior beyond the basic questions of the provided form will be required to supply some kind of proof for it to be taken into consideration. He throws me a subtle nod, and I can’t help my smile, but Tucker’s less than subtle glower wipes it away almost instantly.

  But I don’t let it get to me. That afternoon, I focus on preparing to present my idea to the group, and by the time I meet them in the student center that evening, I have no trouble ignoring my Tucker-induced nerves.

  Julia and Manny arrive before me, and I catch Julia in the midst of a familiar cautionary tale. It’s the one about the lacrosse player that got benched after “he drunk-bagged some girl in his group and she gave him a bad peer review,” and went on to lose his scholarship.

  “Too bad Zayne’s rule about having proof wasn’t in effect,” Manny murmurs.

  “I don’t think it would have made much of a difference,” I tell him.

  “What do you mean?” Julia asks, as Manny stares at me, confused.

  I shrug. “I asked him about it. That story about the lacrosse player. He said if the guy hadn’t been unprofessional and slept with his teammate, then he wouldn’t have been in that position, basically.”

  “You asked him about it…” Manny repeats, his tone mildly incredulous with a hint of accusation.

  I frown, puzzled for a splitsecond before Tucker’s words rush through my mind—did you fuck him? Manny has already made a remark or two painting me as teacher’s pet, but never with the shadow of hostility he’s casting now.

  I bristle defensively, but before I can respond, Tucker walks in. He’s the last to arrive as always, and I try not to watch as he saunters toward our usual table looking utterly delectable in dark jeans and a fitted gray T-shirt. His jacket is unzipped and it’s too easy to see the way his hard torso is cut with muscle, especially knowing what it feels like beneath my fingers. But before I can get too hot and bothered at the sight of him, I force my mind back onto the project at hand.

  We’ve had several ideas before, but ended up nixing them all for one reason or another, and with only a couple weeks until Thanksgiving break, we are really letting it get down to the wire. After that it will only leave us with a week or so to finalize and execute a concept.