The Hookup Equation: A Loveless Brothers Novel

by Noir, Roxie

  That night we walk the boardwalk hand-in-hand and look out at the moon over the ocean and lights of the far-away ships, and for a moment I imagine that they’re all sea monsters, raising their heads above the water for a few moments to get a taste of the salty air before diving back for the deep.

  Thalia leans against me, looking out at the inky waves, and she tells me that when she was a kid they lived in San Diego for a few years, and Javier told her that if she looked out over the ocean hard enough, she could see Australia.

  I ask her if she ever did, and she laughs and says only when she squinted really hard.

  When I drive back to Marysburg the next morning, I’m certain of one thing: I have fallen desperately, utterly, and completely head over heels for this girl.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Thalia

  I lean my head back against the wall, the tile floor cold against my butt. I think the same thing I always think when I’m waiting to meet with a professor: how come there’s no waiting room?

  It’s an academic department at a major university. There must be students waiting for someone in this hallway literally night and day. Why not have a waiting room? Some chairs, at least?

  I yawn, stretch, arch my back, and change position ever so slightly. Even though I was supposed to meet with Dr. Castellano at three, and it’s now three-thirty, I’m not particularly surprised that she’s running late, and luckily my classes are over for the day.

  School’s been back in session for a week now, and it’s… normal. Despite everything that happened last semester, a semester which started with me accidentally hooking up with my professor and ended with my professor-turned-boyfriend helping me get my brother back in rehab, so far this semester is just a semester.

  My brother’s still in rehab, and he’ll be there until the end of March. I go over to my boyfriend’s house several nights a week, and last Saturday he took me on a date to Luray Caverns. My roommates are insane, but the lovable, good kind of insane.

  Yes, I’ve got too much homework, and yes, I’m working furiously on my thesis, and I’m still a part-time research assistant and I’m mentoring a high school student who wants to go into psychology, but that’s all pretty regular, just busy. I’m always busy.

  Finally — finally — Dr. Castellano’s door opens, and another student comes out, followed by Dr. Castelllano standing in the doorway behind him, one hand on the door, and even though he’s nearly a foot taller than her and looks like he plays sports, it’s clear who’s in charge.

  “Thanks, Doctor C!” he says as he walks away, and she beckons me to get off the floor.

  “Castellano,” she says, half to herself. “I swear, they can all toss around Gronkowski no problem but they can’t manage Castellano? Hi, Thalia. Thanks for waiting.”

  “No problem,” I say, sitting in one of the chairs opposite her desk. “How was your winter break?”

  She doesn’t answer, just goes around her desk. Something tightens in her face, around her mouth, and she doesn’t look at me as she sits, then opens a drawer, every movement exacting and precise in a way that makes me instantly nervous.

  A shiver works its way down my spine, and suddenly, I notice how cold my fingertips are. It’s from sitting on the floor, that’s all…

  Dr. Castellano pulls something from the drawer, shuts it again. It’s an envelope, and for a moment, she holds it in front of herself, looking at it.

  I feel like I might throw up, because I can tell that this isn’t good, and there’s almost nothing I hate more than bad surprises.

  “Thalia, I’m afraid you’re being accused of an ethics violation,” she says, finally looking at me.

  My heart drops to my feet. I can practically feel the blood draining from my face, and I can’t move.

  All I can think is, I thought we’d dodged this.

  “A report has been made to the ethics oversight committee that you’ve been participating in a romantic relationship with one of your professors,” she goes on, and now she’s not looking at me, she’s looking at the envelope again. “And I’m afraid it’s been determined that that falls under the category of behavioral misconduct.”

  I can’t move. I feel like I’ve been encased in a layer of ice, like a tree after a storm, and all I can do is stare at Dr. Castellano and listen to my heart beat and think this isn’t really happening, I’m having a nightmare.

  “I specifically asked the committee if they would let me give you the notification in person, rather than send it through the mail system,” she says. “And I have to say, this seems unlike you, Thalia. Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t even breathe, and I feel like the walls are quickly closing in, white on every side of my vision.

  “Thalia?” she asks, her voice sounding distant, far away.

  Then, suddenly, I gasp and my lungs fill with air and the walls go back to where they’re supposed to be and Dr. Castellano is just looking at me, concern written all over her stern face.

  “Who reported it?” I ask, my voice thick. I clear my throat. “You said there was a report —”

  “You know I can’t say,” she admonishes, gently. “There are policies in place to protect ethics reporters.”

  “Was it a student?” I ask, barely hearing her. “Another professor? An outsider?”

  She just shakes her head.

  “Thalia, is there anything you’d like to tell me about this?” she asks again.

  I’m silent. I can’t think of anything that won’t incriminate me, and if I’ve learned one thing about any legal process, it’s best to keep your mouth shut.

  “The report alleges that this affair was mutual,” she says, slowly, giving me a look I don’t fully understand. “But, as I’m sure you know, the greater responsibility in these ethical entanglements would fall on the professor in question.”

  I want to say you don’t understand. I want to say I kissed him first, this was all my fault, but I don’t.

  “Were you coerced into this relationship?” she asks, softly. “If you were, that might significantly change the outcome of the investigation.”

  “No,” I say, so forcefully that I sit forward in my chair.

  Dr. Castellano just nods, business-like, then pushes the envelope across the desk.

  “Your hearing is Thursday,” she says. “In the meantime, I’d encourage you to really think through the nature of this relationship and the power dynamics therein. I’d also encourage you not to have any contact before the hearing.”

  I nod, numbly. I stand. I take the envelope from her desk, grab my bag, walk for her door.

  “Thalia,” she calls, and I turn, still silent.

  She’s sitting there, fingers laced together, an expression on her face I can’t quite place.

  “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out,” she says. “And please, think about what I said.”

  I turn back to her door, open it, and leave.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Caleb

  My chickens have come home to roost.

  I’m standing in the hallway of the mathematics department, halfway between the mail room and my office. People are swirling around me, putting on coats and taking them off, wrapping and unwrapping scarves, and I’m standing in the middle of all that, stock still, thinking my chickens have come home to roost.

  It’s something my father said sometimes, one of his little pieces of farm wisdom that I thought I’d nearly forgotten. He’d say it whenever the sins of our past caught up with us, like when I knocked over Daniel’s block tower four times in a row and he finally stomped into my room and broke the Lego submarine I’d spent hours putting together.

  I read the letter again: an ethics report, alleging improper conduct with a student, a serious violation. A hearing Thursday. A weight settling onto my shoulders, my chest. Consequences unmentioned in the letter but I know what they are.

  I’ve always known. Not the first time I kissed
her, true. But I knew the second time and all subsequent times, and every single one of them I weighed the consequences of my actions against the feeling of her lips on mine. Every single time I found the consequences wanting.

  And here they are, roosting. I can’t help but imagine them as chickens — enormous, heavy chickens — perching on my shoulders and arms and the top of my head until I’m virtually covered with chickens, nothing but hands holding a letter sticking out between the feathers.

  “Caleb,” a voice calls, and I look up. The hallway’s empty, and I wonder how long I’ve been standing there, holding this letter, thinking a lot about chickens and not at all about how I’m going to deal with this.

  “I just heard,” Oliver says, striding up to me. “Is that the letter? Can I see it?”

  I hand it over, silently. His face is grim as he reads it once, twice, then hands it back.

  “Come on,” he says, and walks for his office.

  I follow, chickens all aflutter, folding the letter and putting it neatly back into its envelope, then closing the door behind myself.

  “I can’t believe they’re taking this seriously,” he says, the instant we’re inside, folding his arms over his chest and gazing through his window. “It’s unconscionable how cutthroat this department has gotten. Do you have any idea who came up with this?”

  I’m only half-listening to Oliver, the other half of my brain spinning wildly out of control, wondering if I should tell Thalia, wondering if I should tell anyone. Wondering if I can possibly convince the committee that she earned her A, that I don’t make a habit of dating students, that it’s only her. Only ever her.

  “Came up with what?” I ask, not quite following.

  “Who invented this improper conduct charge,” Oliver says, patiently. “It must be someone with friends on the committee, because otherwise I can’t imagine this sort of thing sticking with no evidence whatsoever —”

  “It’s true,” I say.

  Oliver freezes, mid-sentence, his mouth still open. He blinks twice. Shuts his mouth. Opens it.

  “What?” he says.

  I push my glasses off my eyes and rub them, my brain still swirling. I feel like I’m stuck in one of those mirror houses they always have at the county fair, where most things are just reflections but one is real, and it’s nearly impossible to tell which one.

  “It’s true,” I say again.

  Oliver walks to one of his chairs and sinks into it, his hands over his face. He doesn’t say anything for a long, long time.

  “You slept with a student?” he finally says, his voice echoing oddly through his fingers. “Jesus, Caleb, when?”

  “I still am,” I say.

  He goes quiet again.

  And then: “You did it more than once?”

  I did it yesterday, I think.

  “While she was your student?” he goes on. “She was in your class and you slept with her? While she was in your class? While you were grading her papers and her tests and —"

  “Yes,” I say, just to get it over with.

  “Why?” he asks, looking up at me. “You? You’ve never done anything like that. Have you?”

  “Not until now,” I tell him. “Does it help if she’s a senior?”

  “I’m personally relieved that at least the student you’re sleeping with isn’t a teenager, but no, it won’t help with your hearing,” he says. “It wouldn’t matter if she were fifty, she’d still be your student. She, right? Or is there more I don’t know?”

  “She. Her name’s Thalia,” I say, as if that helps. As if anything helps. “Any advice?” I ask, though I’ve got a bad feeling about advice.

  Namely, I’ve got a feeling that there’s not much advice to be given: I did this, and someone found out.

  “Say as little as you can in the initial hearing,” Oliver tells me, instantly. “Don’t lie, but don’t give them anything, either. Figure out what they’ve got, if they’ve got anything beyond allegations, and pray that none of this has become public. If there’s one single news story anywhere — even the school paper — about this, you’re screwed, but if you can deny everything and keep it secret you just might survive it.”

  I just nod, wondering if I should take notes.

  “More than anything, the University wants to come out of this looking good,” he goes on. “They’ve got aspirations of being in the top ten public schools in the US, and perception has everything to do with that.”

  “Don’t go on the six o’clock news,” I say. “Got it.”

  “Find out who reported you and discredit them,” he goes on.

  I raise my eyebrows, and Oliver puts up one hand.

  “It’s dirty, I know,” he says. “But I’ve seen people go through the wringer before, justified and not, and it’s how the game is played. Your best-case scenario is that they decide the charges were baseless and dismiss them.”

  “They’re not,” I say.

  Now Oliver’s just looking at me, his elbow on the arm of the chair, one finger resting on his lips.

  “I know I fucked up,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. I shut my eyes, lean my head back against the bookshelf behind me. “I knew all along. It was wrong, and it was unethical, and it was immoral, and I did it anyway.”

  There’s a long, long silence between us.

  “I’d do it again,” I say.

  “Even knowing the outcome?” he asks, his voice quiet, serious.

  I take a deep breath and think: that this week might be my last week spent teaching. That after this, if I’m lucky, I’ll be teaching calculus to high school students. That my days in this office, on this campus, getting paid to think deep math thoughts, are nearly done.

  And I balance that against Thalia, two days ago, lacing her fingers through mine as we walked to dinner in a town two hours away.

  “Yes,” I finally say. “Even then.”

  Oliver sighs, and even though I’ve got my eyes closed, I know exactly what face he’s making.

  “I know a few people on the ethics committee,” he tells me. “I’ll see if I can find out what they’ve got. It might be nothing, and you could do a lot worse than your word against theirs.”

  “Thanks,” I say, just as my phone rings. Thalia’s name pops up.

  “I have to go,” I say, already worrying. Thalia never calls without texting first. She told me once that she considers it incredibly rude to just interrupt someone’s entire day by calling them out of the blue.

  “That the student?” Oliver asks, looking like he already knows the answer. “This is probably obvious, but you shouldn’t talk to her until this is over, and probably not even then if you want it to stick.”

  “I see,” I say, looking down at my phone.

  “Godspeed,” Oliver calls, and I leave his office, walk toward my own, hit the green button despite his advice.

  “Hey,” I say, keeping my voice down.

  On the other end, Thalia takes a deep breath.

  “Someone reported us,” she says, her voice shaky. “Dr. Castellano said I shouldn’t be seen with you, but can you meet me somewhere? We have to talk, Caleb, I really need to see you —”

  I stop in front of my office door, a slow realization dawning on me like an iron fist around my stomach.

  “Thalia,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “No,” I say, turning the knob on my office door and entering. “No, Thalia, no, that’s not what I’m — did you get a letter, too?”

  “My advisor gave it to me,” she says. “My hearing’s Thursday, I guess that’ll happen and then afterward they decide how much more they need to investigate and from there they’ll hand down a judgement —”

  “Why?” I ask, an utterly useless question.

  “Because I was in your calculus class,” she says, like she’s confused about why I’m asking.

  “Why are they going after you?” I ask, the fist around my stomach tightening. I’m nauseous, desperate, shaking. I
want to grab books and throw them across the room, upend the whole bookshelf, throw it out the window.

  This was my wrongdoing. I was the teacher, she was the student. I had the responsibility. I’m the one who fucked it up, who threw caution to the wind, and it should be me paying for it, not her.

  “Because I agreed to uphold the university’s standards of morality when I took their scholarship money,” she says. “Can I see you? Please?”

  I didn’t know. There a tightness in my chest like someone’s wrapped a chain around it, put an anchor on the other end, and thrown it overboard, because I didn’t know.

  This whole time, I thought it was just me. Maybe that was shortsighted, or naïve, or just stupid, but it’s what I thought.

  “What will happen to you?” I ask, staring down at my desk.

  “I don’t know,” she sighs. “Can I come over?”

  “You have no idea?”

  There’s a long, long silence on the other end of the line.

  “Someone got expelled last semester for immoral behavior,” she finally admits. “But it was for something completely different.”

  I close my eyes, the feeling in my chest nearly choking me.

  This is my fault and my fault alone, I think.

  “I don’t think we should see each other until our hearings are over,” I say.

  “Caleb —”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” I say, and hang up my phone as gently as I can.

  I don’t know what, exactly, I’m going to do, but I’ve got an inkling. The germ of an idea, if it comes to that.

  What I don’t know is whether Thalia will forgive me for it.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Thalia