The Student Read online

  THE STUDENT (His Dark Lessons, Part One)

  Ava Claire

  Copyright 2012 Ava Claire

  ****

  I eased off the exit ramp for Hillsborough Street, trying, and failing, to quiet the bundle of nerves in the pit of my stomach. I still had a set of lights to go through before I turned onto campus, but I could already see the wrought iron gates that surrounded Thomas College and I practically broke out into hives.

  I wish I could say my apprehension was due to the usual suspects—the customary steady flow of papers and assignments doled out by professors that forgot you were taking at least nine other credits, fall hookups with boys that would break your heart all over again, psycho roommates--but the truth was something that I still couldn't say out loud, even though it happened two and a half months ago.

  I had proof of it everywhere--a slew of unanswered texts, dozens of awkward voicemail messages and long dead floral arrangements that marked my dirty apartment like headstones. I even had cards from professors ranging from liberal arts to the science department. They all pretty much read the same. They were there if I needed to talk. How inspiring my dad’s life had been. And I didn’t have to come back in the fall if I wasn’t ready.

  If I wasn’t ready--it was kind of ironic considering I was one of those weirdos that actually looked forward to August. Every summer, like clockwork, I bought my books early. I even read the first chapter and made notes.

  I was pretty much ready to go back to school as soon as I turned in my final exam. Always ready to learn and become a writer, just like my father. But when I pulled down the front drive of Thomas College, heading past the oak lined grass and the balloon remnants of Freshman Move-in Day, I didn't feel the excitement of a new year. I felt terror.

  My phone buzzed on the passenger seat beside me and I glanced at the screen as I put the car in park. I rolled my eyes when I saw the sender was my mother.

  "Make it to school okay?" I read out loud incredulously. It shouldn’t have been that surprising considering she’d called at 6am then at 8am offering to take me out to breakfast before my 10am class. If my mother was a helicopter parent before Dad, she was now officially a Siamese twin. Hell, she’d even wanted me to move back home after it happened.

  I knew moving home wouldn’t fix whatever was broken. Moving back home would have just made things infinitely more awkward; like taking the screaming quiet of my apartment and multiplying it by a couple thousand square feet. My mother and I had something else in common besides long, ink black hair and muddy brown eyes. Neither one of us talked about the elephant in the room. Neither one of us brought up the person sized hole that had been carved out of our hearts.

  The smell of fall wafted in when I threw open my car door. I smoothed down my stick thin hair before beginning the trek through the leaves toward the herd of students heading to class. I kept my eyes forward, blinders on and in full effect. I didn’t want to see someone I knew or have to deal with the pity in their eyes. It was hard enough knowing I had to walk into the building that had become a part of my father’s legacy. With every step I took, my chest got tighter. There’d be no escaping it once I saw the white letters above the front door. There’d be nowhere to hide.

  I kept my head down, ignoring the ‘Rhyder Woods English Building’ above the entrance and pushed inside. My British Lit class was in room 214 upstairs, but I’d have to pass Dr. Stark’s office to take the first stairwell. I glanced to the right and saw him, head bowed and chatting with some bright eyed student. I booked it in the other direction, knowing I was adding an extra few minutes that I didn’t have if I wanted to be on time for class, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

  "Cass?"

  I froze, the voice turning me to stone. I could pretend I didn’t hear her and just keep walking, but I had a feeling she’d just go after me. I took a breath and turned around. "H-hi Alicia!"

  Alicia Rhodes was as bubbly as ever, completely disregarding the awkward that hung between us as she pulled me in for a hug. When she released me, she let out a nervous chuckle, toying with her blond ponytail. "Y-You look great!"

  She was lying, but her attempt made me smile in spite of myself. "Thanks." I glanced at her sun kissed skin, sparkling even beneath fluorescent lights. "Emerald Isle looks good on you."

  "Best summer ever!" Her face fell immediately as it came out. "Oh god Cass, I didn't mean-"

  I waved a hand, dismissing it. "It's totally fine. Really."

  "I tried to call you," she offered. "And email. Mom and I wanted you to come up and get away from it all for a week or two."

  I felt the sob rise in my throat, remembering her emails and texts. Hers were the only ones I responded to and even then, it was no more than a one word response. But seeing her now, knowing she was worried about me, then and now, I couldn’t fight the tears that welled in my eyes. I wanted to say something, tell her that every note from her was like a life vest whenever I began to drown, but I knew it would ensure I had a break down.

  She brought me in for another hug, squeezing tight. "I'm so sorry about your dad, Cassandra."

  I stood there awkwardly, taking it for a moment before I extricated myself with a laugh that sounded like someone stabbed me in the gut. “Oh it’s fine. I’m fine.”

  Her eyes narrowed, seeing right through me. It probably didn’t help that I’d just used ‘fine’ three times in the last five minutes. “It’s okay if you’re not fine, you know.”

  “I know.” I clutched the straps of my backpack so tight that my nails dug into the palm of my hand. “Well, I’ll see you later!” I pushed through the door to the stairwell, feeling her gaze follow me as I took two steps at a time.

  I wanted to pretend I’d done a good job and came off normal-ish, but that would be another lie. I’d barely made it through a conversation with Alicia, and now I had to sit through a class full of English majors I’d known for the past four years--and the one professor I couldn’t duck away from.

  Dr. Madison sent two arrangements after the accident and when I didn’t answer her emails, came to my apartment for an awkward cup of coffee. She was my faculty advisor and I’d been looking forward to her British Lit class since I was a freshman, but now I hovered in the corner a few feet from 214, afraid to walk through the door.

  I inhaled deep and moved forward, peering into the classroom window as I reached for the doorknob. I shrank back when I saw a man perched on the edge of the desk at the front of the room. I could count all the male professors in the English department on one hand and none of them were below the age of 50. The guy who was staring out at the class couldn’t be more than 30.

  I could only make out his side profile, but it was more than enough to make me blush in approval. Chestnut colored hair hung in shaggy waves around his angular jaw. Tanned skin was accentuated by a black button down shirt that he had rolled up to the elbow, paired with midnight colored jeans. There was something familiar about the way he carried himself. He exuded confidence and sex appeal, turning something as effortless as leaning into something that made me wish I’d taken a little longer getting ready this morning. When I saw the dark flash of a tattoo peek from beneath his arm cuff, a gasp shot from my lips like a bullet.

  It couldn’t be.

  His hair should have been longer and unruly. The guy I knew wouldn’t have a tan because he spent his days indoors with his nose stuck in a book. He was twenty-seven and a doctoral candidate when we met at Royal Bean, bonding over bone dry cappuccinos with a sprinkle of raw sugar on top. We gushed over Tolstoy and Dickens and I swooned over someone who studied English and didn’t care that my father was Rhyder Woods.

  I stared at the mystery man, desperate for some tell-tale sign that it wasn’t him. The guy I knew wouldn’t teach at Thomas College
since he always talked about living abroad after he finished his dissertation. And he’d have to be crazy to stick around after I told him that if I ever saw him again I would personally tear his head off.

  But when his head whipped to the door and his eyes met mine, I covered my mouth in horror. His golden flecked eyes still stripped me to my bare bones.

  Chance Crawford. The only heartbreak that could still take my breath away.

  I turned on my heels and walked in the opposite direction. I could put one foot in front of the other and grin and bear it through my senior year, but I wasn’t going to sit through a semester with him at the front of the class.

  “Cassandra, wait!”

  I slowed, then gave myself an internal shake. Why the hell was I slowing down? By the time I’d picked up speed it didn’t matter because he’d caught up with me.

  “Cassie.” He gripped my arm tight and wheeled me to face him. “Where are you going?”

  I wrenched my arm away, trying to see past the fact that he was more handsome than I remembered. “Where is Dr. Madison?”

  “She had a family emergency,” he explained. “She’s taking a semester of personal leave.”

  Guilt formed knots in my throat when I remembered how tired Dr. Madison looked when she stopped by to see me. She’d cared enough about me to be there when she was going through her own drama?

  “I’m her substitute.” His voice washed over me, bringing me back to the fresh crisis before me. “I’ll be teaching her British literature course this semester.”

  I hated to admit it, but I still couldn’t take my eyes off him. His new haircut was undeniably sexy. The choppy brown layers accentuated his strong jaw line, giving him a playfulness that he lacked before. My eyes trailed down to the tight muscles of his chest. It was obvious he was still running regularly from the fit of his button down shirt. And then there were the jeans. It was like God himself had crafted them, making sure they hit him at all the right angles, taunting me with the delicious, solid part of him I still remembered well.

  I’d hoped the years would mar his attractiveness, that he’d go to Europe and do to some other poor girl what he did to me and get beaten to a pulp. Or fall off the Eiffel tower. Something, anything, to justify the fact that he made it impossible to ever trust another guy with my heart.

  He raked a hand through his hair and the layers fell effortlessly back into place. “It’s really good to see you, Cass.”

  I crossed my arms, biting back the memory of how he loved it when I ran my fingers through his hair, grabbing tuffs of it while we were...indisposed. “You’re teaching British Lit?”

  He stood a little taller. “That’s right.” His voice took on an authoritative, grating edge. “And you’re late.”

  “Since when do you teach at Thomas?” I said acidly, ignoring the jab about me being late.

  “When this position became available, I knew it was an opportunity and I’d be a fool to pass it up.” A student hustled past and he lowered his voice. “I knew it was an opportunity to see you. To explain and-”

  “Save it,” I snapped, holding up a hand. I’d be a fool if I stood there and listened to a word he said about that day. A bigger fool than I had been to fall for him in the first place. “I didn’t care to hear your half assed explanation then and I have even less interest in hearing it now.”

  “Cassandra-”

  “You know what?” I gripped my backpack tight, finding strength in myself that I hadn’t felt in months. “I don’t need British Lit anyway.”

  He let out a low laugh and moved to block me from passing. “You’re unbelievable. You’re going to drop the class just because I’m teaching it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Even though it’s highly unlikely you’ll find an elective to take its place?”

  “That’s right.”

  His jaw tightened. “I see you’re just as ridiculous as I remember.”

  I balled my hands into fists at my side, entertaining the idea of physically removing him from my path. “And I see you’re just as self-involved.”

  “Self-involved?” he repeated with a snort.

  “Yes, self-involved.” I flung an arm in the direction of the classroom. “You just waltzed out of there, running after me-”

  “I told them to read the syllabus,” he cut in matter-of-factly.

  “Whatever,” I said bitingly. “You think that you can just come out here and I’m just going to finally give you what you want?”

  It all came rushing back--images and feelings, raw and suffocating. I’d said yes back then, yes when I thought I was losing him and it still didn’t stop him from breaking my heart into a million pieces. I promised myself I’d never give him another chance; never speak another word to him.

  “What I want?” He closed his eyes and let out a grunt of frustration. “It’s been three years, Cassandra. I’m not going to make reparations for all eternity.” His voice deepened. “I apologized. You didn’t accept it.”

  “Yes, but-”

  “Look, I know how much this class means to you.” His eyes went dark and I knew he was using things I’d told him. About me. About Dad. “And after losing your father-”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I said bitingly. “Not anymore.” I pushed past him, storming in the direction of the exit. I didn’t know what hurt worse--that he didn’t come after me…or that I wanted him to.

  ****

  "So how was school?"

  I took a sip of the blood red juice in my cup. "Fine."

  Sounds filtered in from the open window, kids playing in the backyard, whispers of music and curls of aroma from someone barbecuing. The world outside was alive and vibrant but as I stared at my mother, stabbing at her overdone steak, I felt like I was in a coffin. Dad always cooked the steak. I could almost taste the creamy, buttery meat, melting in my mouth. It was always Dad who made jokes and connected conversations like strands of DNA. Now there was nothing but silence. Well a few minutes of silence punctuated by forced, uncomfortable questions.

  "Anything interesting happen in class?" Mom probed.

  My mind instantly shot to locking eyes with Chance at the front of the classroom. Being close enough to him to know that he still wore that smoky, sandalwood cologne. Close enough that parts of me shot back to memories of his quiet smirks, down past the muscular lines of his chest, pausing at the crotch of his jeans and the ample lines off him pressed against the stonewash material.

  I cleared my throat, banishing him from my mind. "Not really."

  She gave me a look like she knew I was holding back something and I held my breath, gearing up for her to pick at the scab until the truth broke free. I could already hear the spiel—she and Dad made up their mind about Chance before I even brought him home and when things ended, she spared me the ‘told you so’ bit. Dad didn’t though. He always gave it to me straight.

  I scooped a forkful off green beans in my mouth and tried to let the overly crunchy snap drown out the memory of my father’s voice.

  “He’s too old for you Cassie. He’ll break your heart…then I’ll have to break his legs.”

  "Talk about anything interesting in class?"

  My fork froze over my plate as I glared at my mother. "I'm not going to do this, Mom."

  Her face went quiet except for the slight tremble of her chin. "What do you mean?"

  "I'm not gonna sit here and eat these raw green beans and dry steak and play normal for you."

  She snapped the napkin from her lap and dabbed at her mouth. It didn't wipe away the disappointment knitted around her lips. "Well I'm not gonna sit here and let you talk to me this way.” Her voice wavered and she opened her mouth and closed it twice before she finally got it out. “I miss your Dad too, Cass. But at least I’m trying. At least I’m not walking around here taking my sorrow out on you."

  I gestured at the empty wine bottle on the counter. "Maybe if I polished off a bottle of Merlot with every meal I could walk around in a per
manent state of tipsiness instead."

  Hurt spread across her face like wildfire. I knew I’d gone too far; punched a button that couldn’t be unpunched. Guilt wrapped its fingers around my heart, squeezing tight.

  She shook her head, dropping her eyes to the tablecloth. "You always know just what to say to..." She left the rest unsaid, but the words screamed in the silence.

  I pushed back from the table with a screech, tossing my napkin over my barely eaten dinner. "I'm going out."

  I heard her calling after me, come back, maybe even an apology. That was the worse. I was the one that was sorry because I knew she was right. I was being a bitch—and she was at least putting forth an effort by inviting me over for dinner.

  I slid behind the wheel of my Bug and turned the key in the ignition, shooting out of the driveway and down the road, knowing I was about to be a hypocrite. My mother used the warmth of alcohol to fill the holes in her heart and I was about to do the same. Plug the cracks in the dam—even if it was just until morning.

  I drove past my father's favorite watering hole, opting for a dive in a part of town where no one would know me. Where no one would express their condolences or pass silent judgment.

  The Roadhouse Grill had the exact atmosphere I would avoid under normal circumstances. It reeked of cigarette smoke and was in dire need of some TLC. Bon Jovi screeched from the speakers and the place was littered with bleary eyed men watching sports, nursing beer mugs, and playing darts.

  I slid onto a stool near the end of the bar. The bartender gave me an amused smile before sauntering over. His eyes lingered on my chest. "How are you doing tonight, sweetheart?"

  "Vodka cranberry," I said brusquely. I pulled out my ID and credit card before he even asked and thanked god that he got the 'not interested' vibe I was putting out and went off to fix my drink. When he brought it over, I downed it in two gulps and ordered tequila.

  Two shots later and the buzz took over everything else. I swallowed the amber liquid, wincing as it slid down my throat. Four and everything was a beautiful blur. The sultry whine of “Wanted Dead or Alive” was never sweeter, never so poignantly told the story of my life. I swayed back and forth and when the guitar solo kicked in, I slid off the stool, rocking my hips to and fro to the music. I began peeling off layers of clothing, the room stuffy. Sweltering. My leather bomber jacket was a black heap to the right. Just as I began to unbutton my cardigan so it could join my coat on the floor, a familiar voice cut through the haze.