Chapter Eleven
Zach
When the end of yet another long week finally arrived, I headed home with a briefcase full of half-finished outlines, and poems to review.
Not that I could focus on any of it.
With Poppy around—and even when she wasn't—I spent my time drifting between a sad attempt at concentrating on my work and fantasizing about calling her into my office just to bend her pliable body over my desk and take her in every way I'd imagined.
And so far?
I'd done a lot of imagining.
Every time I found a free moment, it felt like she was the only thing to fill my mind. When I read, I compared the prose to her own work. When I walked down the street, every woman I saw was held in contrast to her.
And even that wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the constant stream of fantasies that ran through my head. No longer was she satisfied with taking over my dreams. Now the time of day didn’t matter. All I could think about was how pretty, how special, how smart she was.
Even thinking of her now, my dick twitched with the need to satisfy the ache for her, but I ignored it, focusing instead on opening my front door and making my way to my office. I'd practically rubbed myself raw just thinking about this woman, but I couldn't allow myself to go down that path tonight.
I had work to do and I was going to do it.
Striding past the foyer, I made my way to my home office and breathed in the scent of fresh paint and sawdust that now always reminded me of home.
Lately, I hadn't had much time to work on it, but over the summer I'd spent my time renovating my house, bringing it back to the glory days of what it had looked like when it had first been built.
Every detail took time—from sanding the moldings to matching the spindles on the staircase until they were exactly like what might have been there two centuries ago.
I was proud of it all, but none so much as my office. With its wide, built-in bookshelves and its stone fireplace, it was the kind of place every literary person dreamed of writing in.
With rows upon rows of thick, leather-bound books lining the walls and a crackling fireplace as the soundtrack, it was the sort of space that was designed to make a person think brilliant thoughts.
Pulling out my rolling leather desk chair, I sat down and set my briefcase on my desk, heaving the mass of papers onto the lacquered wooden surface.
Silently, I glanced at the cold, empty fireplace, but then a paper fell onto the floor and I bent down to pick it up, seeing almost instantly that it was one of Poppy's latest pieces.
The poem was beautiful and short, describing the seasons as two lovers—summer with a fiery temper and thrilling, colorful thrushes, and fall as her lover, staid and secure. Maturing. But it's only when summer left completely that everything died away into winter's chilled, frozen grip and the lovers are reunited, fresh and new as spring blossoms.
It wasn't my genre, it wasn't even my style, but there was no denying the beauty of her work. She thought in ways I couldn't, and that—almost more than anything else—was what intrigued me about her.
I turned to my laptop and clicked to open my latest manuscript, studying the chilliness in my own work. I wondered what Poppy might think of this if she saw it—if she would wish there was more romance and movement and life in my words like there always was in her poetry.
Slowly, I re-read my opening paragraph, then deleted it, trying my best to channel the passion and longing and fierce determination that Poppy might have. And when I read it over again? There was no doubt it was more engaging than the original.
Fuck.
I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. I was supposed to be the teacher, and she the student. It was just this damn distraction, the notion of her that made me second-guess everything I thought I knew. This was bad. The more she infiltrated my life, the worse off I’d be. Especially when I wasn’t even sure I was going to be here next year.
Running a hand through my hair, I considered my options. Clearly, I wasn't going to be able to work tonight, not when she was so on the forefront of my mind. I could, maybe, continue the work on my house, but I worried that the silence and the solidarity would only allow my mind to wander back to thoughts of her.
What she might look like sitting in my living room, snuggled close as we watched TV. Or better yet, what she might look like straddled on top of me on that sofa, her hips rolling into me as I—
Another aching throb surged between my thighs and I adjusted myself again.
I couldn’t afford to be left to my own devices.
Which, then, only left one option.
Getting the fuck out of this house.
Picking up my cell phone, I shot out a group text to a bunch of buddies to join me at the bar down the street from my house.
Sliding on my light fall jacket, I headed down the block, trying to focus on what autumn brew I’d try tonight instead of how badly I wanted to call Poppy and invite her along too. The idea of spending time with her outside of a school agenda, with the chance to discuss poetry to learn more of her fears, her dreams was a sharp pulse of desire. But I couldn’t think of any logical reason that an adviser would have for inviting a student out to a bar.
After a few minutes, the phone in my pocket let off half a dozen dings, all of which were messages from my friends letting me know whether or not they could make it. Dave was out of town with his girlfriend. Brandon was spending a night at home with his wife. Dean was looking after his baby while his wife went out.
All the unfortunate side effects of aging—friends who couldn't leave to head to the bar at the drop of a hat. Still, a few of my friends did say they were down for a beer, so when I walked through the fingerprint-smudged glass doors of The Local, I sidled up to the bar and ordered a few shots along with my beer.
Everything came in short order, and I sipped my beer, glancing at the baseball game on the television before taking one of the shots in front of me and downing it.
The sweet rush of heat coursed down my throat and I hissed my relief just as I felt a warm, huge hand clap down on my shoulder.
"Not messing around tonight, huh?" Tony, a professor in the math department, took the seat beside me and grabbed a shot, sliding the third and last glass toward me.
"To the end of another school week," Tony said, lifting his tiny glass and I clinked it against my own before shooting it back and letting out another low groan of satisfaction.
"How was your week?" I asked, more out of politeness than interest.
"It was a week," Tony said. "You?"
"Just about the same." I sighed, taking another sip of my beer. "Just wanted to get out and clear my head."
"Don't blame you there. These damn budget cuts have been insane." Tony shrugged before ordering from the bored looking bartender. "I'll tell you when I started here thirty years ago, things were different. The students were less entitled, the staff had more respect. It was a different world."
"I bet," I said.
Tony shook his head. "What I wouldn't give to get that time back. It was like the wild west compared to today when they micromanage everything you do."
I nodded. "I wouldn't know."
Silence fell between us and I took another sip of my beer as I considered Tony's words. He had a point, but more than that, there was something I needed to know. Something everyone talked about, but I doubted anyone addressed with him directly.
"Your wife used to be one of your students, right?" I asked.
He blinked. "Oh, uh, yeah. See, that was way back in the day. Nobody even thought twice about it back then. Now they look at me like...well, you know." Tony rolled his eyes. "It was my second year here and she was a master's student. We were only a few years apart. Not so strange."
"You think?" I asked.
"Not back then, no. Now, though..." Tony raised his eyebrows. "Why do you ask?"
I feigned my best nonchalant look. "Just curious, I guess."
A few more of our buddies arrived and I ordered yet another round of shots as we fell into a discussion about baseball, football, and educational pedagogies. For us, it was a pretty typical night, but even surrounded by my closest friends, I couldn't seem to stop thinking about Poppy.
Like Tony said, it was wrong to date her now. People wouldn't look on it kindly even if we did happen to get away with it.
Then, of course, there was Poppy herself to consider, too. Poppy and her damned insistence on swearing off men—no matter how much bullshit that was.
She wasn't done with men. I'd felt it in her kiss that night at the party, could see it in her eyes every time she looked at me. She had to know she didn't mean it.
And still…she was holding to those boundaries as best she could. Yet another thing I liked about her.
"Another shot?" One of the guys nudged me and I took the glass without thinking, toasting along with them before downing yet another round.
"You still here?" Danny, another friend from the science department, asked. “You look out of it.”
Vaguely, I nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here. I just...I need a minute."
Silently, I slid from my stool and realized a little too suddenly that walking was easier said than done. Straightening, I made for the door again and pushed my way into the crisp, night air.
Rubbing my hands over my arms, I psyched myself up and considered my options one last time.
Poppy was a student.
Poppy wasn't interested in dating.
And fuck if Poppy wasn’t also everything I'd ever wanted in a woman.
Could I really let her slip away? All for some false excuse that didn't ring true to either of us?
Quickly, I shoved my hand into my pocket and dialed the number I'd been itching to contact all night—hell, all week—long.
Then her musical voice sounded over the line. "Hello?"
"Poppy?" I said.
"Zach," she said, her voice warming. "Hey."
"Hey. Would you like to attend a reading with me?”
There was a brief pause, and I wasn’t sure what she’d say. But when she spoke again, I could tell she was smiling.
“I would love that, actually.”
What could be more innocent than a poetry reading?