Tessa

“I see we share a common fondness for the balcony,” his warm voice meets me in the dark. I’m not sure how he even knew I was out here. I’m tucked into the hammock and I left the light out on purpose. 

I sit up and move from the shadows I thought were keeping me hidden, swinging back and forth a little. “I guess so.” I want to say a million other things. Some to apologize for making his shitty situation even shittier before I knew how shitty it was. Some to explain myself and just how much I can relate to shitty situations. But instead I open my mouth and say, “At least we’re both getting better about showing our fondness for clothes as well.”

He chuckles. It’s dark and gooey and sweet. And now I want brownies. “I will definitely be showing off my fondness for clothes from now on.”

I’m almost disappointed to hear that. Then I notice the cup in his hands. “You found the coffee.”

Even in the dark, I can make out the shape of his perfect face as it tilts up and down in a nod. “Another fondness we share.”

I figured. It’s why I made a whole pot. Even at this time of night.

Silence sets in for a while. It’s not awkward. Which becomes awkward when I think about it. The two of us, sitting out here in the nearly pitch black, not speaking. Just, existing. Comfortably. There’s an odd sort of familiarity about it. One I wouldn’t ordinarily feel for someone I’ve hardly known for twenty-four hours. But then, we’ve been busy. Crammed a lot of the initial growing pains a friendship usually takes months, or ever years, to accumulate into a very short period of time.

“Lane?”

“Hm.”

I lean back, a burning desire to hide again now that I have his attention. Guess the whole comfortable thing only applies when I can pretend he doesn’t know I’m out here, watching him.

“How old are you?”

A quiet chuckle. That’s a good reaction, right?

“You better be asking because I look way too young to be a professor.”

I laugh. The comfortable thing is kicking in again. It helps that he makes it so easy. “Yep. Way too young. But then those pleated khakis you had on today kind of threw me.”

“What was wrong with my pants?”

I shrug. “They were old dude pants.”

He gasps. Dramatically. Now I’m trying not to laugh again. “Those were not old dude pants. I would know, because I’m not an old dude. They were grownup pants. If you’re not familiar with those, then you’re not as old as you look.”

“Wait.” That wasn’t funny. “How old do I look?!”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets up from where he’s sitting in the wicker loveseat across from me and walks over toward the hammock. My heart begins to race. When he sits back, tucking his spectacular ass (I’ve seen it, it is) into the hammock beside me, the racing stops and an all-out drumroll, shoots into my throat.

He kicks off softly with the balls of his feet and then both our legs just dangle as we sway back and forth in the moonlight, the weight of both our bodies drawing us to the middle where my arm lies directly against his and our thighs touch.

I can really see him now. His eyes. His mouth. All of his mannerisms are clear as day under the moon. He’s grinning. A subdued, sexy grin that’s making me break out in a sweat. For a man I found exceptionally annoying this morning, he’s having an entirely different effect on me tonight. If I thought being roommates was going to present a problem when we were just strangers, what the hell am I going to do I with all of...this?!

“Twenty-nine.”

“I look twenty-nine?!” Forget it. He’s not hot anymore.

His hand moves to my knee, squeezing it ever so slightly. “No, crazy. I’m twenty-nine.”

“Oh.” Yeah. He’s hot. “I’m twenty-two.”

“Figured. Just based on the class you’re taking. Last year, right?”

I nod. “Unless I decide to go back and get my Master’s.”

His weight shifts back, settling in all the way. “What are you studying?”

I lean back to meet him face to face. “Journalism.”

His eyes take me in, study me for a long minute before he speaks again. “You’re taking a really heavy psyche class for someone who isn’t studying psychology,” he muses.

“I am studying psychology. It’s my minor,” I counter, enjoying the air of mystery I’m suddenly shrouded in. Guess he can’t figure me out just by staring holes into me after all.

“You’re going to make me work,” he mumbles, trying to sound frustrated to hide his rising level of amusement. He’s having fun. We both are.

“Nah, I just liked the growing confusion on your face. You’re so...together all the time. And it was bad enough feeling like the hysterical mental case in the room before I learned you were a therapist. Now anytime I think about running in here screaming, swinging an umbrella at you, I thank my lucky stars you didn’t have me committed right then and there.”

He doesn’t laugh out loud, but it still escapes through his eyes, twinkling like the stars above us. “If it helps, I didn’t think it was an issue of sanity. I just assumed you were drunk like the rest of them.”

I close my eyes thinking about the usual alcohol induced shenanigans Drea and her friends must have exposed him to last night and shudder. I love her but we couldn’t be more opposite. Sometimes I don’t mind being fun and carefree by association, other times I cringe with shame at the thought of not being perceived as the responsible, straight laced bore that I am. The burden of being a goodie-two-shoes, I suppose.

“I was actually working last night before I busted in on you. Not partying.”

“You were working at two in the morning?” His eyes narrow and his tone sounds somehow disapproving, like he maybe thinks only prostitutes and drug dealers operate at those hours. “In that outfit?”

My first instinct is to react affronted, and possibly run inside for Aunt Edi’s umbrella. Then I think back to what I was wearing and I’m starting to see why he’s drawing such insulting conclusions. “First of all, what happened to listening while people spell things out for each other? Huh? Have my past assumptions taught you nothing in the last two days?” I shake my head at him, in case he’s not picking up on the scolding in my voice. But, then I carry on, no longer trying to hide the fact I find this funny. I thought he was a psycho stalker this morning. Lack of sleep has been very unkind to both of us. “Second, I bartend at the basement downtown. Tip tops help.”

“Tip tops?”

“Yeah.” I widen my eyes, leaning forward and shimmying as much as can be shimmied with two people in a hammock and my limited cleavage. “You know.”

He averts his gaze. “I do now.” His mouth distorts in a distasteful way. “Really wish I hadn’t seen that.”

“Excuse me?” I get that I’m no Sexpot Barbie, but my breasts aren’t barf worthy either.

Fully aware of how asshole like he’s sounding, he throws his hands up in a helpless surrender. “It’s just...so not you.”

I’m less pissed off and back on intrigued. “You really think you know what is and isn’t me?”

“Am I wrong?”

Well, no. But I’m not saying that out loud! “Nu-uh, my question first.”

He sighs, dropping his head back over the fold of the linen and staring up at the sky. “I think you’re forgetting that I’ve been living in your home for the last two months. Now that I have a person to connect everything to, I just may know you better than you think.”

Damn. I hadn’t thought of that. “Not everything in this place is a representation of me, you know,” I mumble a lame rebuttal.

“I know. Some is your Aunt Edi. But, I think a lot of what I thought was hers, is actually yours. And I think we both know what that means.”

“That I like crocheted blankets, always use coasters and make use of way too many floral patterns in my decorating?” That last part really is Aunt Edi. I just can’t bring myself to change it. I’ll probably leave it even longer now that she’s gone.

“That you’re responsible, all about doing the right thing all the time. You treat everything with care. And you’re exceptionally serious for someone your age. You leave nothing to chance. Depend on no one,” he says like it was just sitting there at the tip of his tongue, waiting for me to ask.

“You got all that from the floral wallpaper?” Jokes. The exceptionally serious girl falls back on jokes to cover up the painful scab he just ripped way open.

Without lifting his head, he turns toward me. “I got all that from the anal way you fold your towels.” He smirks to let me know he’s teasing me. But it’s a brief reprise. His serious tone sets in as soon as he opens his mouth again. “You a have fairly new – and I assume custom made - color-coded mail rack, every slot labeled with the bill and due date designated for it. Your dishes, they’re old china. Family pieces most people only use on special occasions and keep locked in a fancy cabinet most of the year. Not you. You use yours. And it’s no worse for the wear because you take the time to care for it properly. Gently.” He pauses, waiting to see if I object. I wish I could. “You possess a limited amount of current technology but have books lining every free inch of stackable surface in this place. And I’ve scanned the titles. They’re not light reads either. What limited fiction you expose yourself to is a far cry from the light-hearted chick-lit your buddy Drunky Drea is probably reading.”

“I’ll have you know, she’s into the sappy shit. If no one’s gonna die at the end, she won’t even bother with it.” It’s all the argument I’ve got here.

“Forgive me, I haven’t had nearly enough time to study her.” He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “Nor do I intend to.”

“And when exactly was it that you decided to make time to study me?!” I don’t recall the last time I found myself flip flopping between emotions the way I do around Lane. He freaks me out. A lot.

“It was never a conscious decision with you, Tessa. Wasn’t until you were collapsing at the kitchen table, near tears, telling me about your aunt and this condo that it all started sinking in. All the pieces were already there, you just made them fit together.”

I nod, trying to convince myself to accept this revelation of his. “So, because I read non-fiction and know how to pay my bills like a big girl, that makes me someone who’s afraid to take a risk and can’t commit?”

His brow furrows. “I didn’t say either of those things. I said you were independent. Covered your ass. And I didn’t just get that from the apartment. I figured that out the moment you were charging at me, umbrella swinging at my head. You could have bolted at the sight of a strange man in your home. Could have ran across the hall to get help. You didn’t. Didn’t even occur to you. Because you were ready. That umbrella wasn’t sitting in that corner, stashed out of sight in case of rain, it was there in case you ever needed it to bash someone’s head in. Not an ideal weapon of choice, by the way, but I can see why you chose it.” He folds his arms over his chest to finalize his point. “Like I said. Depend on no one, leave nothing to chance.” Then he leans in closer. “But since you brought it up, want to talk about those commitment issues?”

“No!” I huff, forcefully shoving my way into the opposite end of the hammock only to have gravity send me toppling back into the middle and damn near into his lap. “What I want, is for you to stop psychoanalyzing me. You’re my roommate. Not my therapist.”

“Who’s psychoanalyzing? I’m just trying to get to know you, given the whole living situation that just seems like the civilized thing to do.”

I twist my mouth back and forth thinking about this. It doesn’t seem that simple from where I’m sitting. “You’re also my professor. How much forthcoming and getting acquainted do you suppose will keep us within the realm of an ethical teacher student relationship? I mean, we can’t become friends.”

He shakes his head. Clearly, he agrees. “We blasted through the ethical realm straight into inappropriate dimensions the second you saw me naked.”

Okay, maybe I don’t read him quite as well as he reads me.

Not agreeing. Not at all.

“There’s no coming back from that,” he continues, “but not to worry, I have a plan.”

“You do?”

“Yep. To offset the seriously weird and way too intimate ways in which we already know each other, I will simply ignore you the instant I step on campus.”

Now I really can’t read him. Is he being serious? “You’re my teacher. You can’t ignore me. You’re not screwing me on my education just because you can’t sleep in pajamas.”

“Oh!” He gapes at me, pointing accusingly. “What about you?! Miss half-naked in a towel?”

I suck in my upper lip and bite it, temporarily facing defeat. “Not the same. Half-naked is totally different from completely naked.”

“As is busting in versus being busted in on.” Lane’s accusing finger is less assertive now, it’s more upright, supporting his argument rather than threatening to stab me in the eye with it. There’s also less shock to be found in his expression. Mostly, he’s just back to enjoying himself. Which would be annoying if I wasn’t grinning from ear to ear myself. This banter is fun. Probably too much so. Case and point, being student and teacher may become a problem after all if we start busting out with private jokes in the middle of class, especially any that involve nudity.

“Seriously, though.” It’s not easy making my face match my words, but I do the best I can. “What’s the plan? I need a plan.”

“Yes, we know.” His mouth quirks at the corners, but he gets it under control before I have to fake being offended again. “How’s this? You avoid the front row from now on and pick a spot in the back somewhere. Obviously, you can talk to me when class is in session, but outside of a polite nod hello if we cross paths, there isn’t any rule that says we have to interact for you to get a proper education.”

There’s really no reason to object to this. No legitimate reason anyway.

His elbow nudges my side, getting my attention. “What?”

My brows rise innocently. “What, what?”

A subtle headshake occurs before he answers, “You know what. What don’t you like about my plan?”

I inhale deeply, making one last attempt to keep in what should really be kept in, and then I exhale, letting it out anyway. “I don’t want to sit in the back.”

“How did I know that was it?!” He throws his head back, slapping his knee.

“Because your handy-dandy psychology superpowers told you so?” Am I trying to be cute? Am I freaking trying to flirt?! Why would I do that?

“You can sit in the back, Tessa. Know why? Because you’re not going to miss anything, even from the last row. And, if you do, guess what? You live with your professor! You can get one on one time over coffee on the balcony every night if you need it.”

“Every night? Wow, one of us doesn’t plan to have much of a life this semester.”

There’s an exasperated intake of air and a playful jab at my knee. “And one of us, really can’t be pleased.”

I give in. It’s time. I put up a good fight and I got more than enough to count it a win. “I’ll sit in the back. But, if my studies suffer for it, I’m blaming you.”

“I expected as much.”

I nod, solidifying the agreement. “Well, on that note, I should probably get to bed. I’ve got a long day tomorrow, and none of my other professors have agreed to private tutoring on my balcony as of yet.” Slipping out of the hammock as gracefully as I can while also holding an empty mug in one hand is not an easy feat.

“Hey, it’s just the first day of school. Give it time. There may be other naked teachers lurking, waiting to be clobbered and subsequently talked into private tutoring that you don’t know about yet.”

Reaching for the handle of the sliding door I almost have to force myself to open it. I’m not ready to go in. Not ready to end this...whatever this is. But I should. I will.

“I’ll keep my Aunt Edi’s umbrella handy just in case.”

Lane smiles and does a small salute with his mug and I accept the silent goodnight and go inside.

Lane

She’s gone but I can still smell it; the combined scent of sweet, hot coffee and her coconut shampoo hit me as soon as I stepped out into the warm breeze and they haven’t left me yet. I breathe in deeply and hold it, letting the air that holds her in it settle in my chest.

I close my eyes and try to shake it off. Shake her off.

Stretching out in the hammock I now have all to myself, I try to zone in on the way it swings me back and forth, staring out at the darkness, hoping it will help to clear my head of all things Tessa. At least all the things about her I’m not supposed to be thinking about. Not just for the obvious she’s my student reasons, because, let’s be real, I’ve already blown any and every aspect of propriety there. Far worse is knowing that I like her, but am completely incapable of liking her enough.

Timing is bad. For both of us. She’s grieving. I’m currently devoid of all feelings. We both need something the other can’t give. On the other hand, I suspect we both want what the other is more than willing to offer. Comfort. Distraction. Mind numbing, earth shattering and reckless, yet entirely meaningless, sex.