Chapter Five
Ian
I couldn’t sleep, which wasn’t news, but it frustrated me.
It’d been three weeks since I followed Darcy to the bookstore. In class, I’d been friendly but professional, and I hadn’t suggested any more lunches or teatimes. But I still couldn’t get Darcy out of my head. I was keenly aware of every moment we’d been apart.
Not spending more time with her pained me.
It was ironic, but when I’d been manic, insomnia hadn’t been an issue, at least from my perception. I’d been euphoric at the time—filled with boundless energy, never tired, blissful. But other people noticed my erratic behavior. Perhaps the illness altered my perceptions.
With a sigh, I rolled over, fluffed my pillow, and found a comfortable position. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to drift off.
Nothing happened.
So I gave up the ghost, grabbed my tablet from the nightstand, and pulled up a book I’d been reading before bedtime. I had a weakness for westerns. It’s one of the reasons I’d come to America, besides the need for a fresh start. When I’d pictured living here, I imagined myself in wide-open spaces, not cramped, claustrophobic New York, but I’d grown to love it. In many ways, it reminded me of London.
While I could do some work, I didn’t have the will. I had a pile of essays to grade, but couldn’t summon the motivation. I feared my eyes would bleed if I had to suffer through another of Mr. Archibald’s dull, plodding works.
So I settled down to read about a cattle ranch. But, as always, my thoughts went winging to Darcy.
Despite the age difference, I was in over my head with her. But I hadn’t connected with a woman in years. For the most part, when it came to women, I got off and then moved on.
Maybe Darcy’s innocence appealed to me. Not much in my life was untarnished. Like the romantics I admired so much, I’m broken, and no one could fix me. I had the strangest urge to be her protector. No, her knight errant.
And now I sound like a nutter.
Since I couldn’t stare at the four walls anymore, and I was too distracted to read, I went to the campus library. It was open until midnight. I could peruse the shelves and walk the halls, while I tried to divert myself.
I could lose myself in the stacks for hours. I loved the hushed murmur of voices, the sight of students who were intent on their books.
After getting on the elevator, I hit the button for the twelfth floor. I intended to walk all the way to the basement level before I had to leave.
Like I mentioned earlier, books soothed me—and art set me on fire. Like painting, Darcy called to me, beckoned me with the promise of a delightful chaos.
Stop it. I’m in control. No, I was under control, and there’s a big difference.
I wasn’t the wild young man I’d been, but he lived on inside me, urging me on, goading me into hasty decisions—like seducing a student.
Throngs of articulate, intelligent, attractive young women surrounded me on a daily basis—and from time to time I noticed one. Mere lust was easy to ignore, though—batted away, buttoned up, and then quickly forgotten. The pull Darcy had on me was beyond attraction, and there’s nothing simple about it.
I liked being around her—listening to her views, answering her questions. What a mind she had—lightning fast, crackling with curiosity. I could talk to her for hours and never grow tired.
Another Keats poem, “To Some Ladies,” came to mind. Being around Darcy was a “sweet, peculiar pleasure,” and I always wanted another minute, even one more second.
More than this meeting of the minds—I could sense she was broken too, damaged like me. After our encounter in the bookstore, I thought it had something to do with her father. The man didn’t acknowledge her talents, see her for who she really was.
But I appreciated Darcy. I could be there for her, and I was a good role model—a tad older, a bit wiser. And delusional.
As I rounded a corner on the fourth floor, I found Darcy seated at a table. I gasped.
Oh, fate tempted me.
She took my breath away, and for a moment, I watched her. Because I was usually lecturing when I saw Darcy, so I never got the opportunity to observe her. She made careful notes, scribbling away, pausing to chew on the end of her pen now and then.
There was only one other student on the floor, curled into a reading nook in the opposite corner. He had headphones in, completely oblivious to his surroundings.
No witnesses.
I’d had dozens of fantasies about her. Some of them involved this place—bending her over a walnut table in a secluded corner. Introducing her to the erotic works of Anais Nin, and then acting out a passage or two.
As I stepped closer to her—a moth drawn to a flame—the floor creaked, betraying me.
“Ian.”
“Darcy.”
“First the bookstore and then the library. Are you stalking me?” She smiled in a charmingly puckish way.
“Inadvertently.” This time, at least. I sat across from her.
While I hadn’t intended to run across her, how could I resist the pull of the universe? It apparently wanted us together. So much for my good intentions.
“Come to sniff more books?”
“Don’t make it sound like a fetish.”
Her eyes rounded.
I shouldn’t have said it, but couldn’t take the comment back now.
“What are you working on?”
“A paper for another class. It isn’t due to the end of the semester, but I have a lot of projects coming up, so I want to get it out of the way.”
I glanced around. “Why work here? You live off campus, right?”
“Yes, with three other girls—it’s a little noisy.”
“Enough said. Feel like taking a break? Getting a bite to eat?” The invitation just slipped out. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to spend more time with her.
Darcy hit a button on her cell. “It’s nearly midnight.”
“Yes, which means the library will be closing soon.” It sounded very logical.
“What kind of places are open at this hour?”
“You might be surprised. Take it from an insomniac—the world is an astonishing place after hours. I know a fabulous spot just up the street.”
“You have insomnia?”
I nodded. “It’s a chronic condition, I’m afraid. Coming?” I walked to the elevator, and when it dinged, she got in with me.
Twenty minutes later, we sat in a corner booth at Maison Rose down the street from the university. This late at night, the menu was limited, but they made fantastic Belgian French fries served in paper cones with vinegar and homemade mayo. My favorite dish was the coq au vin, but it was only available at dinner.
The restaurant stayed open until two a.m., and it was full of students, as well as other interesting people. Sometimes, I made a game out of people watching at night—creating these elaborate backstories for them. I might not be able to doze off, but at least I wouldn’t be bored.
“You’re right—this place is fabulous.” Darcy licked a bit of mayo from the pad of her thumb.
I stifled a groan. Oh, if she only knew the wicked thoughts running through my head.
“Wait until you have the coq au vin—it’s their signature dish.” I mentally worked on a plausible reason to have dinner with her sometime. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
And then I noticed a colleague of mine, Dr. Baldwin, sat at another table, having a cocktail and dessert with his fiancée. I took a deep breath, composing myself. He waved, and I flashed a polite smile, trying my best not to look guilty.
Take it easy. This looks innocent. I simply ran into Darcy at the library and invited her for a late-night snack.
“Feel like playing a game?” I needed a distraction before I did something stupid.
She frowned. “Like what?”
“I call it: Who Am I? Whenever I can’t sleep, I have to entertain myself, or I’ll lose it.” After I had given her the ground rules, I pointed out a man in an expensive suit tucked into the far corner. “What do you think he does for a living?” Because Darcy had a good imagination, I thought she’d be excellent at the game.
She took a quick glance at him. “Hmm, he seems guarded. His back is to the wall, so he has a clear view of the entire place. And it’s late—why’s he wearing a suit?”
“Good point.” I glanced down at my jeans and sweater. When I’d gotten home, I changed into something more comfortable. Most people did. “What do you think he does for a living?”
“Well, he’s alone, which is suspicious. He must have a dangerous job. Cop?”
“I agree with the dangerous part, but I think he’s on the opposite end of the law.”
“Maybe a mafia guy?” She raised her brows.
“Definitely mafia. How cold-blooded—sitting there, eating his fries, waiting for the right moment.” I grinned. “Get it? He’s here killing time, until—”
“Ugh, bad pun.”
“I couldn’t resist.” Which also summed up how I felt about her in three words.
“So, when the library closes, you come here?”
“Yes, I’ve got a schedule of sorts. I start off doing chores around the house—laundry, dishes, cleaning. Then I watch the shows stored on my DVR. Sometimes, I grade papers, but I make a lot of mistakes if I’m sleep-deprived. Luckily, I’m not too far gone right now.”
“Far gone…?”
“If you haven’t slept in a while, your brain stops functioning well. I’ve gotten to the point, after four nights with no rest, when I had trouble forming sentences. Not to mention, it makes me grouchy.”
She snickered.
“Okay, grouchier.” I’m well aware of my reputation at the university. “And a bit forgetful, too.”
“Why not stay in bed and hope for the best?”
“I’ve learned it’s pointless.” I’d tried to force myself to catch forty winks for years without much success.
“Have you seen the doctor?”
I nodded. “I’ve tried all the sleeping pills out on the market, but they don’t help.” A lot of them interacted with my psych meds. “Went to a psychiatrist, too.”
“Didn’t help?’
“Nope, and I went for six months.” I’d been seeing him for other reasons as well, but Darcy didn’t need to know.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work. What about alternative treatments?”
“You name it, and I’ve given it a go—yoga, meditation, breathing exercises. Hell, I even put magnets on my face, which made my skin itch.” I popped the last fry into my mouth. “What about you? Do you have trouble sleeping?”
“No, I have other issues.” She sighed. “I have panic attacks—pretty bad ones.”
I thought a moment. “That’s why you were in the bathroom the other night?”
“Yeah, I’ve had lots of breakdowns in many restrooms over the years. Like you, I’ve tried everything, but there’s no cure—all I can do is manage the symptoms.”
Somehow, I felt closer to her. We had even more in common than I’d thought, although my issues were more severe.
“What brings them on?”
Darcy shrugged. “I’ve never been able to pinpoint my triggers. The past few weeks, they’ve been more frequent.”
“Stressed about graduation?”
“Yes, and my future.”
“If it helps, I don’t think you need to worry. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, Darcy.” And I meant it—she was a brilliant, beautiful young woman.
“I guess so.”
She didn’t sound convinced. I wondered if she had second thoughts about her plans. It was common. At a certain point, a person had to narrow her focus and shut out other options and opportunities, which could be stressful.
“Tell me about it. What’s a panic attack like?”
“Hmm.” She sat back in the booth. “It’s terrifying and ridiculous at the same time. Picture yourself running from something—say, an ax murderer from a movie. When I’m having an attack, I experience all these emotions—terror, anger, and then, later, disgust at myself. I feel like I’m dying, even though I'm all right, there’s nothing wrong with me. It just springs out of nowhere and controls your life.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” In more ways than one.
We shared a smile and finished the rest of our meal. When the bistro closed, we were back on the street again. We stood there in the cold, lingering. I tried to think of something else to say, to prolong the evening.
Nothing came to mind. I couldn’t decide if my brain was fuzzy from lack of sleep or proximity to Darcy.
“I should be going home.” Darcy checked her phone again. “It’s nearly two.” Her breath was so much steam in the cool night air.
“I’d offer to share a cab, but we live in opposite directions.”
“No bike tonight?”
I had an overly expensive, flashy European motorcycle. Students often asked me about it, hinting for a ride. Not bloody likely.
“Not tonight.”
“So what are you going to do with the rest of your evening?”
I shrugged. “I could try sleeping again—try being the operative word.”
“Hope it works out for you.”
“Me too.”
Darcy cleared her throat. “Tonight was fun. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
“Yes, I had a good time too. I hope you get some rest.”
“You too.” She’d said her parting line, but neither one of us moved, like we were drawn together.
Darcy was so close—within arm’s reach. Before I knew it, I leaned down to steal a kiss. At the very last moment, I changed course and pressed my mouth to her cheek instead.
Thank God.
She gasped.
Dammit. I’d come so close to crossing that infernal line. When I stood upright, Darcy had a fingertip pressed her to lips, mouth parted as though inviting more intimate contact. Or my imagination was in overdrive.
“Um, good night.” She took a step back.
“Good night.”
Technically, a kiss on the cheek was innocent. Even if my intentions weren’t. Yet I’d breached protocol all the same.
Professors didn’t kiss their students. Period.