Dr. Nichols is a pervy sadist. My thesis advisor is so near to retirement, so uncaring about his obligations that he’s loaded me with his morning classes three weeks in a row. It’s an eight a.m. class. I don’t believe “covering for your hung-over adviser” is a part of my assistantship responsibilities. In fact, I’m certain it isn’t. Still, I’ve discovered that letting him have his mornings gives me a reprieve from his attentions. It’s preferable to him being in and out of my office all morning.
He cornered me last night just as I was leaving campus to ask if I’d take his morning class. He stared at my face for a full minute, then he ogled my breasts. He does that even when I’m not half naked.
I don’t mind taking his classes in general, but I prefer Shakespeare and Fantasy to Nichols’ World Lit class. Besides, the fraudulent air of the students doesn’t make me eager to enter the classroom early. They speak in half-truths, with mock sincerity as though every syllable that leaves their mouths is littered with lie after lie. I remember what it was like to sit in front of a teacher. Uncomfortable, frustrating, sometimes boring. Though, my experience was a bit different.
Sayo and I competed academically. She focused on Library Studies, her dream to be Library Director before she was twenty-five, easily accomplished earlier this year. I finished my B.A. at twenty, am still working through my M.A. in English Renaissance Literature while my best friend gloats about being done. This group of students, though, never pays attention, never gets excited about the work and even if I am complete fraud, teaching a subject that isn’t my concentration, I’m capable enough to get the point across. But it’s not like they’d notice.
Nolan Hall makes the sting of waking up this early less biting. This building is at least a hundred years old. Ornate wood paneling surrounds the walls and plush red runners cover the marble floors. It even smells old, not like the bitter stench of mothballs or overpowering flowers, but the thick aroma of worn books or the sweet scent of aged wood and a burning furnace. Being here fills me with the sense of purpose, comfort, history, a stark contrast to the kids running past me, completely oblivious to the beauty around them.
I rub my eye to clear away a glob of mascara and then head to the restroom when I feel a stray eyelash stick into the corner of my eye. A tissue sorts out the eyelash and I glance in the mirror to make sure I don’t have any smears. Teenagers are ruthless in general. They are doubly so to teacher-types standing in front of them for an hour. I know I shouldn’t care, but I abhor gossiping girls and try not to give them a reason to critique or judge my appearance.
A glance in the mirror shows me that my hair has already begun to frizz in the overcast temperatures. It is ginger, not quite orange like my father’s, but nowhere near my mom’s beautiful chestnut. Her face flashes into my mind and a hard tremble runs up my spine. Last night, I was visited by her ghost again. The nightmares never leave me to rest. I can still smell the blood on my skin. I still feel the piercing tear of the steel rod pinning me to the seat. Without knowing I’m doing it, I rest my fingers on my stomach remembering the pain, but before I allow the usual anxiety to root me in the bathroom, I rest my head against the cool counter and take a breath.
To distract myself, I straighten, slide my fingers through my long hair, making sure it lies flat against my back, and bend nearer to the mirror and apply lip gloss onto my full lips. I ignore the shake in my hand and grip the gloss tighter.
A year ago, the “grown up uniform” I’m wearing today wouldn’t have seen the inside of my closet. Back then, I dressed like a kid because that’s what I was. Just a girl smart enough to race through her BA. A girl who believed in the impossible—fathers who didn’t leave, mothers who were invincible, boyfriends that would never break your heart. But life has a funny way of screwing with ‘just a girl’ kind of people. So now that girl watches herself in the mirror trying to erase thoughts of her mother’s endless, dead gaze, trying to forget the heavy weight of loss. I tidy my dark green, sensible button up and flatten the half sleeves, then adjust my black slacks, making sure the shirt isn’t untucked or that the belt isn’t missing a loop.
If my reflection could spill my secrets—those hidden, dark bits of my soul that are frayed by loss—they’d be a shocking disparity to the picture I present to anyone curious enough to look at me. That girl in the mirror would tell the world I am a con-artist, a hollow shell of who I once was. That girl, whose smile was eager, whose laugh was loud and honest died in the same wreck that killed her mother.
When I walk into the classroom, I feel like I’m surrounded by the living dead. Students are arrayed in various states of rest. Some sleeping, some trying to keep their heads from nodding, some already drooling on their desks. There are even a few making zombie-like noises as they fight to stay awake. A cluster of over-made up blondes huddle together in the corner closest to the door, their faces either lowered toward their phones or near each other’s ears. Another, much louder group of boys sits so far in the back I doubt they’ll be able to hear me lecture.
There is crew is in the middle of the auditorium classroom, their faces obscured beneath crimson ball caps with “Cavanagh Cocks” embossed in the center in white. Adorable, right? Our mascot is laden with sexual innuendo. The cap-wearing group is completely still, hunched down in their desks, their eyes purposefully avoiding me. Rugby players. Bastards. I narrow my eyes at these boys who may well intend on sleeping off last night’s bender during class.
I don’t think so.
“Dr. Nichols will be out today.”
“Again?” I hear a girl in the back of the class say.
“Yes, again.” I lay my bag on the desk at the front of the auditorium and pull out my notes. Only a few students actually pay attention. The rugby team hasn’t flinched and though I know they’re likely half asleep, I’m not going to let them get away with slacking. I don’t care that Nichols is their faculty adviser. Donovan is on the front row snoring. I pick up the dictionary off the shelf and stand in front of him, then deftly slam the book on his desk. There is a collective gasp and he jumps about two inches off his seat.
“Morning, sunshine. Do you think you can manage to wake up?”
“Nichols said—”
“Nichols is seventy-eight years old and could give a flying fart about teaching his classes. I do the lecturing and the grading. You want to play the Nichols card?” I shift forward, just low enough so only Donovan and his teammates can hear me. My silver cross necklace moves as I bend toward them. “Or do you wanna piss me off and see where that gets you?”
“No,” he says. Donovan sits up and elbows the player next to him who clearly is capable of sleeping through a hurricane. “Dude, wake up.”
“Good. Let’s get started.” I walk to the front of the desk and sit on top of it, pulling out the text. “Okay guys, The Epic of Gilgamesh. It’ll be painless if you actually pay attention. We left off on table five.”
Fifty minutes later, the students bolt from the room like there is a fire and I’m at the center of it holding a can of gasoline. Donovan offers me a smile, which I don’t return. He nodded off twice during my lecture. Anyone would be somewhat personally offended by his napping. Eager to grab a quick latte from the coffee shop, I shove my notes and textbook into my bag, not paying attention to the sloppy mess I make, which allows my folder with dozens of loose papers to topple out onto the floor.
“Awesome,” I say to myself. Several pages fan into the corridor and I’m convinced in my last life I must have been a malicious pirate, possibly a politician. This is my punishment, the frustrating job as Nichols’s assistant. The perpetual ineptness.
Two wayward sheets scatter near the door and as I crouch to reach for them, I am met with a pair of large Nikes in Cavanagh red. A rugby player who clearly hasn’t broken in his tennis shoes. Long, thin fingers grab the pages and I stand, my eyes following the stretch off solid, tan legs, heavily muscled calves, and a narrow waist. The wide, finely shaped chest and the familiar patch of brown hair peeking out of the collar of his jersey stalls my breathing.
For the first time in a year, Tucker Morrison stands in front of me.
“Hey sweetness,” he says.
Rational thought is held still as we exchange a look. Air refuses to enter my lungs and a large wad of dry cotton has taken permanent residence in my mouth. He seems older than the last time I saw him. He is tall, over six feet, with brown, wavy hair and sharp cheekbones. Tucker covers the awkward silence with a grin and my heart pounds as I notice the small chip on his front tooth, the only flaw on an otherwise perfect smile. I used to kiss that little chip. I used to pay a lot of attention to many of his fine attributes.
He steps closer and I don’t bother to move. I am caught up by how blue his eyes still are, how the sharp contours of his thick arms flex when he hands me the papers. Then I remember the last time I saw him. That night, our argument was loud and I threw books, candles, anything I could get my hands on; the disturbance shook the windows of my apartment and my neighbors called threatening to phone the police. It was the same night he broke my heart.
Two brief blinks sort out my shock and I jerk the paper from his hand before returning to the desk to finish repacking my bag.
“Come on, Autumn, don’t be cold to me.”
My eyebrow arches up. “Is there a reason you’re here?”
He sits on my desk as though invited and I move him away to collect the rest of my papers. “I heard about your little incident last night. I thought I’d rectify the situation.”
“What?” I finally look at him, surprised by his offer. “Why you?”
“I’m captain.” His admission is glib, as though it was the most natural development in our squad’s year-long drama when Tucker abandoned everyone for his own selfish pursuits.
“I heard.”
“I figured Layla would have told you.” Tucker rests back on his hand, his feet crossed on the floor. “Anyway, Mullens sent me to Europe to recruit a couple of months back. I’m just getting in from my last trip.”
Two months. It was just like him to skirt around me, hang back in the shadows until he was ready to make his triumphant return. “You’ve been back for two months?”
“On and off.”
The anger brimming in my chest at his admission is swallowed deep. We were together for two years when he decided to give the National Rugby League a shot. He didn’t consider what his absence would do to the squad and certainly not to me. I had no problem with Tucker wanting to follow his dreams, but when he expected me to put aside my own dreams for his without question or thought, then yeah, I took issue. That he assumed I’d follow him stung worse than him deciding to leave suddenly. Worst of all, I was his for two years and he couldn’t be bothered to call me when the accident happened.
The smug smile on his face only pisses me off. I get groped last night by one of his drunk squad mates and he swoops in trying to play the hero. “Funny how Mullens just let you back in and gave you captain again.”
“Why’s that funny?”
“Because, Tucker, you’ve been gone a long time. It took a lot of effort for the squad to get themselves sorted out.” I sit next to him on the desk, but don’t let him get too near me. “It’s kind of shitty that you come back in and screw with all they’ve worked to build.”
“Maybe I’m good.” My back stiffens when his arm brushes against mine and I immediately retreat, stand up to put distance between us. I don’t like how comfortable he is, how he purposefully disregards what I’ve been through since he left.
“You’re not that good. You’re entitled. There’s a difference.”
At my little dig, Tucker stands in front of me, arms crossed and a revealing flush of annoyance colors his cheeks. He would be dreadful at poker. He has too many tells. “Are you saying that I don’t deserve to be back on the squad?”
My face is relaxed, calm and I know it must irritate him. There was a time when the slightest elevation of his voice had me simpering and eager to ease his frustration. I’m not that stupid little girl anymore and so I am impassive, content to offer him a bored glare.
“I’m saying things are different now. You can’t expect that everything has remained unchanged since you left.”
He lurches toward me, tries to take my hand, but I step back further, fiddle with my bag. “Are we still talking about rugby?”
I want to laugh at him. He knows this little gesture would have been my undoing a year ago. He knows getting into my personal bubble was step one in the idiotic seduction dance we used to practice. It doesn’t affect me anymore. He doesn’t. “Why are you here?”
Tucker takes a moment to study my face and I guess he sees that I’m not affected by his close proximity or the way his eyes linger on my lips. He sighs, then rubs the back of his neck.
“I wanted to see you and I want to make things right with what happened last night.”
“How are you going to do that?”
He walks to the door and I relax, hopeful that he will leave. I hope that he understands that I am different. How can I not be? Death changes you. But then Tucker stops at the doorway, nods once and returns inside. My fleeting hope of being left alone diminishes. Anger quickly simmers in my chest when my would-be attacker struts through the door.
“What the hell do you want?” At my question, Declan stops in mid step. There’s an annoying smirk pulling his lips. He’s taller than Tucker, likely near 6’4, and wider, with a slight waist, broad shoulders and muscular arms. His gait is confident, smooth, as though every move he makes is managed with confidence inborn and natural. His mussed hair is midnight black and his green eyes are bright against his olive complexion. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in a week with heavy bags under his lids and burning red streaks in the whites of his eyes. On his arms are two full sleeves of tattoos; reds, blues, greens; he’s marked up like a five-year-old’s coloring book. I hate how handsome he is. I hate that I notice.
Tucker intercedes before Declan can answer me. “Autumn, I wanted to make sure Fraser apologized for last night.” Declan levels a glare at Tucker and I can’t help but smile. Even though this guy is a horny jackass, it seems we share a mutual distain for my ex. The two men exchange a look and the sharp dimples in Tucker’s cheeks disappear. “Anyway, Fraser, don’t you have something to say to Miss McShane?”
I can tell by how those green eyes are narrowed at Tucker that this won’t be a sincere apology. With a small shake of his head, Declan faces me. His thumbs are hooked into the low waistband of his shorts and his expression is relaxed, if not annoyed.
“I’m meant to say I’m sorry for maulin’ you last night and I shouldn’t have been so rude.” Irish expat. The coaching staff is fond of recruiting from Europe. For a second, I’m reminded of the faint brogue my father never bothered to lose, but then Declan’s smirk returns as he takes a step closer and I find myself with unexpected, non-familial thoughts. “Also, I was an arsehole, but in my defense, I was pie-eyed as shite.” Tucker slaps the back of his head and Declan’s left eye twitches. “That is to say, I’m sorry, miss. Won’t happen again.”
I sit back on my desk and watch Declan for a moment. I like how he fidgets as I watch him. He pulls on the hem of his loose t-shirt and scuffles his tennis shoes against the floor, leaving black marks in his wake.
“You’re new here?” I ask, curious.
“Nah, born and raised in bleeding Texas. What do you think?” Again, Tucker slaps the back of his head and Declan’s shoulders tense.
“Fine. Whatever. I’ve heard your apology.” I wave my hand, annoyed by his flippant excuse and reach for my bag. In my peripheral, I see Tucker whispering in Declan’s ear, though their arguing isn’t remotely quiet.
Declan steps forward, jerking off Tucker’s nudge on his shoulder. “Look, are you gonna go tell that president lady about last night because that would really fuck us over for the season and—” Tucker attempts another head slap, but Declan deflects him, faces him. “Captain or no, do that again and I’ll fecking end you.”
They stand nose to nose, chests puffed like a couple of grade school bullies. Testosterone overkill is an epidemic on this campus, but it’s far too early for grand displays of futile chest pounding.
I step between them, my palms pushing on both those firm chests and I blink, hurrying to clear many inappropriate thoughts at the sensation of these hard muscles under my fingers. “Okay, enough with the alpha male crap.” My neck warms when Declan pulls my hand off his chest. “I get it. You were a drunken jackass and it’s not even a little okay what you did. Seriously, what were you thinking?”
He finally looks down at me and the anger that wrinkled his forehead and lined his mouth a moment ago, disappears. For the first time, Declan seems remorseful. His gaze flicks from the floor, to my eyes and then back down again. “I wasn’t. I’m not normally like that.”
I relax. “If Winchell finds out that could screw up our chances at regionals. We can’t have that. Just so we’re clear: you can’t go around attacking unsuspecting women.”
The apologetic, awkward expression vanishes from his features and his cheeks round with the smirk pulling his mouth. Declan stands so close to me now that I can see the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose. “And the suspecting ones?”
“No,” I say, stepping back until I bump into Tucker. “Not unless they want you to.”
“Like that then?” The grin on his face is near lecherous.
Undeterred, I stick up my chin. “Yes, it’s exactly like that.”
“So, McShane, are you unsuspecting?” The smirk again and then he flicks out his tongue to moisten his bottom lip.
“Knock it off,” Tucker says, reaching around me to grab Declan by the collar.
The tattooed Irishman jerks out of Tucker’s grip and storms out of the room. The tension around me diminishes and I lift my bag off the desk, shaking my head.
“I’m sorry about him,” Tucker says. “He’s a little rough around the edges.”
“Just a bit.”
He follows me into the lobby then opens the door for me, but I move to the closed one at my left and walk out. Tucker sighs as I walk out into the courtyard in front of Nolan Hall.
“I forgot how stubborn you are,” he says.
I start to walk away and my leg cramps, forcing the limp to resurface. Tucker is at my side and I know he’s watching me struggle. I’m not happy that I can’t manage to avoid looking like a helpless idiot in front of him. When he touches my hand, I flinch, unaccustomed to his uninvited touch after all this time. Fleetingly, I’m surprised that the familiar warmth, the bruising compulsion to let him touch me is missing.
“Hey, listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear about the accident until a few weeks ago. I was going to call you, maybe stop by, but I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”
“You should follow your gut, Tucker.”
“Autumn, please. I want to talk to you. There’s a lot of things we left unsaid.”
I take a step back, adding to the distance between us. “I said everything I needed to the night you left me.”
He exhales, making his cheeks round and his eyes raise up as though he’s trying to take a moment to cool his frustration. His eyes soften and his voice is warm, gentle. “Why are you still so pissed off? I was doing it for us, you know.”
An unexpected laugh leaves my throat. I’m surprised that he’d attempt lying. I know him intimately and he seems to have forgotten that I remember quite well what a selfish bastard he can be. “Tucker, you never did anything for anyone but yourself. I doubt that’s changed.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I really don’t need a lecture on what is fair.” To emphasize my point, I wince as my legs shift.
Tucker has always been single minded. He doesn’t like to lose. He doesn’t like being wrong and last year, he thought I was the perfect girl for him. And I was. Naive. Timid. Stubborn and intensely oblivious that my boyfriend treated me like a prized possession. But that girl is gone. Having your life ripped apart, being forced into the quiet seclusion of an empty home does nothing but impact change.
“Listen, I know I’m the last person you want to help you, but I want to handle this situation with Fraser.”
“Didn’t you just do that?”
Tucker takes my bag off my shoulder and carries it for me. I’m annoyed with that, but it’s good to have the weight off with my leg acting up. We walk down the courtyard together, but I’m careful to avoid his touch. “He’s a punk” Tucker reiterates with a sneer. “You know that apology wasn’t sincere.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“He needs to learn humility.” I arch my eyebrows at Tucker thinking Declan Fraser isn’t the only one who has lessons to learn.
“Don’t give me that look. I’m not the one going around campus attacking girls.”
“He was drunk, Tucker and I handled it.” The memory of Declan wailing on the ground cupping himself makes me grin.
“I still think he could use some punishment.”
Tucker called me stubborn, but he really has no room to talk. If I ignore him, he’ll just keep showing up, keep badgering me about making sure Declan is properly punished. It’s likely he thinks playing champion for me will get him back in my good graces.
Resigned to his insistent nature I try to think of something that would appease Tucker’s need to show Declan his place. Finally, the memory of a conversation I had with Sayo last week provides a solution. “Sigma Tau Delta never gets enough volunteers for the book sale.”
“The one at the library?”
“Yeah.” I nod my head in the direction of the courtyard and Tucker follows me. “Sayo is the faculty adviser. She was telling me last week how they had over a thousand books to organize and sort for the book sale and not enough bodies to get through them all.”
“Does that require a lot of annoying grunt work?”
“I guess. Should be lots of heavy lifting, crawling around on the floor moving boxes. Very unglamorous work. I got bullied into it because Sayo pulled the best friend card.” We pass Greek Row and head toward the coffee shop when I feel Tucker’s fingers touch against my knuckles. I pull my hand away and cross my arms.
“Good.” He stops walking and peers over my head when someone calls his name. He waves then turns his attention back to me. “I’ll send Declan after practice tomorrow.”
“No, it’s a weekend job. I’ll be there Saturday morning. Seven o’clock.”
The pale space above his nose creases and he lifts his right side of his mouth, grinning. “Isn’t that a little extreme for best friend guilt?”
“You’d think so, but no. I owe her.”
I don’t disclose all the things my best friend has done for me, especially during the past five months. I’ve heard it said that you can measure a true friend by their behavior during tragedy. The wreck, my mom, my injuries, Sayo faced them all with me. I honestly can’t imagine what I’d do without her.
“Hey listen, can I buy you a coffee?”
A slow, already annoyed breath releases between my teeth. This hasn’t been the best day so far and it’s not even lunchtime. He knows better than to push me when I’m angry, yet he continues. He steps closer to me. He’s so tall that I have to stretch my neck to look up at him. We’re a bit too close for a casual conversation and I hate that he’s ignoring all the “stay away” signals I keep giving him.
“Don’t,” I say, stepping back from him, but he still doesn’t keep away.
A small breeze disturbs the leaves on the ground and flips my ginger hair across my face. He lets his finger slide across my cheek before he tucks the flyaways behind my ear and I jerk back. “Autumn…”
“You can’t do that, Tucker.”
“I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.” He takes a breath as he scans my face. “I’ve missed you. Missed those millions of freckles, those grey eyes—” He tries reaching for me again, fingers nearing my face, but I move my chin down and myself out of his reach.
I say a small prayer of thanks as my cell rings and Winchell’s smiling face appears on the screen. “I’ve got to take this.”
He reaches for me, but I manage to avoid his touch, eager to be away from him. I walk ahead, toward the coffee shop but stop short when he comes behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry. I really am. You don’t have to tell me how badly I screwed up, but I missed you. Can’t we—can’t we be friends?” he asks.
Friends? There was a time when he was more than my friend, when he was my world. There was a time when I hung onto every word he spoke, when I watched endlessly as he practiced the game we both loved. He was happy then, out on the pitch in his element. We’d leave the match and go back to my apartment and celebrate or sulk, depending on Cavanagh’s performance, naked, laughing, touching, discovering the intimate curves of each other’s bodies. He’d been my friend first, then my lover and then his selfishness took him away from me. He left as though nothing we’d been to each other mattered. He walked away and didn’t look back.
My phone keeps ringing and I hit the accept button before I twist away from him and his pathetic little frown. “I don’t think so, Tucker. Not now we can’t.”