William

“I already told her no,” I say firmly.

Rebecca looks at me plaintively, and Ethan just glances up from the grading work I've assigned him without comment. I've managed to duct tape my task chair back together, but the back is askew and it's making me irritable. More so than usual.

Becky frowns and folds her arms beneath her chest, body cocked to one side like a judgmental aunt looking down on a drunken uncle at Christmas.

“Come on, what's the big deal?” she sighs. “We have the spot on the trip. She's got the money to put up. I know it's an exception, but exceptions make the rules.”

“Exceptions break the rules.”

I turn to Ethan.

He glances up. “Don't look at me.”

“She got on her knees, Doc. Literally. She knelt before me and pleaded. I mean, come on. What else do you need from me here?”

He lets out a long sigh.

“I feel the need to point out that she's a legal adult,” Becky says. “She'll be crushed.”

I look at Ethan again.

“What do you think?”

He looks up and sighs. “I mean…I don't want you to bend the rules. Rules are rules. Still, it's good to see someone interested in the field.”

“Does she understand that this isn't a sightseeing trip?” I ask.

Becky sighs and blows the hair out of her eyes.

“Yes, it is. We already have a list of places.”

Ethan shrugs.

“Fine, fine,” I say, relenting. “Let's just cast everything to the wind and throw caution out the window. First I let a freshman go on this trip, the next thing you know, we live in a sun-caked wasteland fighting each other for oil to power our dune buggies.”

Becky actually laughs, but stops, then stares at me as if I just laid an egg on my desk.

Yes, Doctor McDoom made a joke.

“I'll tell her,” Becky says. “I'll have the check and everything by the end of the day, promise.”

After she leaves, I lay out her itinerary and plans across the desk. Carol will be proud of me; this is only going to cost the college gas money, and I'm chipping in for that. Ethan could have gotten a free ride—I'd certainly have justified it—but he kicked in his hundred and eighty dollars, too. To take the pressure off Becky and her two friends, I had Ethan book some of the reservations.

There's rules. Curfew in the hotel at seven, for one thing. Ethan will be enforcing that strictly.

Then we'll just happen to step out at different times. Ethan, being a senior and my teaching assistant, has earned the privilege, yadda yadda. No one would suspect, and why would they?

I'm practically itching at the though. Ethan's excitement is infectious. He perks up like an eager kitten every time New York or Manhattan are mentioned in his hearing.

Plus, we have been barely able to steal alone time, and I'm tired of trysts in the woods and picnics. A real date, for once, would be very enjoyable indeed. I'm going to surprise him with something.

When I look at Ethan I have this strange instinct…yes, I want to devour him, but he inspires something almost paternal in me, too. A protective drive I've never felt before, never had any inkling that I even had. He seems to sense me staring and looks up, offering a small smile before he brushes his hair back and goes back to work. My eyes follow his wrists and the lines of his arms; muscular, but not bulky, just right to dig my fingers into and squeeze. Having him near me is the most precious torture.

I'm counting down the days until our trip. The last two weeks have felt like an eternity. A whole new life crammed into such a short time. Ethan rises and gives me a short look and a smirk before he goes. I…

Snap the back off my damned chair again. It topples to the floor behind me and I surge up to my feet and sharply kick it into the wall, where the padded back sheds bits of foam rubber. Snarling, I grab the thing and shove it into my wastebasket, angrily pack my things, and head out for the day.

The days go by. Glances are stolen. Sometimes I risk closing the door for a minute or two, or ten as Ethan sinks to his knees. I pick a new spot for us to meet each time and we explore each other, but it's just a preview for the main event and I can't help leaving him wanting more.

When the Friday morning when we will leave finally arrives, the last Friday of September, there is a buzz on campus. Not least of which because I've cancelled a Friday class—a first, a unique event in ten years of teaching, first as an adjunct and then full time for the last three. It's as if Santa Claus circled the campus last night, or someone in the cafeteria performed a miracle of multiplying loaves and fishes and the overcooked pizza that is the only legitimately edible hot food they serve and better than it has any right to be.

At six thirty in the morning, Ethan is already out, yawning, toting his ratty backpack, overstuffed with clothes. I hope he has a suit; I told him he needed to dress professionally and even offered to cover the cost if he needed it. The garment bag he slings in his left hand should deal with that.

I walk with him to the motor pool. It's down across the back street, behind the sports complex—the building where our lackluster football team and other athletes exercise, swim, and the like. I picked up the key to the van last night, having chosen the best looking one.

The van smells the best, is the newest, and only has one broken headlight, so it's the one. Ethan grunts as he pushes the side door open to the sound of a rusty squeal, then again when he pokes his head inside.

“That's, ah, fragrant,” he says.

“We beggars cannot be choosers.”

He tugs on the door so hard to close it that the whole van rocks on its springs. I'm already in the driver's seat, recording the mileage in the logbook. It only has half a tank of gas, so after we roll the windows down, I drive over to a convenience store on the corner a few blocks down and fill it up while Ethan ducks inside and returns with breakfast.

Away from campus, the two of us savor the quiet pleasure of sharing a microwaved breakfast burrito and one each from a two pack of Pop Tarts washed down with Diet Mountain Dew and a split pint of chocolate milk.

This is luxury in the life of a small-town college professor. I just had to put the classroom ahead of publish or perish. Not that a history professor at the state school or a larger institution would be much better off. Or that I could get the job.

“A magnificent feast,” Ethan says between bites of pop tart.

I take a sudden risk and kiss him. His normal taste is there of course, but with a fine flavoring of chocolate, processed sugar, and what is supposed to be cherry frosting. He kisses back, likely savoring the same thing.

“Do you like me better when I taste like desert?” he says playfully.

I draw my finger along his chin and quickly start the van and wheel it around. The station is deserted, and the street is empty, but paranoia still strikes deep, a hot flash that cuts through my quiet indulgence with a shock. Ethan draws back, not upset, but not…

Something was bothering me, and I just realized what it was when I glanced at him. He's wearing a choker—one of those new ones, the kind that's thin jelly material that almost looks like a knot work tattoo around his throat. When he spots that I've noticed, he traces his fingers over his neck and twists in the seat.

“When we're with the other students—”

“I know, I know,” he says. “Keep it professional.”

He takes the little thing off and slips it in his pocket.

We're supposed to leave at seven o'clock. Of course, no one is here. I step out into the morning air. Another warm snap has hit in February, prompting people to come out in t-shirts to what would be the first jacket weather were this the fall. People are strange. Ethan leans against the van, one foot propped against the sheet metal, fiddling with his phone. He's already slipped into the mask. It's like I'm not here.

The first student to walk up is Rebecca, apologizing profusely.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, juggling bags and a coffee cup and a suitcase.

Ethan hurriedly helps her haul her holdings into the trunk, and I snicker to myself at my mental alliteration. She joins us in leaning against the van.

“Should we smoke cigarettes and look tough?”

“Smoking cigarettes doesn't make you look tough,” I say. “Trust me.”

Jennifer, the English major, is next. I'm pretty sure she's doing this to get out of Friday classes, skip her work-study in the library, and get a free trip to Manhattan, but we had the spot and her money is green.

I expected the freshman girl to show up early, given her fastidious nature, but she's one of the last, the sixth of a group of eight, not counting Ethan and myself. Once everyone has arrived and all the belongings are precariously arranged in the cargo space behind the seats, everyone piles in.

Jennifer sits directly behind Ethan beside Becky and loudly pronounces, “This tin can smells like assholes.”

I give her a dangerous look.

“Glare away, Doctor McDoom. You have no power over me, for my requirements are fulfilled. I will bind you with ancient logics.”

The others are looking at her like she's lost her mind; even Ethan is tense.

“So you're the class clown,” I tell her. “Good to know.”

I turn back and start the engine.

“I do have the power to leave you behind,” I point out.

“You can't boot me off the trip now.”

I half-turn back before I put the van in gear.

“Who said anything about leaving you here?”

A cold chill passes through the van. Ethan, though, smirks a little. Jennifer laughs uneasily, shifting in her seat, plucking at her floral sun dress and kicking her oversized boot. Becky looks at her and rolls her eyes.

The van coughs and lurches, and off we go.

“How long is this ride, anyway?” Jennifer asks.

“About four hours,” I say.

There are some mumbles behind me. Ethan slumps in his seat and puts in earbuds.

It takes less than half an hour for all of them to be out cold, snoring loudly.

Except Ethan. He slips his earbuds out.

“Can I ask you something?”

I give him a dangerous, level look.

He waves his hand away as if to say it's nothing like that. “How do you stay awake with everyone sleeping?” he says, softly.

“I can stay awake for days, just like I can sleep anywhere.”

“How'd you learn to do that?”

I sit up in the seat and work my hands on the wheel, creaking the old vinyl.

“Military.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You never told me about that.”

I keep my eyes half on the rearview mirror and lower my voice so soft that no one else could possibly hear me.

“I was in the army,” I say simply. “Operation Desert Freedom and two years after that. Went to school on the GI bill. My ex went to college while I was away. She's a software engineer. Worked remotely so I could move here, build my career.”

“Must have been hard on her.”

I shake my head. “You'd think, but she's brilliant. Made a mint coding in her home office while I was off grading papers and giving lectures. I felt like a kept man sometimes. Made things hurt all the more.”

“For you?”

“For her,” I sigh, too loudly. “I should have let her go sooner. When I found out…I'll tell you that another time.”

“How'd you meet?” he asks.

I can't tell if he's making conversation, trying to make me squirm, or just feels the need to ask me about my ex when we're riding in a van full of people who cannot know he and I are in a relationship.

“High school. When I was in high school I was a scrawny pimple farm, always had my nose in a Dragonlance book or my laptop open playing old Dungeons and Dragons computer games. We shared those passions.”

Ethan nods, understanding.

“She grew into a beautiful vivacious woman. I grew into…me,” I say. “I put up a lot of walls.”

“So you split…”

“It was a friendship that went too far,” I admit. “It was for the best. We've been functionally separated for five years, she'd been seeing other people.” I snort. “It was…I offered her an open relationship. She accepted but finally came to me and said she wanted out. Offered to pay me, if you can believe that. Said she wanted to make sure I was taken care of.”

“Wow,” he whispers. “I guess you said no?”

“I may drive a 1986 Camaro but I'm not poor,” I hiss. I'd rather make it my way, on my own. Once I get all the furniture set up, I'll be happy. I've always lived for the classroom.

I look him in the eye and think, and you.