“Just tell me what I did wrong.”

Teague’s message hurts my eyes the longer I stare at it. I turn over in my bed, wondering if I should respond.

He’s married.

I shake my head when the tears start again. It seems like all I’ve done the last two days is cry. I haven’t been to class, emailing all my professors—all but Teague, at least—that I have the flu. When Colby is in the dorm, I ham it up and pretend I can’t stomach the food she’s brought me, then sneak down to the vending machines for crackers and snack cakes.

“Breton,” he writes. “Please.”

My battery pops out of my phone easily. I leave it out for the rest of the day.

There’s got to be a way to reach her, besides the phone, that won’t look suspicious. I rack my brain all day and come up empty-handed.

In the faculty lounge of the art building, everything and everyone smelling like turpentine—even those of us who teach theories and history, rather than the studio classes, end up with the smell on our clothes—I sit with Julian, another art history teacher. He’s in his forties, newly divorced, and rumored to be sleeping with at least two of his students.

I’m not going to ask him for outright advice, but if anyone has an answer to my question and won’t judge if he does manage to guess, it’s him.

“How to reach a student?” he repeats when I ask.

“Yeah. About missing class too much. He isn’t answering my emails.”

Either he believes me, or he desperately wants to smother his own rumors. I watch him bite into a candy bar, the caramel stretching in a thin vine that sticks to his chin. “Well, there’s the directory, I guess.”

“Tried it,” I say, sighing. “Guess he’ll be failing my class, then.”

“If it’s a matter of life or death,” he adds, “or in this case, passing or failing, you could send an academic letter to his mailbox.”

I hesitate; my next move is a risky one. “What about his dorm?”

“Why?”

“Well, say the student isn’t leaving their room, like for illness, or something.”

“If your student’s that ill he should probably be in the hospital,” he says, chuckling. “But, yeah, I guess you could have another student courier a letter inside the building. Slip it under their door, or something.”

This could work...but which student could I trust to deliver it, and not open it?

“Or,” Julian adds, hefting himself to his feet for another cup of coffee, “there’s always their roommate.”

“Uh...so Professor West just handed me this?”

I sit straight up as Colby enters the room, then, remembering I’m on my third day of faking the world’s worst flu, flop back against my pillows. “Huh?”

“This,” she says, and gives me the envelope. “He just, like, walked up to me outside the Center and asked if I could deliver this.” She pauses, looking at me over her shoulder. “He seemed worried.”

I tear open one end of the envelope. The note is typed on official school letterhead, like an academic letter.

“What the fuck?” I say, out loud, as the letter ripples in front of my eyes and I start to cry again. Colby reads over my shoulder.

“Severe negative impact?” she says. “You have the flu! You’ve missed—what, two days of his class, max?”

He’s mad at me. This is his punishment for me ignoring him: blackmailing me with threats of bad grades.

Colby puts her hand on my shoulder. “Hey, don’t cry...you can contest this. Teachers can’t do this when you’re legitimately sick. If you get a doctor’s note—”

I’m already out of bed, digging through the pile of laundry on my desk chair. “If he wants to see me so bad, fine.” My tears are fueled by anger, now. I pull on leggings and a sweater, stomp my feet into my boots, and grab my keys.

“It’s not until tonight,” she reminds me. I hesitate with my hand on the door and debate hanging back to keep up appearances, or even telling Colby the truth. What the hell do I care if he gets fired?

But I do care. I probably shouldn’t, but I can’t turn my feelings off, just like that.

“I’m going to talk to him, first,” I explain. “Maybe I can change his mind, or something.”

“It’s weird,” she says, studying the letter again. “He didn’t even say where this makeup unit’s supposed to happen. The classroom? His office?” She tosses it back onto my bed. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No,” I say, too fast. “Um, thank you, though.”

She keeps her eyes on my face a long time. It takes all my willpower not to bolt.

“Okay,” she shrugs, finally. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

I thank her again. Then I speed-walk to Teague’s house, the October wind no match for my boiling blood. I notice, as the sun sets behind the dorms, that this is the first time I’ve ever walked to his home in the daylight.

It’s almost 5:30 when she bursts into my place, scaring me so badly I spill my beer down the front of my sweater. “Breton,” I say, and jump to my feet, startled and thrilled just to see her, “what are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d show up early for the make-up session,” she snaps, planting her feet in the doorway of my living room. I rush to draw the blinds, which just seems to piss her off more.

“Oh, right—wouldn’t want anyone seeing me here. God forbid you get fired.” She pauses, her hands sliding off her hips, arms lifeless by her sides. Her voice quiets. “Or somebody telling your wife.”

I look at her. “What?”

“Your wife,” she repeats, biting off the words. There are tears in her eyes. “Professor Parker told me your wife lives in Tennessee, but you moved here without her. So? Care to explain?”

“Breton,” I sigh, reaching for her. She tears out of my grasp.

“Tell me the truth.”

I lock our eyes. I’m dying to touch her—not just sexually, but at all. My hands don’t know how to leave her alone. I don’t know how.

“My wife is gone,” I say. My words come out quieter than I mean them to. I don’t realize I’m crying until Breton steps forward, wiping the tears away with her thumbs.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. She folds herself into me, resting her head against my chest as I put my arms around her.

“It’s okay. I just wish you’d asked me, instead of ignoring me for days.”

“Well, you could’ve sent a nicer note,” she says, angry all over again. She pushes off me and stalks across the room, like she might leave. When she doesn’t, I laugh.

“Guess it wasn’t clear.” I open up my laptop and pull up the note I drafted. “Look at the first letters of each line,” I tell her. Reluctantly, she comes closer and reads.

I watch her scowl melt into a smile.

“You’re an idiot,” she says, shoving me again. This time, I grab her wrists and pull her against me, hard.

“Upstairs,” I order. When I kiss her, she rises on her tiptoes to accept. “We’ve got a few days to make up for.”

“You got me a present? Why?”

Teague doesn’t answer as I unwrap the box. Judging from his smile—and the fact we’re both already naked—I think it’s safe to assume whatever he got me is an adults-only kind of gift.

It looks like some high-tech gadget, the kind of thing people buy at specialty stores. I turn the box in all directions, searching for a clue. Is it a can opener? Fitness bracelet?

“It’s a dual vibrator,” he explains, amused by my confusion. He takes the box and opens it, pulling out a U-shaped toy, bright pink. “This end,” he says, pointing to a flat, broad side, “curves inside against your G-spot, and this one sits on the outside, for your clit.”

“Whoa,” I breathe, taking it back. The silicone coating on the outside is smooth as silk.

“See, it’s designed to be used on its own or...or during,” he says. He’s obviously excited beyond words to give me this, but seems embarrassed he can’t hide it. “You know, when we have sex, or...whatever.” He shrugs, like he’s trying to play it cool. “I just saw it and thought you’d like it.”

Skeptical, I flip the box over. He left on the price sticker.

“Right. A $400 impulse buy.” I laugh when he knocks the box out of my hands and kisses me to shut me up.

“How do I turn it on?” I ask. I flip the device every which way. No buttons, no switches. Nothing.

“You don’t.” He pulls my hair away from my neck, breathing his next words across my skin: “I do.”