Chapter 21

Gavin:

“I’m very disappointed in you, son,” Dr. Peterson chides as soon as Sam is out of the room.

I step forward. “I know, sir. I never intended to get involved with a student—“

“Yes,” he interrupts, “It was in very poor taste, especially one trying to use you for an easy A.”

Guilt slithers through me. That’s not what Sam was doing. At least, I don’t think it was. I shake my head. No, I’m positive she hadn’t just been using me for a grade. “Dr. Peterson, that’s not—“

“We’ve all made mistakes, son.” He sighs dramatically and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “This transgression won’t look good on your record, though.”

What is it with this man and not letting anyone else speak? “I know, sir. I’m sorry.”

He looks thoughtful for a moment, bringing his hand down to scratch at his salt-and-pepper beard. “But… You’ve never done anything like this before, in the two years you’ve been my TA. And clearly, she set her sights on you. I suppose it would only do more harm than good to note this officially. You do have a very promising career ahead of you. I’d hate to see it ruined by a girl.”

And that’s when it hits me, how differently he’s treating me versus Sam. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t like Sam specifically or if he has something against females in general. The twinge of guilt I’ve been harboring grows into something much harder to deny. But I don’t speak up. Just like I didn’t speak up when he was laying into Sam. Because I’m a selfish prick. And speaking up, means jeopardizing my own career.

The words are right there, right on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t make my mouth open, can’t make my throat put voice to the truth. I’m just as culpable as Sam. Maybe even more so because I am the teacher—student-teacher, granted, but still the teacher. It was my responsibility to be stalwart in the face of temptation.

Instead, I solidify my status as Asshole of the Year by saying, “Thank you, sir.”

Dr. Peterson nods at me and crosses the room to the bookshelf behind his desk. “I just came in for some reading material.” He grabs a few weathered-looking hardcovers and holds them up almost triumphantly. “I trust I can count on you to continue filling in without further incident?”

“You want me to keep teaching.” That was not what I expected.

“Of course. I can’t do it myself, and it’s a little late to find another replacement.”

I nod.

“And don’t worry about final grades for the girl. I’ll do that myself after the break.

I nod again, and I’m pretty sure a piece of my soul breaks off and floats away. Peterson tucks his books into his shiny, leather briefcase and heads for the door. I’ll be in for a few hours on the third. Let’s meet then to discuss your career path.”

Another nod and another chip in my soul. Much more of this and I’ll be a soulless bastard. Which is exactly what I’m already acting like.

Then Peterson is gone and I’m alone in the office. I feel emptier than the room, colder than the weather outside, like a bigger douche than Peterson himself.

I can’t shake the feeling that what I’m losing is so much more important than this teaching opportunity. Sure, I’ll have a track record of successful lecturing and the career opportunities that come from student-teaching for the department head, but at what cost? My pride; Sam’s feelings; a broken heart. More like two broken hearts.

I pack up and go in search of Sam. I check all the corners of Archer Hall, including asking a female student to check the women’s bathroom. The area outside is practically deserted with no sign of her either, and she’s not waiting by my truck when I get there. I whip out my phone and shoot off a text asking her if she left campus, but I suspect I already know the answer. I wait for almost an hour for her to respond, but no reply ever comes. Eventually, I give up and head home.

I know the second I walk through the door that I’ve screwed things up permanently. The curtain separating Sam’s alcove from the living room is drawn back and most of her things are gone. The bed is still there, but her clothes and boxes are missing. As if that wasn’t proof enough and I need more, I search the apartment for Poofie. He usually spends his time sunning himself in the kitchen window, or curled in the center of my bed, but he’s not in either place, and his litter box is no longer in the laundry closet.

Time to face the facts. Sam has moved out.

When Robby gets home a few hours later, he notices the difference immediately. “Where’d Sam go?” he asks as he sits down in the armchair closest to where I’m sitting on the couch.

“She left,” I answer. Not knowing what else to say. How do I tell my friend that I’ve secretly been screwing his cousin, until I broke her heart, and that’s why she moved out?

Robby eyes me curiously. “You two breakup?

My heart rate kicks up a notch, and the burn of shame lodges in my chest. “You know?”

“Please, I’m not an idiot.” Robby looks genuinely offended. “So what happened?”

I rest my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. “I fucked up.”

Robby sighs and stands up, heads for the hall while loosening his tie. “Guess you better fix it.” Then he disappears down the hall to change out of his work clothes.

“I wish I could,” I say to the empty room.

~

The rest of the week passes in a blur. Thanksgiving comes and goes. I don’t bother heading home to spend it with my family. I just sulk my way through it with a bottle of scotch—okay, two bottles of scotch. Sam isn’t in class the Monday after Thanksgiving break, but then again, Peterson did tell her he was failing her. I mark her there anyway. It’s the least I can do.

This is the final week before the end of the semester, and I’ve got a ton of papers to grade from both of the classes I’m covering, but I can’t get Sam out of my head long enough to focus. I didn’t realize how much I cared about her, how quickly I’ve fallen for her until I couldn’t be with her, until I had to hurt her to get what I wanted. What a piece of shit I am, I chastise myself, knowing it won’t make one bit of difference. The damage is done. Sam isn’t speaking to me. I’ve even tried texting a couple times, but the message status never changes from Delivered. She’s not even reading them.

After class, I dread the idea of going home to the empty apartment. The space feels wrong without Sam in it. So, instead, I gather last week’s papers that still need grading and my lecture prep for Tuesday and head for Peterson’s office to bury myself in the very work that’s keeping me from being with Sam.

I take the stairs to the second floor but hesitate when I get there. Suddenly the idea of going back into Peterson’s office has me rubbing at a sore spot in my chest, trying to scratch away the vacant feeling there. But I can’t avoid the room forever just because my strongest memory of it is of being wrapped around the most intriguing, adorable woman I’ve ever known, of holding her body against me, of setting her on the desk and pressing myself against her, into her.

Fuck.

I will away the memory of Sam’s body, her caress, her love, and square my shoulders. I approach the office with purpose and unlock the door, pull it open, and step into the dark room. It’s colder here than in the hallway, by several degrees. I hesitate a moment before turning on the light, letting my body acclimate before I bombard myself with visual stimuli too. Too much might send me running for the car.

You’re being ridiculous, man. It’s just an office. I mentally kick myself. Sam and I broke up. It’s not like she died. I’m acting like I’m never going to see her again. I flip the light on and blink against the sudden assault of fluorescence. Once my eyes have adjusted, I drop my papers and files onto the desktop and take a seat. Refusing to let myself sulk any longer, I pull out the papers that need grading and a pen and settle in for some reading.

The first several papers go slow as I try to refocus my brain away from thoughts of Sam, but eventually I fall into a rhythm and the grading starts to go faster. Two hours later, I’ve made it through thirty-two papers, more than half the stack. I might be able to get these all back to the students by this week instead of next like I planned. I’m in the zone, a lean mean grading machine.

Until I pick up Sam’s paper. The one she turned in the Monday before break. A full week before it was due. As soon as I read her name at the top of the page, all the other ink fades away until all I see is her poring tirelessly over her textbook and ancillary texts to really nail down her thesis statement and supporting arguments. She put so much work into this paper, into bringing her grade up, and now none of it matters. She’s going to fail the class because of me, because I couldn’t keep my hands off her. I refocus on the paper and pore over it, taking in all the details she painstakingly laid out defending her idea. The concept itself is graduate-level work, and her writing is beautiful: well thought out, organized, logical. Not only is this an A paper, it could be used as an exemplar for future classes. She deserves to pass this class.

For the second time that day, I’m struck by how shitty I’m acting. But unlike my relationship with Sam, maybe her grade in this class is salvageable. I may not be able to have her, but maybe I can at least do something to look out for her instead of myself in all of this. I pack up my things quickly and head out, locking the office behind me. I know exactly how to make this right. I just hope it works.