My mouth drops open. I squeeze my legs together in a failed attempt to relieve some of the tension that sparks. The last thing I want to do is leave after a comment like that. I drop my bag where I stand by the door and take two measured steps towards the desk.
Oliver growls, turning back into the room.
A knock sounds at the door, and we both jump at the sudden interruption.
“Professor Fraser?” I recognise the voice, the grouchy kid from the library.
Oliver clears his throat before responding for the student to enter. When the door opens, I take my cue to leave, reminded again why campus is out of bounds for Oliver and me.
MADISON
Weeks pass in a blur. Wednesdays are the hardest. Sitting, listening to his lecture. Trying not to imagine climbing over the chairs to fall into his arms behind the podium. Trying not to think about the look on his face when I drop to my knees in front of him.
Oliver and I haven’t spoken since we found out he was my advisor. Despite the way both of us long for something more, neither of us has reached out to do something about it. Every time I start to type a message, fear freezes my fingers. If he wanted to see me like that, he’d reach out to me. But why would he?
Compared to him … who am I?
He’s a professional. Published in at least seven languages, his books are on every bookstore shelf. They’re in every library and I’ve even seen one in an airport. He has had the kind of success I could only dream about, and to top it all off he completed a doctorate to become a professor.
I doubt a man like that would fall for a woman like me. A wannabe with nothing but a casual retail job and a stack of stories that never make it past the first draft. I was just a fling to him. A fling he still finds unbearably attractive, maybe, but just a fling.
It hurts, forcing myself to think this way. But it’s better than the hope I feel every Wednesday when I walk into his lecture. When I see the way his eyes linger on me, soaking in every inch of skin while he addresses the class. I bite the inside of my cheek and hold back the goofy smile that fights to escape.
It feels good to be looked at by him. But I hate the way he does nothing about it. My skin crawls as each lecture drags. A million fire ants marching all over me, biting down when the lecture ends and he packs his things, leaving without a hint of a goodbye. It makes me wonder what changed. Did he meet someone else? Someone in his league, or at the very least someone less forbidden. Or did the grumpy library boy suspect something and make a comment? Or worse, did he make a complaint?
Not knowing what happened is a world of confusion and hurt. And I hate myself for finally opening my heart up to someone when I knew it was doomed from the start.
A cool breeze leaves goosebumps on my legs as I walk to the pizza store near my apartment. My new boots rub against my ankles. I push through the pain of oncoming blisters, wishing I wore thicker socks. It’s too late now, but the pain will remind me to change them when I get home.
If I decide to go out, that is. According to the flyer, the Student Union Mixer is the biggest event of the semester. I don’t care much for mingling, but the open bar for just twenty dollars entry sounds appealing. After the past few weeks spent wallowing, a night out could be just what I need.
Some of the people I’ve met in my classes will be there, and I know I should make an effort to make friends. With my sister gone, and Oliver AWOL, I have no one to turn to. So, I guess I’ll be going to the mixer after all. As soon as I eat a family sized pizza to myself and change my socks.
The pizzeria is packed when I walk in. Every table is surrounded by customers, and the extra benches are overflowing as dozens of people wait for their food. I order my pizza and join the crowd, squeezing myself onto a bench as soon as there is room.
“… barbeque chicken …”
No matter how much I’m trying to ignore the noise inside the pizzeria, I can’t help but pinpoint his voice. He is facing the counter, but there is no denying that’s Oliver. I should have known he’d be here. After all, it was his favourite pizza shop before it was mine.
I pull my overgrown bangs over my face and stare down at my lap, trying not to be noticed. But when white sneakers step into my line of sight I know I’ve been spotted.
My eyes trail their way up his body. Grey sweats. Of course, he has to be wearing grey sweats. And of course, I have to be sitting while he stands over me. The bulge in his pants is inches from my face.
I pull my lips into my mouth as I remember how he tasted. How he felt buried deep inside me. My cheeks burn at the memory.
In the sliver of space I occupy, I attempt to search the room. I’m cautious of wandering eyes, but mostly checking there is no one from the university around.
“No one will be here, it’s too far from campus.”
Oliver reaches out to tuck my bangs behind my ears. His thumb lingers on my cheek, brushing over my lips.
The woman sitting next to me stands. Whether it’s because she can sense the friction between Oliver and I, or because her order was called, I don’t know. She leaves a tiny spot on the bench, too small for Oliver to sit down, so I move across, away from the old man on my right.
Oliver has other plans. He picks me up, turns me around, then sits down in my spot. Pulling me onto his lap, I wiggle as I fix my dress and feel his length stiffen. It presses against my core, the thin fabrics between us feeling like too much and not enough all at once.
“Student Union Mixer?”
I nod, refusing to turn around, unable to face him. “After I eat.”
