“My advice is to submit what you can. I know you’ve done the reading and am confident you can whip together a passing grade to avoid jeopardising your scholarship.”
Leaning forward, he reaches a hand across the desk. I don’t take it. Frozen on the spot I force my head to bounce a sharp nod. Acknowledging what he has said is one thing, processing it is another.
“You can stay here while you work.”
“No, thank you.” I need to get out. I can’t stand to be in the same room as him.
Screw university policy. Screw relationship boundaries. I needed him. Twice now. And both times he let me down. Spectacularly.
I have an hour to scramble 450 words together into something that resembles an essay. Storming my way out of his office to head back toward the library, I ignore the way his voice catches as he calls my name.
Never again,I promise myself as I blink away the tears that threaten to escape. This is what happens when I open myself up to counting on someone. And I will never do it again.
OLIVER
Darkness consumes my office. The assignment deadline is approaching, and with it a summer storm rolls across the sky. Dark clouds echo the heaviness in my mind.
I can’t sit still as I wait to see Madison’s assignment land in my inbox. Tossing a stress ball between my hands, I pace around the tiny office. At each corner, I kick the legs of my solid wood desk. My shoes are scuffed and my toes hurt, but I continue the self-inflicted torture.
With a minute to spare, the gentle ding of a new email sounds through my laptop. Noticing it’s not Madison’s submission, I throw the stress ball against the wall. It hits my framed doctorate certificate. Glass shatters, the sound only serving to fuel my anger further.
I’m not angry at Madison. How could I be? She did nothing wrong.
I’m angry at myself. For letting her down. For unwittingly showing her that she was right, that she can’t rely on anyone other than herself. I hate that my actions reinforced those feelings. When all I want is for them to be as far from the truth as possible. I hate that in her moment of need, I chose to follow the rules. I chose not to stretch them on compassionate grounds, regardless of our history.
When I took this job, I thought I could make a change. I thought I’d be different. But I’m not. I’m just another professor expecting perfection from my students. I’m not teaching them how to think creatively, how to make their passion shine. I’m teaching them to follow the rules, to step in line and stay in their lane. And it’s not what I wanted.
Another ding sounds, and I rush to check the screen.
From: Madison Fisher
Subject: Madison Fisher – Assignment 1 – Creative Non-Fiction
Reading the email subject, my heart squeezes. First at her name, and again as it acknowledges that she did it. I don’t even care if it’s three pages of dribble. She got the assignment in on time. Now I just need to find a way to make it up to her. To show her that I’m sorry.
Snatching my phone from my desk, I pull up her details and hit call.
The phone rings out, and I wonder if it means she doesn’t want to talk to me. Maybe I’m showing the age gap between us by calling instead of firing off a text. But short written exchanges have no tone, and I need to get these words right.
Oliver: I’m sorry for earlier. I’m sorry for a lot of things. Can I see you tonight?
My eyes widen at her response.
Madison: Don’t be sorry, you have a job to do. But there are some things we need to discuss. I can meet you at your place after dinner.
On the tram ride back to my townhouse, my shoes feel like concrete slabs, weighing me down. Saying sorry is never easy, but I’m dreading Madison’s reaction. Her message felt so cold. So clinical and formal. Not at all her usual upbeat self. I shouldn’t be surprised, after how I treated her. And I know I’m going to have a lot of grovelling to do.
Clearing my uneaten dinner off the plate, the pit in my stomach expands. My heart and lungs fall into its depths. Madison didn’t say what time she would be here, and waiting for her arrival feels like walking on a bed of nails.
Her knock at the door forces a sharp inhale. I choke on saliva as I make my way up the hall to let her in.
Standing on the doorstep in jeans and a simple tee, her black cardigan hangs open over her shoulders. I can’t help but notice her gentle curves. The way her shirt stretches, just a fraction, over her breasts, how her jeans hug her hips. I want to pull her into me, to sink my teeth into her flesh and mark her as mine. But seeing the look on her face, I hold myself back.
She’s been crying. Her eyes are puffy and swollen, and salty marks line her cheeks where her tears have dried. Tiny creases form between her brows, and her lower lip is covered in red marks from her teeth. My throat closes. Knives form in the pit inside my stomach, piercing me from the inside out. I made her feel that way.
“Come here,” I whisper, reaching out to guide her inside.
“No.”
