Linda
For a moment, I’m stunned. The words on the screen don’t make any sense.
So now I’m doing something I swore I’d never do. I’m checking Hannah’s files to find the master list of class ID numbers. This is a document I thought I’d never touch. It’s a comprehensive list of all of our students and it includes both their Bainbridge-issued ID, as well as the class-issued one. Psych of Sexuality relies heavily on anonymity. That’s part of why the class works so well, and the students are so free with their comments. I know their names in class, but I have no idea who Jeremy, the kid in front of me with the backwards ballcap, really is. Is he student 45R7G81, who told me in a recent journal entry that they feel an unexpected attraction to their roommate and they don’t know what to do about it? Is he student 61Y4M99, who told me they first became sexually active at age 13 when they exchanged a blowjob for alcohol in their basement?
The beauty of it is that I don’t know. I’m not supposed to know. I have no clue which entries and assignments are Booker’s, and for good reason. And yet, if this email isn’t some elaborate April Fool’s joke, then I haven’t been reading Booker’s assignments for at least two solid weeks.
I type in the necessary information in the search and in a second, a number appears on the screen.
Zabek, Booker E. BUID: 3489721 Pysch of Sex Student #33J5T77
I copy the number and paste it into another search. Zip. Nada. Zilch.
The email is right. As of sixteen days ago, Booker Zabek is no longer a student in Hannah’s class.
And I can read between the lines enough to deduce that his dad got wind of the curriculum and pulled him. I can’t say I’m shocked, based on everything I’ve heard about Booker’s dad. I can even understand why Booker didn’t volunteer that information. It had to be embarrassing on some level. In my opinion, he’s too old for his parents to be deciding what he can read and what he can talk about. But still, I get it. His dad seems to rule with an iron fist, and I have no doubt that what he says goes.
What I can’t figure out, though, is this: if Booker was officially withdrawn over two weeks ago, why is he still attending class?
It’s a question without an answer, and that’s just not acceptable. For as much as I’m a people-pleaser, as much as I’ll bend over backwards for someone while simultaneously walking across hot coals for someone else, one thing I won’t do is shy away from a conflict.
If I have a question, I’m going to ask it. And Booker Zabek better damn well answer it.
Ten minutes later, I find myself ringing the bell at The Chapel. Booker’s here, or at least his car is, although it’s certainly plausible he jogged to campus just to exercise. But he’s at home. I know it. I can almost feel it, as strange as that sounds.
It’s crazy, but it’s always been that way. I’ve known it since we stood in this very driveway months ago. Phoebe’s world had just come crashing down, courtesy of Ty’s family, and Booker was running interference. He texted an SOS, and I came as fast as I could. We stood here, on the pavement, and even during all that chaos, I felt a connection between us. He put his arm on mine, confided in me, trusted me, and from that moment on, we’ve been tethered to each other. It’s like we’re on the same wavelength. I can always sense when he’s in the same room, the same way I can tell when he’s distressed. And right now, my spidey senses are on full alert.
Maybe that’s why this betrayal, this lie, cuts so deep. Mel’s right and I’d be a fool to deny it: I’ve been crushing on Booker for months. But, for many reasons, that’s not something I’ve been able to explore. Even still, we’ve been friends, Booker and I. Good friends, or so I thought. If that’s the case, what’s with all the secrecy?
I press the bell one final time, resigning myself to the hard truth that I’m not going to get any answers, at least not today.
But just then, the door opens, and Booker’s standing in the frame, tall, strong, beautiful, and shirtless. Because of course he is. He also looks totally wrecked. His eyes are tired, and he looks like he hasn’t slept or had a proper meal today.
“Ian? Hey, what’s up?”
I should go easy on him, I know that. I should be gentle and kind. I should listen. But I’m so damn mad and hurt, that I’m in the mood to be an asshole. “Everybody left for Florida?” I ask.
“Um, yeah, they left yesterday. Here, come on in, you must be cold.”
I step inside and shrug out of my coat. We walk into the kitchen and Booker offers me a glass of water, which I accept. An uncomfortable silence settles between us and now all those awkward moments at the coffee shop make sense. He didn't suddenly develop an insatiable desire for chamomile tea. He was trying to figure out how to come clean. But why couldn’t he trust me?
I take a seat at the counter, while Booker paces around the kitchen, looking for something to keep his hands busy.
“You didn’t go along? I thought you had a couple days off?”
He nods. “True, but there’s always stuff to do, you know how it is.”
“I do,” I say, my voice conveying a calmness I don’t feel. “I get that. You’re probably studying, catching up.”
“Yeah, something like that.” He won’t look at me, and God, maybe that’s the final straw. That’s the thing I just can’t handle.
“What the hell, Booker?” I ask, frustration coursing through every word. “Were you just going to keep showing up? Keep pretending?”
He scoffs and finally—fucking finally—looks me in the eye. “Yeah, actually. Turns out I’m really good at pretending.”
“What's that even supposed to mean?”
“You’re the smart one, professor. Surely you know what it means.”
