by Elena Monroe
Here. I’ll be in the corner spot, where we met.
Are you running late?
You opened up, and now you’re blowing me off? Seems like we’ve been there, done that.
I can’t believe you, Oliver. I’m such an idiot.
I had never raced to my car so fast. I barely sat down before my fingers helped the keys turn the engine. My heart was racing inside my chest, and my mind kept praying she was still there waiting. I didn’t have time to text her back; my only focus was getting there before she gave up on me.
She didn’t have a car as a freshman, so I couldn’t look for her easily; I had to go inside. I had to face embarrassment and pain if she wasn’t there.
I scanned the coffee shop, searching for her face, but I was coming up empty. I walked over to the counter to the same barista who constantly yelled at me for the cigarette I twirled between my fingers when I was bored.
My anxiety translated to me barking at him, “Have you seen my girl, Layla?”
The barista, Kyle, didn’t look amused, having to talk to me directly. “The cup-o-death girl you’re always with? She was here like 20 minutes ago.”
I could feel all my organs seize up, in compliance together to stop working simultaneously. That wasn’t even the worst part. I felt the thud of my heart dropping from the weight of the ache. My chest felt empty and hollow suddenly.
I pulled my phone out to text her, but my fingers stilled, not sure what I could even say to fix this. I stood there, in the busy coffee shop, unable to move, as I kept staring at the text messages she sent as final warnings.
I typed: I got held up. I’m sorry.
I hoped the sorry was enough, but the three dots fading in and out kept vanishing, until they stopped appearing all together.
Today was the day I gave up substances, trying to imitate Layla and give in to the real thing—no matter how much that felt more dangerous than the chances of overdosing again.
How can something die inside you, before it has the chance to get out?
It was all I could think about, waiting for Oliver, like some lovesick idiot. The same anxiety and nausea bubbled up inside of me just thinking about it. I barely drank my coffee on my way to lecture; I didn’t want to poor accelerant on top of my already shaken nerves.
Lecture. With Oliver.
I wanted to skip, but it was the first day of classes since holiday break, and I was looking forward to it. I wasn’t even sulking about the cold temperature outside just because it wasn’t Florida. The excitement for routines again trumped everything.
I was early, like normal, and the class was empty. No Oliver in sight either. I almost wished he was on time for a change, so we could get past this moment and my lungs could fully expand with air again.
I walked to the front row, making sure I wouldn’t be caught on the risers or trapped from making a quick getaway when class was over. I chewed on the end of a pen that didn’t write, watching the door, until I heard footsteps and immediately looked down.
20 minutes later, the tribe of girls came pouring in, all trying to occupy the first few rows. He was the single reason girls were actually doing the required reading.
It reminded me of the posters in the library back home of celebrities holding their favorite books in order to inspire more reading. Who knew that all they needed was Oliver all along. I laughed to myself. He was a hero for books—an unlikely hero…
Oliver showed up to class 10 minutes later than everyone else. He looked disheveled, more than normal, wearing a t-shirt with rips and a cardigan between the thin of his shirt’s material and a leather jacket. I wanted to look away, but my eyes were glued to his every move. I wanted him to see me and feel shame for the mess I was.
He sat there on the edge of the desk, instead of the worn in leather chair, just staring at our eagerness. It felt like minutes had passed before he spoke.
“Who here has been in love?” he asked.
Every girl raised their hand, hoping it was what he wanted to hear. “No, not that bullshit, filled with happiness and zero problems. I’m talking about tortured love. The kind you can’t run away from. The kind that makes you do stupid shit. The kind taunts you years later, when you’re married and the butterflies have faded. Who’s been in that kind of love?”
Most of the hands went down. Only a few remained up in the air proudly. I didn’t bother to participate. He couldn’t just ask a question during lecture and expect answers from me.
The silence was broken by a brave girl who asked, “Have you ever been in love like that?”
He didn’t embellish at all, “Yes.” He looked directly at me, and I felt the red heat in my cheeks spread.
He asked another question, “What stops us from being in love? Age? Differences? Peer pressure? The desire to be free instead?”
One girl said, “Maybe it’s taboo or not allowed.”
He smirked at her answer, probably fully aware she meant a teacher/student relationship. He wrote on the board, “Alice in Wonderland”. I already re-read it over break, dissecting each metaphor in preparation. He leaned against the desk again, picking up the old fragile copy he had of the story.
I looked at his fingers teasing the binding, and I felt myself swallow, remembering exactly what that felt like to be teased by him. His lips would drag along my skin, releasing his heavy breath against me, making me feel even hotter. He would fight the urge to moan, but when he finally did, it acted as a motivator spurring me on to hear more.
I swallowed again, trying to push away my memories, trying to participate in my imagination. I felt my skin prick with goosebumps and my legs rub together, trying to relieve something that hadn’t been satisfied since before break.
It wasn’t any use; Oliver could make me instantly wet, despite fighting it.
I heard my name close to me, pulling me from my lust, and I said, “Huh?” too quickly. We made eye contact, and I felt myself get more wet. He looked at me, like he knew I was wet, even though that was impossible.
“Do you have any thoughts on the author’s forbidden love for the subject?”
I was annoyed with his take on the story and partially annoyed with him interrupting my thoughts. My voice was filled with snark: “It’s not a love story, Ol—” I cut myself off before I said his name. He wasn’t my Oliver here; he was my instructor that I should only know by last name.
He adjusted himself, crossing his legs at the ankle, drawing attention to his long legs and how snug his jeans were at the crotch. I almost lost my train of thought, as my eyes racked up him.
He asked me, “Why isn’t it?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because not everything is a love story. The author was sick and deranged. He was obsessed with a young girl, not of age, and wrote a story for her in whatever sick hope he had.”
“Because of the age, you don’t believe it could have been real love? Because you don’t agree? Would it have been more romantic if he wrote this story, waited until she was of age, and fell in love?”
My eyes shut slightly in annoyance. “She’s not of the age to know how to return feelings like that, but he was old enough to know how wrong it was.”
I watched the smirk spread across his face, during our debate. “So if it’s not a traditional love, it doesn’t count as love?”
It took me a moment to navigate if he was still talking about the book’s creepy backstory or not.
“Love doesn’t have to be romantic. Sometimes it falls short and ends up just a great moment of weakness, infatuation, or lust. There are many different types of love, and maybe everyone isn’t cut out for it.”
He looked at me, like he lusted for arguing. “Maybe it just takes other’s longer to define what love is to them and how to be in love.”
I wanted to get up and walk out. I had enough of this duel conversation—one only ours and the other the room full of students heard. He must have seen the anger growing inside of me, because he stood up and focused his attention on the class instead.
“Use this time to write 2,000 words on what love is, if love has boundaries or limits, and how we make allowances for love to fit our definition.”
I wanted to hate him for ending things when I was falling for him.
I wanted to hate him for making me desire him.
I wanted to hate him for blowing me off at the coffee shop last night.
I wanted to hate him for his talent in creating inspiring lectures.
But, in this moment. all I felt was lust and respect. I felt betrayed by my body in a very different way—not for being inactive, but for actively reacting to him. I started to write my paper, distracting myself easily from his presence, until he announced class was over. He sat at his desk, actually in the chair this time, when he called for me to stay back. The girls getting up to leave cooed, like I was in trouble, but the jealousy seeped through their tone.
Defeated, I stopped packing up my things; there was no quick getaway anymore. I was caught. I couldn’t look like some love-scorned woman, when I was just his student between these four walls.
He waited for the heavy door to slam shut, before he walked around the desk to bridge the gap between us, as he leaned against the desk. “I said I was sorry. I didn’t expect to get trapped in the frat house.”
I kept my gaze low, not wanting to see his expression or how genuine or not he was being.
“Okay, can I go now?”
He took his hands out of his pockets and folded them against himself. I could see his desire to be cruel growing with each strained movement. He didn’t like being vulnerable and rejected—neither did I.
“You aren’t a hostage, Layla.”
I rolled my eyes at his comment, only making him more angry as he stood up straight. “You think I wanted to spill out how I felt after 19 years of practicing control just to blow you off making my confession pointless? Ask Caden. I destroyed everything in my path when I got home from the coffee shop.”
I picked up my books and my bag, hoping I wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation much longer. “Glad to see you kept being destructive.”
I could see him actively practicing restraint, even with my short tone poking him to lash out. He didn’t have a long fuse to begin with. He walked towards me, only my books cradled in my arms kept our bodies from touching. I sucked in any air I could hoping that meant I could stop breathing for a minute until I adjusted to his presence. My senses were assaulted with his scent and the warmth radiating from him. His lips parted, like he wanted to say something. His eyes were bright—the opposite of his outlook on life.
“Is this payback for yesterday? You purposely pissing me off?”
I swallowed hard again and shook my head no. This was the new me, unafraid of my own voice.
He leaned into me, whispering into my ear, “For the record, it’s not destructive. It’s protective when I refuse to share you, Layla.”
I felt my voice catch in my throat, “I already told you nothing happened.”
His fingers dancing across my skin pushing my hair back away from my neck exposing the marks Hunter left behind. I could feel his breath against my neck, and I stayed as still as possible, memorizing this for my collection.
He kissed my collarbone lightly, leaning into me further, and letting his lips linger. “This doesn’t look like nothing, Layla.”
I felt the invisible goosebumps creep up my spine, trying to convince me to close my eyes and take in the sensation deeper. The smallest actions of his had enormous effects on me. I was reacting when I was supposed to stay strong.
He was stronger.
“Are you jealous, Oliver?”
Just pushing out those words made me ache between my legs. My clit pulsed, and all I could do was bite my lip harder, as a distraction from the desire. His hand finally touched me, sliding against my jeans until his hand was between my ass and the lowest part of my back, pushing me into him. I could feel his crotch pushed against my hip, the stiffness between our bodies only made me more wet. My books crushed against his chest, but he didn’t complain.
I felt out of control, and it didn’t feel familiar anymore. I felt just as nervous as the first time he ever touched me.
“Don’t play dumb. It’s not who you are,” he whispered against my neck.
He was right. I wasn’t the girl to play dumb, and I was too smart to ask an obvious question. My senses were overloaded, and my ability to overthink was paused when he was this close to me. Nothing else sprung to mind but jealousy.
I had a thermal shirt on, with buttons down the front, and I watched his fingers tugged gently on my shirt releasing the thin round buttons from the fabric. My thin, flimsy bra was exposed as my shirt transformed into a deep V instead of the modest one I left the dorm in.
I waited for him to touch me, but he only looked down at my exposed chest. In a low voice, he whispered against my neck, “I want you to forgive me.”
I wanted to. In this moment, I wanted to forgive him… and fuck him. I felt weak, but wasn’t sex power for women? Or was only without what made us powerful?
I stayed strong, barely choking out, “Oliver. We can’t just have sex. You sent that text message, and we never talked about it—any of it.”
He groaned against me before standing up straighter, and the distance grew with every pang of vulnerability he felt. “What about the message, Layla?”
I felt put on the spot when my mind was still paused and my body still tingled and ached for him. Now I had to commit to having this conversation. My heavy books dropped from my arms, and I set them on the desk next to me. Oliver resumed his favorite perched position, while I fumbled for the words.
“You said all that stuff... it needs to exist out here… not just in a text message.”
He broke eye contact to pick up his stuff, shoving it in his bag, before he reached for my hand. “We aren’t doing this here. Let’s go.”
I was thankfully he was aware of our surroundings because I sure as hell wasn’t after he invaded my bubble of personal space. His hand felt warm, pulling me along behind him, neither of us caring who saw. I stopped in front of his car, taking it in. Everything was familiar and new all over again.
Is this the allure in serial breaking up and making up for couples? The desire to recapture the newness? How tempting the “make up” was?
The leather was cold against my legs, as I watched him get settled before starting the car. I didn’t ask where we were going, and the only place with privacy was his. The coffee shop normally meant running into at least one or more of his friends. And my dorm threatened the possibility of Elizabeth or someone hearing us through the walls.
The sound of the gravel against his tires wasn’t distracting enough, as the pressure on my chest mounted. In order to move past this, I needed to talk everything out—to understand, to communicate. I was a typical women in this sense: wanting everything males weren’t prone to do.
His place seemed stuffy, like no new air had entered the space in a while. He opened a window, after he dropped his bag on the kitchen counter and I followed suit. When he started up the stairs is when I paused. He must have known, because he shouted, “Are you coming?”
Everything about his room was only familiar, not new. We basically lived here, together, up until I left. It was easier than I thought—easier than romantic comedies made it out to be. It was like a choreographed dance, with neither of us colliding or fighting to lead. We both had routines that played out alongside each other.
Every memory flooded my head—every routine, every touch…
I sat down on his bed, trying to force myself back into the headspace that wanted answers. The desire kept getting pushed away by another desire—one I couldn’t forget when my panties were still uncomfortably wet.
Oliver pushed off his sweater and shoes, while my eyes stayed glued to him. Next, his worn in shirt came off and fell to the floor. My eyes scanned over every inch of his body. Something was different, but I didn’t know what.
/> “What are you doing?” I asked him, convinced he wouldn’t bothering to answer.
He smirked at me, shirtless and just as attractive as if nothing went wrong between us. He laid down against his pillow purposely on display, torturing me. “Getting comfortable. Do you wanna get comfortable, Layla?”
I swallowed hard, removing my sweater, when I suddenly felt overheated just staring at him. I raised my eyebrows. “Start talking.”
He sighed a labored exhale. “Which part is confusing or intriguing you? The you terrify me? The fact that I feel this after months of fighting it? Or the destroying myself part?”
The last part scared me. I wanted to ask, but I knew that whatever he said would be followed by sympathy that I couldn’t control. Sympathy was really just a poor man’s forgiveness in this scenario. I sat facing him on his big bed with my legs folded up, looking all too eager. “All of it.”
He looked up at me from a low gaze. “That’s what I figured.” He paused and looked like he was pondering his responses, instead of his unusually unfiltered ones. “I tried to fight it: whatever this feeling is, for the whole time you were gone. It’s scares the fuck out of me that it won’t go away no matter what I’ve tried, no matter what I do.”
I felt blown over by his honesty. He didn’t seem timid or embarrassed. Instead, he seem so matter-of-fact, like rattling off the time or weather. I was scared to ask anything in the chance he’d close up again, but I asked one last question anyways: “And destroying yourself…”
He looked suddenly tense in comparison to his last confession. He only nodded in a dramatically slow fashion. I moved closer to him, leaning against the same pillows breaking eye contact. He was being so honest; it was the only sense of privacy I could give him in this moment.
“…you promise that doesn’t mean Jade or Elizabeth or anyone else?”
His cruelty showed through his words. “Did I leave hickies on anyone?”
His body shifted quickly—too quickly to register a reaction. He leaned over my body between my legs. He left space between our bodies as an invisible boundary. “No, Layla, I haven’t had sex since you left. I haven’t even kissed anyone else. In case you missed it: I just told you I’m in love with you.”
