by Ivy Collins
His eyes unfocus for a second, and I know he’s now imagining that scenario with relish. “You should absolutely do that, Sophie,” he sighs. “After I’ve turned in your final grades, of course.”
I roll my eyes at him, and grab my coffee. “You’re impossible to shame,” I mutter. Much as I wish I could, I can’t quite keep the admiration from my voice, though. I’m beginning to wish I was a little more like him and a little less like me, when it comes to shame.
I do go pull out my laptop and bring up my notes, however. It’s not like I was slacking off in class before, but I’m especially determined to ace my exam now. I can’t imagine the awful embarrassment I’d feel if I failed, after all those compliments to my intelligence.
When I get dressed and grab my keys to leave for the university, I leave a little limerick about bubble sorts scribbled on the edge of one of his notepads.
9
Elijah
I’m still thinking about that conversation with Sophie, even after I’ve run through my emails and answered a few student questions. Every time I think I’m done working out implications, I find another interesting connection.
Sophie is exactly the sort of woman who normally falls prey to abuse. She’s already isolated from her family, with very few resources to her name. The more I think about it, the more shocked I am that she convinced herself to leave such an awful relationship when she did. I suppose it helps that she’d just had practice cutting ties with one overbearing man and figuring things out on her own.
The very last thing I want to do is continue that pattern with her. The idea that I might be taking advantage of her vulnerable state bothers me. I do want to help her—in fact, I’m more interested in helping her than I am in teaching, in this start-up lab, even in the side-projects that have been carefully waiting for my attention again, once I’m done with this teaching job.
But every time I do something even halfway considerate for her, she looks at me as though I’m some sort of superhero. As lovely as that is for my ego, it’s just not right. Most of what I’ve done for her ought to be simple baseline humanity. I want to believe I would have picked her up off the floor and helped her with her living situation either way, even if I wasn’t already attracted to her. Granted, I certainly wouldn’t have tied her up and had my way with her, but I might have found her some other, less explicit way to unwind her stress.
It bothers me that she might end up attached to me just because I’m not utterly awful to her. She could probably find not-awful in some man her own age, who’s never been in a position of power over her at all.
“Oh, listen to yourself,” I mutter, as I shut down my laptop and start packing up my things. I’ve just finished convincing Sophie that she’s got worth, even if she can’t immediately see it. I’ve never had trouble going after what I want before, even if I wasn’t strictly certain I deserved it. I know I want this woman in my life. And I know I intend to treat her well. Sophie won’t ever need to wonder what she’s missing out on; I’ll make sure she’s got plenty of affection, and witty conversation, and mind-blowing sex to keep her content.
I blink as I pass the coffee table in the living room. The pad of paper I gave Sophie to write down Linda’s instructions is out; there’s something scribbled in large, curly script on the front page.
“Discrete items all in a bundle.
You might say that they’re each in their bubble.
We go through and swap,
Put the lower on top;
But don’t use this on any real puzzle.”
I stare at the limerick for a good long while. There’s a little bubble sort implementation beneath it, with each pass clearly shown in-order. At the very bottom is a little hand-drawn heart, as though I’ve just read a love letter.
A sudden, bewildering thought occurs to me as I read the silly poem again.
“I’m fairly sure I love this woman,” I declare to the empty room.
I tear off the poem and fold it up, shoving it into my pocket. It leaves a broad smile on my face, all the way to the university.
SOPHIE
I imagine I can feel the other students staring at me as I sit down in the lecture hall and wait. They’re not actually staring at me—I know that. But my brain is wired, and I feel like a guilty criminal hiding a secret. Which is stupid. I know Elijah isn’t the sort to go easy on me. If anything, he’ll probably grade me harder, just to compensate for any bias he has.
“Hey,” says my classmate Gina, from my other side. I jump, and look over at her with wide eyes, and she snorts at my reaction. “I had to miss the review. Work called me in at the last minute. Did Professor Oliver go over binary search trees?”
I nearly choke on my laughter. “Oh,” I wheeze. “Uh. In a way. Boy, have I got a mnemonic for you.” I write out my first limerick for her, and we both devolve into childish snickers for a bit.
Elijah heads into class a few minutes later, and I find myself in the utterly surreal position of seeing him at the front of class again. Before, I realize, my brain always put a subtle mental separation between us. As much as we interacted, as much as I sometimes fantasized about him, I still did my best not to think of him as a normal human being with a whole life of his own. Now that I know him better, I don’t have that separation. I don’t respect him just because he’s standing at the front of class. I respect him because he’s smart, and funny, and oddly generous to the people around him.
His eyes sweep over me, and he smiles. It’s that softer, more genuine smile—the one he never uses here. I look down at my bag, blushing furiously. I could look at that smile all day.
Next to me, Gina heaves a tiny sigh. “Oh, I’m gonna miss him next semester,” she mumbles to me, as the tests start filtering up toward us. “I think I’ve got three old balding guys running my next classes. Not a single nice accent among them. Hey, do you think if I bombed the test, I could retake this class?”
A surge of confused, uncomfortable jealousy runs through me, even though I know she’s joking. I have to swallow down my irrational reaction before I respond. “That depends,” I say. “Do you want to sell your first-born child for an extra class worth of tuition?”
Gina shakes her head mournfully. “Sometimes I wish I could,” she says. “But I’m told people frown on slavery these days, even if your kid does draw all over the walls with magic marker.”
“You can discuss your black market dealings after the exam is over, ladies,” Elijah says from the aisle next to us. I look up, and see him standing next to our row. He smiles again. “Best of luck,” he says. He winks, and heads back down toward the desk below.
Oh, lord. I’m sure that was meant for me, but now I’m definitely distracted.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Gina says faintly next to me. “I think I can die a happy woman now. Did he just wink at me?”
“Oh yes,” I mumble, staring down at the exam that’s just filtered up toward me. “Definitely at you.”
My brain is now swimming with images of Elijah kissing my breasts, working his way down between my legs. I remember the way he breathed my name as he fucked me. I remember the command he gave me last night.
“Say thank you for making me come, professor.”
I am suddenly very uncomfortable at my desk. I have to cross my legs and take a few steadying breaths.
I open the first page and let out a sigh of relief as I see the questions there. I am well-prepared for this exam. That’s good, because I can’t imagine what I’d do if I had to concentrate right now.
I shove away all those admittedly-very-pleasant thoughts, and do my best to get to work.
I’m not the first to finish the exam—I think that’s fair, given my unexpected handicap. But I’m still one of the first. I give my answers another considering once-over, wondering if I’ve missed anything, if I ran through it too fast. But everything feels very straightforward, and I can’t find any errors. Finally, I push to my feet and walk down the aisle to drop my completed exam on his
desk.
Elijah looks up at me, and this time he smirks in that way I’m more used to seeing. “Already done, Miss Eddings?” he asks.
“Quite done,” I tell him.
He leans back in his chair. “Well. It’s been an honor to teach you.” His green eyes flicker with mirth. “This is where you say thank you, professor,” he teases.
My whole body heats up at the words. My mouth drops open just a little bit. I can see in his expression that he knows exactly what he’s just done to me.
I narrow my eyes, and lean over the desk toward him.
“Thank you, professor,” I whisper breathily, just quiet enough for him to hear. I use the exact same tone from the bedroom, utterly shameless in my intonation.
The smirk fades slowly from his face, and I know I’ve just evened the score. He’ll be thinking about that breathy tone for the rest of this interminable exam—while I’m perfectly free to leave and do what I want with the rest of the evening.
And I do. I flounce away victoriously, with a vengeful little smile on my lips.
I type an innocent text message to Elijah not long after I leave the classroom.
SOPHIE: Dinner later?
My phone dings softly with a response, only a few seconds later.
ELIJAH: That was cruel. And yes. I’ll meet you at the cafe.
I grin at the screen. Already, I feel more free. My semester is over. My legal case is being handled. The boyfriend of my dreams will be sitting down to dinner with me soon. I’m hopeful that winter break will give me just enough breathing room to go find another apartment and get things back on track. All I have to do is last one more semester, and then I can search out a halfway-decent job in the tech sector with my shiny new degree.
For years, I’ve convinced myself to get up each morning and keep going by promising myself that things will get better. But this is the first time I really, truly feel like it might be the truth.
I head out into the parking lot, searching out my car in the darkness. I hit the button on my keychain, and a light blinks to my right, reminding me that I parked near the far end.
Someone grabs my arm from behind. I shriek in surprise, and try to pull free, but they’ve got me in a vice-like grip.
I know the hand on my arm.
“Sophie.”
The simple sound of my name brings everything crashing straight down.
Jordan is standing behind me, with his fingers holding me tight. He’s still as tall as I remember—but also somehow smaller, as I subconsciously compare him to Elijah and realize he’s a few inches shorter. Jordan’s dark hair is clean-cut, and he’s wearing a nice long-sleeve shirt and jeans—but his eyes are bloodshot and unfocused, and I know he’s either been drinking or else he’s freshly hung-over.
Fear jumps into my throat. I’m in a dark parking lot. This is the latest class period in the day, and I’ve finished my exam far too early. The chances that anyone is likely to come outside in the next few minutes are slim to none.
“I want to talk,” Jordan tells me. There’s a slight slur to his words, but not so that most people would notice. He’s always had that golden-boy look to him that convinces people he’s harmless and charming. Just one of the boys.
“I don’t want to talk right now,” I tell him, as calmly as I can manage. The last thing I want is to set him off by being too harsh, but I can’t afford to give him an inch, either. “I don’t even know how you knew I’d be here.”
He doesn’t answer to that—he never does. I know he weasels information out of my friends, my classmates, my professors. But I never know which ones. “We’re hitting the bar tonight, Sophie. I want you to come. I’ll buy you a drink. You’re done with exams, right?”
I suck in my breath. He’s started off with the reasonable tone. It always starts there. The more I refuse him though, the less reasonable things will become. “I have work,” I lie. “I can’t just go off with you, even if I wanted to.”
Jordan frowns darkly, and I know I’ve already made some kind of mistake. “Your restaurant closes in like an hour,” he says. He jerks me back by the arm, and I hiss in pain. “You know what? This is exactly why we broke up, Soph. You just lie all the goddamn time, whenever it’s convenient for you.”
“And you only ever hear what you want to hear!” I snap at him, before I can stop myself. “I’ve tried every which way to explain to you that I can’t deal with you like this, Jordan. But maybe the alcohol’s killed all the brain cells you use to hold onto long-term memories.”
He grabs my other arm, and a surge of fear rushes through me. I know I shouldn’t be yelling back, escalating things. I know it. But I’m scared, and my mouth is running away with me again, trying to prove I can stand up for myself.
“God, you fucking bitch!” he growls. “You know what? I came here to try and be nice, and try to work things out. But you’ve just always gotta dig.” His voice is rising now. He’s properly angry. “Every time, every time. I try to be nice, and you treat me like shit!”
I can feel the tension ratcheting up again. It’s this—this awful, gut-punch feeling—that made me run the first time. His grip is painful. I’m going to have bruises on my arms later. My instincts scream that he’s going to lose control and hit me soon.
So I slam my knee between his legs.
I strike paydirt. He chokes on his next words, barely able to speak. I don’t waste time—I run past him for the building I’ve just left, sprinting shamelessly for the door.
I make it inside, my chest heaving. The halls are empty though; there aren’t many classes in this timeslot, and everyone who is here is taking their exams. Elijah’s classroom is almost on the other side of the building; I need to find someone closer, if at all possible. I wrench open doors as I go, searching for one that’s unlocked, safely occupied. Most of them don’t even open.
But one of them does... and I stare inside, struck by realization.
There’s a small class inside, with their heads dutifully down, working against a timer. The professor at the front of the class is tall, well-muscled, steel-haired. I just finished her final exam three days ago.
Professor Winslow.
I push my way through the door, ignoring the dirty looks I get from the people still taking their exams. Professor Winslow looks up at me, and immediately frowns. Something about my posture or my manner must have set off her instincts, because she strides up to meet me surprisingly quickly.
“Sophie,” she says, in a calm, direct voice. “What’s going on?”
My mouth opens. Closes. I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel frozen to the spot. I know the situation is serious. I know I should tell her exactly what’s happening. But the last time I tried to explain things to a cop, I got asked if I’d been hit.
I didn’t let him hit me. I left again, before he could hit me. I’ve fucked up, I can’t ask for help—
“You’re predisposed to avoid asking for help.” I remember Elijah’s words suddenly. I’m predisposed in more ways than one, I realize. I’m also just scared to ask. I’m scared to be told that I’m stupid, that I’m imagining things, maybe that I’m in the wrong.
I could ask to hide in this classroom for the next hour. Professor Winslow would probably let me do that, respect my privacy and not ask why. But I need help, god damnit. And at some point, I have to believe that someone is going to back me up.
“My ex is outside,” I tell her breathlessly. “He’s... drunk. He tried to grab me, and I, uh. Did some damage to him.” I wince at the euphemism, but Professor Winslow just looks mildly impressed.
“Good job,” she says. “Does he need an ambulance, or a pair of handcuffs?”
I choke on a semi-hysterical laugh. Oh my god. I’m being listened to. After more than a year of being talked down to and given the stink eye until I go away, someone halfway-relevant gives a damn. “I don’t know how bad I hurt him,” I admit. “I just ran as fast as I could. But if you know any way someone might put him in a jail cell, even ju
st for the night, I’d be so fucking grateful, ma’am. He didn’t hit me, but I know he was going to, and now he’s going to be so pissed—”
Professor Winslow pats me on the arm fondly. Fondly. God, that’s weird. She pulls out her cell phone, and starts dialling. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. He’s drunk on campus, and making a scene. At the very least, I can make sure someone puts him in the drunk tank tonight. What’s his name?”
I stare at her, not daring to breathe. I give her Jordan’s name. She chats almost casually with someone on the other end of the line. None of the students currently working on her exam dare to even look over at us now. The woman in front of me is an authoritative menace. Right now, I can’t thank god enough for that.
She snaps the phone closed and looks over at me. “I’m going to head out and look for him, make sure he’s not putting someone in danger. As soon as I leave the room, I want you to lock the door behind me. Don’t let anyone open it again until I come back.”
I nod numbly, and do as she says. Afterward, I sit down in the back row next to the door.
A good ten minutes later, my phone dings. I glance down at it, bewildered. There’s a text from Elijah, and I curse myself instantly.
ELIJAH: Are you all right? Where are you?
I can’t believe I didn’t think to say something to him. I type back quickly.
SOPHIE: I’m fine. I’m in Professor Winslow’s classroom.
Far quicker than I expect, there’s a hard knock on the door. I jump, but I can hear Elijah’s voice. “Open the door, Sophie,” he says.
A few more students glance up. I wince. I know I’m not supposed to open the door, technically, but I also don’t want to leave Elijah outside. I quickly unlock the door and let him in, closing it back behind him and relocking it. He grabs me gently by the shoulders, clearly searching me over for injuries.
“You’re not hurt?” he asks, in a low, worried voice.
