1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Nine

by Carrie Ann Ryan

  The boy yanked back the DS and his bike, shoving his backpack over his arm. “Whatever.”

  Connor rolled his eyes. “When did that word make a comeback? I mean, really?”

  The kid didn’t answer, just shook his head and dragged his bike toward the building next door. Huh. Guess he was a new neighbor. Connor hadn’t seen any moving trucks, but he hoped the grumpy old man was finally gone. Anyone was better than a grizzled man who sat on the front stoop and bellowed at strangers on the street, drinking cheap whiskey from a brown paper bag. Even a surly kid.

  Connor watched the red door shut and turned back to his own place. Maybe he should knock on the door this weekend and introduce himself. The neighborhood wasn’t the best, but the location was prime for commuting to Manhattan and keeping rents low. Other than the band of bullies who haunted the streets, there weren’t drugs or gangs. Just a bunch of older stone buildings with ancient plumbing, leaky windows, and pothole-ridden streets.

  Still worked for him.

  Connor trudged inside and reheated his dinner. The interior of his apartment didn’t reflect the shabby exterior. He’d updated the original dull beige walls and carpet with a rich blue, and his brother’s girlfriend, Kennedy, had transformed the bachelor pad into a home using a few feminine touches to brighten up the place. He’d moved from his old apartment he’d shared with Nate to save money, ignoring his brother’s protests that he’d cover his expenses until Connor finished school.

  Hell, no.

  Connor had spent his life taking care of his little brother and raising him. Though Nate was now a fancy rocket scientist who used to work for NASA, Connor refused to take his charity. But he hadn’t been able to afford the tuition so they’d struck a deal. Since Connor had worked three jobs to get Nate through college when he was young, Nate would front his tuition bill. Connor could live with that, knowing he’d pay back his brother every dime once he got into a management position. He’d quickly moved to this apartment to save on rent and was now able to live comfortably.

  He may not have fancy granite counters or stainless steel appliances, but everything worked, including the big screen TV. The furniture was secondhand, but it was solid wood mahogany, with clean, masculine lines. The extra bedroom was a nice perk, so he used it for his workout equipment and skipped the gym membership. Photos of architectural buildings and bridges filled the walls, bringing a sense of wonder and creativity to the space. His textbooks stuffed the antique bookcase, and he’d created a small workspace in the corner of the living room, saving a spot for where he’d hang his degree.

  He pulled out his sub, cracked open his beer, and ate at the sturdy pine table while he scrolled through his iPhone and updated social media. The radiator hummed and the pipes creaked in the background. The smell of sauce and meat drifted in the air. He embraced the quiet, settled in, and enjoyed the solitude. After dinner, he powered up his laptop and did a few hours of schoolwork, finally rubbing his tired eyes around nine o’clock.

  To think he once had nothing to do but hang at the pub with his friends was now laughable. Most of the time, he fell asleep with his textbooks open on the table, drooling over the pages. Other than an occasional Saturday night out or hanging with his brother, his social life had dried up to an embarrassing level. He rarely saw his old friends, who were mainly into getting drunk at the bars every Friday and Saturday night, refusing to acknowledge that forty loomed dangerously close. Hell, the saddest part of all was he didn’t even miss his old life.

  Not even the women.

  How had that happened? Not that he didn’t have steady offers, but lately his sexual drive had been humming at a low level. Something seemed lacking in all of his encounters, and he couldn’t seem to figure out the problem. He’d never been like his brother, craving some type of mythical connection with a woman that didn’t exist. No, he believed hard in the three B’s when it came to dating. They were part of his own personal Bible he’d created to keep things uncomplicated.

  Beauty.

  Body.

  Boobs.

  Marriage didn’t interest him, and neither did getting tied up with all the daily routine and messiness of a long-term relationship. He’d seen firsthand how the feeling of love could turn bad and sweep everyone in its wake into a tsunami of casualties.

  No, thanks. Keep it clean and everyone remained happy. He just needed to get his groove back.

  He got up from the table and cleaned up. Maybe he’d spend a few minutes spacing out in front of the television. Yeah, he had to be at the job site at five a.m. for his construction job, but he needed to clear his mind from the array of numbers flashing in his head.

  Dropping into the comfortable sectional, he channel surfed for a bit before he hit pay dirt. The Fast and Furious number—well, whatever. Nothing like some good car crashes and skimpily dressed women to soothe him. He put his feet on the coffee table and settled in.

  * * * *

  “How was school, honey?”

  Her son dragged his fork across the chipped plate. “Fine.”

  Ella raised a brow. Luke slumped at the table, staring at his meatloaf with pure suffering. She didn’t blame him. Lately, dinners were thrown together with little thought to gourmet taste and more to sustenance on a faster timetable. “Did you just utter the most boring, inane word on the planet that should be struck from Webster’s Dictionary? The word I absolutely refuse to acknowledge in this house because I believe we have brains larger than an amoeba? Did you say the word—fine?”

  He tried to look annoyed but his lip twitched. “Sorry. It was uneventful.”

  She grinned. “Much better.” They smiled at each other and for a little while, life was just about perfect. Ella knew well about grabbing those moments in time that defined her daily routine. Her son was growing up. Every day, she felt as if he tugged another inch away from her toward the big bad world that was waiting to gobble him whole. Her gaze swept over his beloved face, with his charming pug nose, full lips, and graceful brows. His brown hair was thick and messy, with a terrible cowlick she’d never been able to tame with gel or scissors, but was such a part of who he was she hoped he’d never get rid of it. His round black glasses made him look like a young Harry Potter. Of course, he hated them and was already begging for contacts.

  But his eyes were truly the window to his truth. A deep, rich chocolate brown, they reminded her so much of his father. Luke’s were full of warmth, kindness, curiosity, and zeal.

  His father’s had been full of unfulfilled longing and too many secrets.

  Ella tamped down a sigh. The last time she’d convinced Luke to sit on her lap for just a moment, his lanky legs had hung over her and hit the floor at an awkward angle. She’d spent her entire life engulfed in the magic of words and poetry, and in that moment, finally got what it felt like to grieve the passing of time. Just another one of those things you could read about or watch but didn’t truly understand the flood of emotion until you experienced it. Kind of like childbirth.

  “Besides uneventful, have you made any friends yet?” she asked.

  His head dropped again. “Nope.”

  “No boys in the neighborhood? Maybe to ride bikes with or something?”

  He snorted. “Let’s just say there’s been no welcoming committee. I’m fine, Mom. Don’t worry about it.”

  And that’s exactly why she worried. Luke was extremely independent, and usually had no problem making friends. His wicked sense of humor won over his toughest critics, but the past months had stolen his smile.

  He needed more time, and she knew he’d make friends. Pushing wasn’t going to help. Attending a new school simply sucked. She’d tried everything possible not to move, but the job offer at Verily College was a gift she couldn’t pass up. She hated not being home after school for Luke, but for now she had no choice. Next semester she’d have a better schedule and more flexibility, but for now, she needed to prove herself and take the unwelcome time slots leftover from the other long-term professors. />
  Ten years old and already he’d experienced more pain than she ever intended. He’d lost his father, his home, and his friends. As his mother, she’d only wanted to protect him and make him happy. Make him feel safe.

  Fail on all counts.

  She pushed away her gloomy thoughts. “I thought we’d paint your room this weekend,” she offered brightly. “You pick the color—anything you want. And we can hit Target for some decorations.”

  “Okay.”

  His despondent tone cut right through her heart. “Can you do me a favor, Luke? I need the honest truth.”

  He looked at her with a bit of wariness. “Sure.”

  “On a scale of one to ten, how bad is my meatloaf?”

  The faint spark of humor lit his brown eyes. “One.”

  “Yeah, I thought so. How does a pizza sound?”

  He tilted his head and considered. “Can we eat in front of the TV, too?”

  Ella laughed. “Sure, why not?”

  “No History channel?”

  She gave a sigh of surrender. “Fine. You pick.”

  He gave a small whoop and fisted his hand in the air. “Nice. I want pepperoni on mine, please.”

  “You got it. Luke?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  His face shifted to that half uncomfortable, half pleased look she recognized so well. But he gave her the words. “Love you, too, Mom.”

  He bounded out of the kitchen, forgetting to clean up his plate, and Ella didn’t remind him. She went to order the pizza.

  Chapter Four

  “When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease—of the joy that kills.”––Kate Chopin, The Story of An Hour

  Two weeks later, Connor realized he was in trouble.

  Another F stared back at him from his last paper. As Ella lectured to the class on the limitations of creative women in society today, Connor scrolled through his iPad for the picture he’d taken of the syllabus.

  Yes, it was only a month into the semester, but he’d lost too much ground. He hadn’t been able to pass one lousy quiz, flunked his paper, and now his short essay she’d handed back had tanked. Even with high grades moving forward and a decent curve, he’d be hovering around a precious C-, a bit too close for comfort.

  No way was he letting poetry and angry female authors beat him.

  Or Ella Blake.

  He made a point to read the awful assignments, though he barely kept awake. This last essay called Death of the Moth should’ve been termed Death From Boredom. Woolf was another writer he struggled to understand, and Ella seemed to think she walked on fucking water. Who watched a moth die for what seemed like hours and decided to write about it? And why on earth would anyone assign a paper on such drivel? No wonder he’d flunked.

  Men didn’t do shit like that.

  He’d been trying to get on her good side. He was unfailingly polite and charming before and after class. He complimented her and consistently offered to help out if she needed anything. She only gave him that icy stare that froze his balls and clipped out a “no.” He was getting nowhere and now he needed to do something about his grade.

  Anything.

  He tried to listen to her ramblings on Edith Wharton and how the author used female roles in society to exploit and push readers’ emotional limits. She strolled back and forth in a relaxed, steady pace as she spoke, occasionally nibbling on her lower lip in a thought, her face half hidden by the wide, thick frames of her glasses. Today, she wore her usual brown flat boots, a long wool skirt with no shape, and a green turtleneck sweater that reached all the way up to her jaw. Did she have some type of skin infection that kept her hidden beneath so much material? Were there actual breasts under there? Her fingers were long and tapered, but the short, squared-off, unpolished nails did nothing to accentuate them. This was a woman who didn’t want a man looking. Or maybe she was just lazy and wasn’t into men. Maybe she spent every night reading Wharton and Brontë and lived out fantasies in her head. Hadn’t he read something in the news about the power of romantic novels to give women unrealistic expectations of life? Yeah. It had been in the New York Times, too. So it must be true.

  “Mr. Dunkle?”

  Ah, crap. Here we go again.

  He showed no fear and smiled warmly. “Yes, Professor Blake?”

  “I’m interested to hear your thoughts on the story, Roman Fever.”

  “I liked it.”

  The class tittered. She never lost her smile. If she wasn’t wearing the wrong color lipstick, he may have believed her lips were perfectly bow shaped and lush.

  “I’m relieved. What did you think about the ending? Did you feel sympathy for Mrs. Slade when she discovered her friend was unfaithful? Or did it strike you as justice?”

  He tried hard not to rub his forehead. A headache threatened. Out of all the damn stories she had to pick to discuss, this was the only one he didn’t read. He’d fallen asleep at his computer and decided to skip the reading for today. Now he was in trouble.

  He quickly gathered the threads of information the class had given and tried to make a rational theory. “It wasn’t justice, but was it deserved? Probably. See, the problem is women are very different than men. They sink to a level of jealousy and cattiness I think is well described in this story.”

  Satisfaction unfurled. That was a solid answer. She couldn’t torture him over his opinion.

  Except the strangest expression came over her face.

  Her gaze narrowed. Her lips tightened. A tightly contained energy swarmed around her like a nest of bees, humming madly before the attack. In that moment, he realized he had done something very wrong.

  “I see. So you believe men don’t sink to basic levels of human emotion like women?”

  He swallowed. “Kind of. Men are more physical, but they see things simpler. Let’s be real here. Two men would never meet in a cafe to talk endlessly for an hour before getting to the point. Women are exhausting. One man would punch the other one, they’d fight it out, and then go get a beer.”

  The class laughed. Some of the guys nodded in agreement and hooted their approval. Connor began to warm up to the subject. “And another thing. Society is always on the men about cheating, but if you read these pieces you keep assigning us, you’ll see there was a lot of infidelity by women. They just like to intellectualize and rationalize the act to death to make it better for them to sleep at night.”

  Ella Blake never wavered. Pure ice dripped from her voice when she deigned to speak. “Interesting. It seems because Mr. Slade is the male, he is easily forgiven for his infidelity, though he has cheated also. Thank you for proving my point, Mr. Dunkle. Next time, please make sure you actually read the story and not use your classmates’ effort to spin your own inane opinion. Class dismissed.”

  She marched back to her desk.

  Connor’s head felt as if it had gone a few rounds with the heavyweight champion. Was she kidding? How did she know he didn’t read it? And who the hell was she to make fun of his opinion? If he had read the story, didn’t he have the right to his own viewpoint?

  Some of the guys came to clap him on the shoulder as they exited the classroom. He spent some time gathering his papers and cooling down his temper. He needed his grade fixed or he’d be in some serious trouble by the midterm. It was time to have a bit of a heart-to-heart and pour on the charm. Again.

  He tried not to grind his teeth as he approached. She pretended not to see him, but Connor knew she sensed his presence and was deliberately provoking him. An odd anticipation steadily built. He’d misjudged her. She wasn’t as dull as he’d originally thought. He rarely dealt with women who challenged him, but he figured it was the teacher/student thing that had him intrigued now.

  “Professor Blake?”

  She looked up and damned if she didn’t give him an almost satisfied grin. “Yes?”

  “I need to talk to you about my grade. The paper. I need some help.”

  “I ag
ree, Mr. Dunkle. Perhaps a tutor?”

  Instead of sitting down, she grabbed her purse and seemed to be rushing out. He made sure to step right in front of her, blocking her exit. He gritted his teeth. “I don’t need a tutor. I need to know what you’re looking for in my papers so I can start passing this class.”

  “Ah, if you check your syllabus, you’ll see I’m looking for creativity, original thought, and specified examples and content backed up from the text.”

  “I’m trying! Let’s be honest for a moment. You don’t like my opinions so you’re punishing me. You want me to advocate these inane texts by using a lot of fancy words and lingo just so I can agree that women were mentally and emotionally tortured underneath the societal restrictions where men ruled. How is that fair?”

  She tilted her head, seemingly considering her words. “Now that’s an argument. Too bad there’s not more of that in your papers. I have to go. I’m late for a meeting.”

  She strode out of the classroom, big skirt swishing, hair perfectly contained in the single, tight space of her bun. Connor took off after her, refusing to be swept aside. Not this time. “I did put that in my paper but you gave me an F.”

  She never broke stride, weaving in and out of the hallways amidst groups of students. “No, you didn’t. You said it was about a moth, written from the point of view of a woman frustrated with her life so she decided to spend her extra time watching an insect die. You insinuated she craved a man in her life and therefore, her lack of one made her unhappy. There was no depth. Did you even listen to my lecture in class about the meaning of the essay?”

  “Yes.” No. He kind of drifted off in a stupor when she began lecturing. He pushed aside the guilt. “You’re not being clear enough.”

  “You’re not trying hard enough, Mr. Dunkle. You treat my class like an annoyance and with little respect. I shall treat you the same.”