Relapse

by J. P. Nicholas

  That's when the idea hits me. I turn to my mother. "Mom, get me a cardboard box, some construction paper, scissors, tape, some army men, and a shit-ton of index cards."

  I list the materials to her as if I'm conducting a surgical operation. Nevertheless, she returns from the garage with the majority of the materials I need. She didn't have the army men, so I guess I'll do without them. They were more to add extra pizazz to the final product anyway.

  I glance at the clock. I don't have much time to do this, but I've never let time stop me before. Let's do this.

  * * *

  I check my appearance in the university's bathroom mirror. I fasten my brown locks into a French twist. It's a pretty bobby-pin intensive look, but it's both classic and professional. I'll just deal with the inevitable headache that having this many bobby-pins in my hair gives me later. Puckering my lips, I smack a nude pink lipstick on them. It's a perfect complement to my long-sleeved cream-colored blouse, and my grandmother's pearl necklace and earring set.

  I may look like I'm in my forties rather than my twenties, but at least my outfit screams professor. My only regret is that since I stayed up all night creating a board game for my interview, I didn't have time to paint my nails. My red nail polish is chipping at the edges, revealing the natural color underneath. Oh, well, maybe they won't notice. I drag my hands down my black slacks, smoothing out all the final wrinkles.

  Click, click, click. The sound of my high-heels colliding against the tile floor of the bathroom echoes off the walls as I sashay my way back into the hall. My eyes scan the room numbers as I stride with confidence, my posture perfectly upright. H207. H208. H209. There it is, H220.

  I suck in a deep breath, trying my best to calm the nerves that now rattle in my stomach. I raise my fist to the burgundy door, knocking as I exhale.

  "Come in," a man's voice shouts from the other side. I've always been one to give myself pep-talks. Today is no different. I collect my thoughts as I open the door. A fake, but hopefully friendly, smile is plastered on my face. Here we go, Aly. You've got this! This job is as good as yours. Just whatever you do, don't fuck it up.

  Inside the room is a large conference table. I'm not gonna lie; I was actually expecting my interview to be in a classroom-like setting. Maybe even in an actual classroom. Not some business conference room. Regardless, I won't let this unexpected setting make me falter.

  Sitting around the table are three gentlemen. The man sitting at the head of the table is wearing a navy suit with a pressed white button-down accented with a blue and white striped tie. A classic look, if I do say so myself. His black hair is thick but tamed. It is perfectly combed, not a hair out of place. He must use an abundance of hair gel to accomplish that look. His face is clean-shaven, not a whisker in sight. This must be Abney's friend, Dean Chambers.

  The man sitting to his right has an entirely different look. He is rocking the George Costanza hairdo, bald at the top with a u-shaped ring on the sides and back. With wrinkles permanently creasing his brow, he appears to be the oldest of the three men. His attire of choice is a brown suit, a shade similar to his eyes, and a blue button-down with no tie.

  The man sitting to the left of the clean-shaven man appears to be the youngest. Or at least, he still rocks his baby face. Despite his youthful appearance, his brown hair is turning gray on the sides. Not in an elderly way, but more in a silver-fox kind of way. He kind of reminds me of George Clooney. He has Clooney's intense dark brown eyes. He is wearing black slacks with a burgundy-colored button-down shirt and a solid black tie. No jacket for Mr. George Clooney eyes.

  "Good morning, Miss Lance. I'm Dean Charlie Chambers. Please, take a seat," the man in the navy suit says, gesturing me to take a seat next to George Costanza.

  I do as Dean Chambers requests. I sit next to the balding man, placing my briefcase on the empty leather chair next to me. I make sure to sit upright as I place my hands on the table, intertwining my fingers.

  Dean Chambers gestures to the man with the George Clooney eyes. "This is Professor Scott Snyder. He teaches the eighteenth-century."

  Scott extends his hand to me. I shake it before returning mine to its interview position.

  Now the dean gestures to George Costanza. "This is Professor Juan Gutierrez. He teaches the nineteenth-century."

  After I shake Juan's hand, Dean Chambers continues. "And I teach both the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Dennis Bradbury used to teach the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. If you get the position, those are the time periods you will be teaching. Do you have any concerns regarding that specific timespan?"

  "No, Sir." I project my voice, hoping to mask my nerves.

  Dean Chambers smiles. "Good."

  He pulls out a piece of paper which I assume is the resume I emailed him late last night. I watch anxiously as he glances it over. "It says here you were awarded a master's degree in history and anthropology. May I ask what you did your thesis on?"

  I nod and clear my throat, forcing myself to swallow the newly formed lump that resides there. "You may. As a graduate student, I chose to write my thesis on the rivalry between Mary, Queen of Scots, and Queen Elizabeth I."

  Dean Chambers leans forward, arching his brow with intrigue. "Oh, really? That's not a topic I hear tossed around a lot. Professor Bradbury used to neglect Mary Stuart all together, only focusing on Elizabeth and England. I'm curious; why that topic specifically?"

  My mouth gapes open. I can't help it. The utter shock gets to me. I close it as quickly as it opened, trying to regain my composure before I respond to his query. "Pardon my shocked expression. I just couldn't believe he would neglect Mary and Scotland from his curriculum altogether. I believe you can't accurately teach students about Elizabeth without mentioning the Queen of Scots. That's unfathomable. But to answer your question, I wrote about them because I became fascinated with them."

  The other two stooges remain silent. This must be the formal part of the interview process. The fun learning part must come later. Maybe they are just here to observe and collaborate with their boss when I leave.

  Dean Chambers runs his finger over his bottom lip. "And how did this fascination start?"

  "Honestly, I just loved that they were both female leaders of their countries. Do you know how uncommon that was back then? Hell, a female leader is still uncommon today. But in the sixteenth century, it was practically unheard of for a woman to be a queen by blood rather than marriage. Yet both Mary and Elizabeth were."

  "I get their appeal, but why write about their rivalry specifically?"

  "Because it amazed me. Two cousins who had never met one another let their actions be dictated by their fear that the other would try to overthrow them for the throne. Thus, uniting their two countries under one ruler. It's captivating."

  He nods. "I would agree. It is captivating indeed. Now let's move on to the mock lesson portion of the interview, shall we?"

  Without missing a beat, I plop my briefcase on the conference table. Click! I unfasten the two buckles holding it closed, prop it open, and pull out the board game I created out of a cardboard box. As I set it in the middle of the table, all three men lean forward in their seats to get a closer look at it.

  The middle of the board game reads the word His-teria. A bad pun, I know, but cut me some slack. It was late at night, and I barely had enough preparation time to create the game, let alone name the fucking thing.

  "Alright, gentlemen. If you would kindly give me a time period to work with, we can get this game started," I declare, making sure to put a little pep and excitement in my tone as I speak.

  "How about World War II?" Scott says, speaking for the first time since I shook his hand.

  I nod in understanding, dumping a few monopoly game pieces on the table. "Alright, this boot represents Italy, the top hat is the UK, the thimble is the Soviet Union, the iron represents France, the racecar represents the United States, the battleship is Germany, the dog represents China, and the cat is Japan. Any q
uestions?"

  Silence fills the room.

  I clap my hands together, the sound booms throughout the room. "Great, then let's get started."

  * * *

  The room fills with laughter, each bit of it relieving the tension in my shoulders. This worked. His-teria actually worked. They frickin' loved it! I try my best to contain my relief on the inside. I don't want them to think that I'm a cocky bitch who thinks she nailed this interview, even if it is the truth.

  "I have to say, Miss. Lance. This is the most fun I've ever had conducting an interview. Although your methods are unconventional, to say the least, I believe they will be effective. You are truly a delight, and I can't wait to hear what the students think of you. Congratulations! I will see you at the start of the semester on Monday." Dean Chambers extends his hand out to me for a congratulatory handshake.

  I grab it and give it a quick shake. "Thank you, Sir."

  "Your first class is at nine. Email me your syllabus this weekend and meet me in my office at eight a.m. sharp Monday morning."

  "You got it, Sir. See you on Monday."

  Still buzzing with pride and excitement, I pack away His-teria, close my briefcase, turn on my heel, and head toward the exit. In a scurry, I fling open the door and embark into the hallway. I hear the click of the door shutting behind me.

  My heel must've gotten caught on the grout in the tile because the next thing I know, I smack into something hard and am hurtling toward the floor.

  SMACK!

  My cheek crashes against the floor with a thud. Shit! That's going to leave a mark. A hot liquid drips down my leg. It burns like a mother, but I'm not going to yelp. I need to keep some of my dignity. I'm already mortified; there's no need for me to embarrass myself further by screaming in pain. I'd rather endure the pain and deal with the slightly burned skin later. If I was a man, I wouldn't have freshly-shaved legs. There would be some hair to block some of the liquid from contacting with my skin. Hell, if I was a man, I wouldn't have fucking tripped on my high-heel in the first place. More like high-hells, aka the shoes that could have only been crafted deep within the fiery pits of Hell.

  "Do you need some help?" My heart stops. I'd recognize that smooth, rich baritone anywhere. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. This cannot be happening. Just kill me now. Send a lightning bolt to strike me down, a bushel of feral ferrets to gnaw at my bones, anything to save me from this mortification.

  He offers his hand to me, and against my better judgment, I take it. As soon as I grasp ahold of it, he pulls me back up to my feet. I stare at his white dress shirt, not wanting to look at his face and confirm my suspicions. There is a giant brown stain splattered across it. Dammit, I did that. Ashamed, I drop my eyes to look at my feet.

  "Sorry about your shirt. I'll pay to have it dry-cleaned."

  "Don't worry about it," he chuckles. My nipples pebble at the sound. They only aid in my suspicion of that voice's owner. Only one man has ever had this kind of effect on me. This cannot fucking be happening.

  "Are you alright, miss? You took a hard fall." His British accent makes me swoon. An aching stirs between my legs. Even though he's not flirting with me, the deep tenor of his voice is seductive in its own right.

  I can't take not knowing anymore. I force myself to lift my gaze higher until it rests upon his face.

  He quirks a rakish brow. "Alyssa? Is that really you?"

  I open my mouth, but no words come out. Words, Aly. Just think of words. Any word will do. Just say something!

  Still nothing. Ugh! Why are words so hard? Unable to stand being in front of him anymore, I turn the other direction and start running.

  I push students out of my way as I bolt down the hallway. I need to get out of here. Why am I running from him like he's a cop who caught me doing drugs? I didn't do anything wrong. Well, other than shatter his heart into a million pieces. Oh, and ruin his shirt.

  I pick up the pace as I burst through the doors into the courtyard. I should get an Olympic gold medal for running in my red six-inch heels. I'm outside now, so why am I still running? And where are my feet taking me?

  What the fuck is wrong with me? I could've just lied and said I'm not Alyssa. Then my heart wouldn't be beating so damn fast. My breaths grow shallower, forcing me to come to a stop. It's still hard to breathe. My heart beats harder and faster with every passing second. I think I might be having a panic attack!

  Chapter Eight

  Darren

  "Alyssa, wait!" I call out to her, but she doesn't stop. If anything, it appears my words have the opposite effect. She seems to be speeding up. Bloody hell.

  I twist my wrist to check the time. Nine fifty-eight. Fuck! I don't have the time to chase after her, no matter how badly I want to. Despite knowing that I have a meeting in two fucking minutes, I haven't entirely ruled out running after her yet.

  Anxiously, I drag a hand through my hair. I can't be late for this meeting. Or can I? No, you can’t…but dammit, you will be. Releasing my grip on the cool metal handle to room H220, I jog after her. Please, God, don’t let this be some kind of sick hallucination. I don’t know if I have a vibe strong enough to handle that.

  I’m swerving in and out of the crowds of students taking tours of the campus before the semester starts. I pride myself in only knocking one of them over as I barrel my way through the double doors and into the sunlight. It takes a hot minute for my eyes to adjust to the harsh sun’s rays, but once they do, they desperately scour the open courtyard for the only woman I’ve ever loved.

  A giddy smile curls at my lips as I catch sight of the luscious brown hair that used to tickle me when it was sprawled out all over my chest. The memory hits me like a freight train. Fast and hard. I can still smell the blended scent of dark cherries, black raspberries, and a sumptuous merlot. I still remember how that intoxicating smell used to flood my nostrils. I was addicted to it, couldn’t get enough of it. Just like her.

  Alyssa is hunched over, her hands on her knees as she tries to catch her breath. Yes, my mind does wander down Dirty Avenue as I take in the sight of her gorgeous arse—but I don’t let it wander off for very long before I rein it back in. I reach out to touch her shoulder but let my hand hover in place as I think better of it. One, I don’t know her well enough to touch her anymore. And two, won’t that just scare the shite out of her?

  I quickly bring my hovering hand to the back of my head and rub my neck nervously. “Alyssa, can we talk?”

  She jolts upright, turning ever so slightly to face me. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, and it’s cute as fuck. She shakes her head vivaciously, seeming adamant in her answer.

  I release a short sigh of frustration but am determined not to give up. I gave up on her once, and it’s the worst decision I have ever made. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m supposed to be avoiding you,” she retorts. I’m not going to lie; her candidness catches me off-guard, causing me to stagger backward for a brief moment before I catch myself.

  A chuckle rumbles in my chest. “Well, don’t hold back.”

  Her delightful green eyes widen with embarrassment as a nice pink hue paints her cheeks. She looks completely mortified by her admission. “Please, tell me I didn’t just say that out loud.”

  I take a step forward, making my first attempt to get closer to her. I can’t help myself. I want her close to me. As close as she’ll let me get. It’s been too damn long since I’ve felt this connected to someone. I want her wrapped in my arms. Our bodies pressed together. Mine firm, hers soft. Her eyes locked on mine as she looks up at me, secretly pleading for my lips to find hers. Christ, just the thought of it drives me insane.

  “Darren, is everything okay?” Her sweet voice snaps me out of my daydream. She said my name. I never thought I’d hear my name roll off her tongue again. God, what’s wrong with me? It’s just a fucking name. Hold yourself together, Gracen.

  “Yeah, sorry. Um-I…” I let my voice trail off because what the hell am I going to say I was doing? Surely
, I’m not going to admit to daydreaming about kissing her. That would send the wrong message. “Since you have done a crap job of avoiding me, will you have lunch with me today?”

  Her teeth dig deeper into her lip as she scrapes them against the tender skin. Those lucky bastards. “I’m not sure that’s a great idea.”

  “Please, Alyssa. It’s just lunch. Food and friendly company. That’s all I’m asking for.”

  She furrows her brow as she eyes me skeptically. I can see her resolve weaken as she ponders my reassuring words. And just like that, the wall is erected again. “I’m sorry; I can’t do this.”

  This time, I don’t chase after her. Against my better judgment, I choose to give her some space. In due time, I’ll wear her down. She can’t avoid me forever, right?

  Chapter Nine

  Aly

  I exit the dressing room wearing this godawful concoction of a rubber-duck yellow chiffon dress accented with vibrant neon orange laced netting. This is definitely the ugliest dress I have ever seen, let alone worn. Despite my movements being constricted underneath the seventeen layers, I somehow manage to stumble my way back into the waiting area, where Hannah sits patiently on the white sofa with Jack sitting in her lap.

  As soon as I make my way around the bend, a gleeful smile forms on Hannah's face—a perfect complement to her now bugged-out blue eyes. She must know that this dress is ridiculous too. If not, and she chooses this one as her bridesmaid dress, then we can no longer be friends. That is non-negotiable.

  I'm still not entirely sure why she is going through the hassle of a wedding anyway—she is already married! Her brother, Liam, got ordained and officiated her marriage in the hospital room of her late father last year. Hannah promised him that he would live to see his little girl get married, and she damn well kept that promise. Unfortunately, cancer took him not too long afterward.