Teach Me

by Lola Darling

  “Yes, thirty years old, a professor at Oxford, on tenure track in the discipline I’ve always wanted to study, in which you were convinced I could never possibly find work. I’m a real failure, Dad. I see what you mean.”

  He waves a hand dismissively. The heart rate monitor remains as steady as ever, though. Further proof how little he cares about anything I have to say about my own damn life. “Sooner or later you’ll realize what really matters in life. Kids. Family. The kind of job that makes a difference, the kind of job men do, not boys still trapped in university mindsets. And a wife. You keep going through these poor women, leading them on for a year here, two years there. Any one of them would be decent for you. The last one would’ve been perfect. But you’re too stuck in your own head to even see what’s right in front of you.”

  I shove my chair back so hard it hits the wall as I stand. “Thanks for this chat, Dad. Been a real pleasure. Thanks as usual for the enlightened insults to my livelihood, masculinity, and life in general.”

  “I’m serious, son. You’ll regret it if you don’t listen now. Sooner or later, these women are going to wise up about you. You’ve got yourself a regular track record now—Hannah is probably the last one left who will give you a real shot at making a home. You should take it now, while you still have the option. Before she realizes you’re not good enough for her.”

  Right. Because he’s a regular expert on building a great life. Retired from construction work when he finally wore out both knees, still living in the same cramped two-bedroom townhouse where he and Mum raised two kids tripping over each other, hasn’t left the country since the single time he took a weekend honeymoon to France with her forty years ago.

  He lucked out. He met someone he wanted in college, when he was only eighteen years old. That’s not me, and it never will be.

  So I do the only thing I can at this point. I stalk out of the room, letting the door shut hard behind me.

  “You’ll wake him!” Mum protests from the waiting room, already on her feet, a full contingent of aunts scowling at me from behind her.

  “He’s already up,” I say, making a beeline straight for the exit. Mum ignores me to rush into the hospital room, along with half of said aunts. Only Kat follows me, and only long enough to grab my shoulder, squeeze it once.

  Nobody but siblings really understands what your parents do to you. “I can’t stay,” I tell her.

  “I know. I’ll make something up. Just . . . try to make it back again. Maybe next weekend?” Her eyes are huge, her hands clasped. “You’ll regret leaving it like this when he goes. It’s not going to be too long now. Couple months.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I promise. Then I’m gone.

  Harper

  Give the git a taste of his own medicine. I stand on Jack’s porch, hand poised over the knocker, debating this for the dozenth time since I started walking over here.

  It’s been three days since we talked. Three days of trying to catch his eye in class while he avoids even looking in my general direction. Three days of me sending him uber-professional emails to his work account asking when we should meet to discuss next steps on the Eliot papers. Three days of him saying Would tomorrow be okay? And then emailing me a few hours later to push it back yet another day.

  I don’t want to be that girl. The stalkery, clingy one who can’t leave her relatively new lover alone for even a couple days at a time. But this shit has gone on long enough. He can’t leave me hanging like this for days on end, and not give one iota of help back from his end.

  If nothing else, we still have a paper to write together.

  I let the knocker fall on the door. Once. Twice. Three times. A shift in light catches my eye, and I look up, fast. Not fast enough—all I catch a glimpse of is a curtain swaying in the dim light from the bedroom. But as I stand there glaring up at the window, a shadow crosses the curtain and disappears.

  I knock one more time, then kick the door. “I know you’re in there, you coward!” I shout in the window’s general direction, before I storm back to my dorm room.

  But I can’t sleep. Not with all this hanging over my head. I flip open my computer and open a new email from my personal account. To J. Kingston.

  I don’t know what I did to deserve this kind of treatment, but we still have to work together, you know. I leave the rest unsaid, out of deference for it being his work account I’m emailing. Then I shut down the computer and collapse face-first into my bed.

  It’s a bad habit, but I refresh my email first thing the next morning, and there’s a new message waiting. From an email account I don’t recognize: JK85. I open it, despite the no subject line, and skim the message.

  I told you I’m a jackass, Harper. I was trying for you. I really was. But this is just how I am—it comes out sooner or later. You might be the last person on the planet to still think I was decent, until now. So thanks for that. But this is the real me.

  I stare at that paragraph for longer than I should. I could read a million things into it. But the main thing I’m getting is: that’s not gonna cut it. If he wants this to be some kind of Dear Jane, we can’t be together cause I suck letter, he’s going to need to tell me what really brought this on. In person.

  So, twelve hours later, I find myself in the same position, banging on the same door. I’m lifting the knocker to drop it a third time when the door swings open before me, and suddenly all the anger and insecurities I’ve been lugging around for three days drop right out of my head.

  He’s dripping, a towel wrapped around his waist, doing nothing to conceal the abs I ran my hands over just days ago, or his pectoral muscles, and just the right amount of hair on his chest and below his navel, tracing a line down to the towel. His hair hangs in his eyes, even longer now that it’s wet.

  But then I notice how bloodshot those eyes are, and the huge bags beneath them, a detail I could never have made out in class, sitting all the way in the back row like I do.

  Deliciously distracting abs aside, he looks . . . exhausted. Mentally, physically.

  He’s also staring at me with huge, desperate eyes. Before I can think, before I can react, he’s wrapped both arms around me and he’s pulling me inside, crushing me to his chest in a tight embrace. But somehow, even though he’s standing here naked under that towel, it doesn’t feel sexual at all.

  Well, okay, maybe a little. But mostly it feels necessary. Inevitable.

  Until I remember what an asshole he’s been, to get me here like this. “What the hell is going on with you?” I shove away from him, push him backwards into the house so I can slam the door behind me. “The real story this time, not some bullshit wah I’m bad for you email.”

  I cross my arms and fix him with my best death stare.

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, like he can’t bring himself to speak any louder. “I shouldn’t have treated you like that on Saturday.”

  “Damn right,” I mutter.

  “And I shouldn’t have avoided you the last couple days. I just . . . ”

  I cock one eyebrow and wait for it. This had better be a really fucking good excuse, or I swear I am out of here. This time, I won’t let my heart rule my head.

  But then . . . “My father is dying,” he whispers.

  Of all the things I expected to hear, of all the reasons I’d imagined in the past three days for him acting this way, that wasn’t one of them. I gape at him for a moment, mentally backpedaling. I’d been expecting some shitty excuse like “I had a work thing,” or something really bad like “My wife called.” Not this, though.

  I bite my lip. “What was the phone call?”

  “My sister Kat calling to say his cancer came back. It’d been in remission for a couple years, until now. I’m sorry, I should have just told you, but I . . . didn’t really want to talk about it.”

  “I had no idea,” I murmur.

  “How could you have?” He steps back and runs a hand through his hair. “Honestly
, we were never that close to begin with, and when I drove up to see him on Sunday, it only reminded me why. But, well. I guess I’ve got a lot going on.”

  The way he says it makes the knot twinge. “Do . . . do you want me to go?” I don’t want to leave him. Not like this. Not after he finally opened up and let me in. Not when he so clearly needs someone to talk to about this. But if he asks me to leave, I’ll do it.

  Except, instead, he lifts a hand to cup my cheek, staring deep into my eyes. “Stay.”

  My heart hitches in my chest. How could I say no to that?

  Surprisingly, I resist taking advantage of the towel. He disappears upstairs to dress while I make popcorn in the kitchen. When he comes back down in a plain gray T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms, my heart aches all over again for a new reason this time. He looks so simple, so sweet. I knew he was hot, hell, everyone on campus knows. But nobody sees him like this—in his casual, just-another-day-around-the-house clothes. Almost like we’re a normal couple.

  We settle in on the couch with the popcorn balanced across our laps, bickering over whose handfuls are larger while Doctor Who reruns play in the background. I love that about him—his closet nerdy side. I opened his DVD deck to find every Star Trek episode ever, and he immediately swore me to secrecy.

  All the little things. The things nobody else sees.

  The things that make him mine.

  The popcorn bowl is empty, but before I can leave to take it to the kitchen, he grabs my hand, still greasy with butter, and catches my eye, slowly licking every digit clean. By the time he reaches my pinky finger, I’m running my hands through his hair, trying to lie back and drag him on top of me.

  He grins. “Uh-uh.” With one swipe of his arm, he swings me over until I’m straddling him, evidence of his intentions prodding me through his thin sweats. It doesn’t take us long to disrobe, lights on this time. Normally I’m self-conscious about my body, but the way his eyes drink me in, like every inch is another delicious morsel and he can’t get enough, I feel like a goddess.

  “Why can’t I get enough of you?” he groans as he pulls my thighs to either side of him.

  “Because you fit me so fucking well?” I murmur as I let my body sink, savoring every inch as I impale myself on his cock. He fills me utterly, so deep my belly twinges, and it aches but so good, like I’m finally complete.

  “Harper.”

  “Jack.”

  We start to move in earnest. He thrusts up into me, harder, faster, and his teeth grind against my nipple while his fingers pinch the other one, making me gasp in pleasure and pain, alternately, as we pick up speed. He drops both hands to squeeze my ass hard as I bite down on his neck, so hard it leaves marks. My turn to claim him this time.

  Of course, he returns the favor, devouring my neck, my collarbone, the sharp edge where it meets my shoulder. My nails rake down his back and he arches deeper into me with a groan. He drops a finger to my clit, and I’m so hot I come almost at once, my muscles clenching hard around him, my whole body shaking. He finishes moments after, groaning that way I love, like he’s coming undone, all because of me. His hot seed spills down my leg when I slide off of him, and we both laugh when he tries to grab a napkin in time and fails to stop it from reaching the couch.

  “We’ll have to try a safer spot next time,” I remark, and he smirks.

  “There’s always the shower.”

  #

  “I’m never going to walk again,” I groan in his ear. The jerk only chuckles and runs a hand through my hair.

  “That was my secret plan all along. Now you’ll never escape me.” He grins and kisses the top of my head, my nose, finally my lips, where he sinks in for a good, long kiss.

  “I’d never want to,” I murmur when we finally part.

  No one else has ever made me feel like this. After the couch, we made it to the shower to clean up, which naturally ended with me bent over holding my ankles as he pounded into me from behind, hot water steaming our skin. Cleanup didn’t work either, since an hour later we lay side by side in bed, still awake, and he slid under the covers to lick me messy all over again.

  But it’s not just physical. Lying here together, his strong arms cradling me against him, I feel safe in a way I never have before. I belong here.

  That scares me. If this is just a hookup for him, I can’t nurse emotions like this. It’ll end badly for both of us. I tilt my head up to meet his eyes again. “What are we doing?” I whisper.

  I expect him to reply the way all the guys I’ve “dated” (if you can call it that) have. Don’t start that, or Just having fun, babe. Granted, those guys were all a lot closer to my age than him. But I know how guys think. What they want.

  Then he gazes into my eyes and murmurs, “Starting something wonderful,” and my whole body shivers with a new kind of pleasure.

  It doesn’t have a name yet. Boyfriend or partner or whatever. It doesn’t need a label yet, not right now. But he’s thinking the same way I am. Long term. That’s all I need to know.

  I curl up on his chest, close my eyes, and drift off into the deepest sleep I’ve ever known.

  Jack

  Harper’s still sleeping when I leave for the office the next morning. I leave a note on the table along with a mug of coffee and a cup of overnight oats for her breakfast. I also leave a pamphlet that Dean Pierson asked me to pass out to my classes today, something I think Harper might love. It’s a new scholarship funded by the Society for the Advancement of British Poetry Studies—the recipient of the grant wins a year’s worth of fully paid tuition to any college of their choosing, and it’s open internationally, to any student from any country. She mentioned that her scholarship to Penn was one of the reasons she decided to attend the school, and she also mentioned wanting to move somewhere farther away. If she won this grant, she could study anywhere she wanted to, anywhere in the world.

  She could even come back here for her final year.

  Stop getting ahead of yourself, Jack. Aside from the one hint we dropped to each other last night about thinking this could be something long-term—or, more specifically, a hint I dropped that she never responded to—I have no idea if Harper sees this as a hookup or something more.

  Besides, even if she did, she’d never leave her whole country behind just for a guy. Harper’s not that kind of person. She’d never throw what she wants away for a relationship, and I respect that.

  So, I don’t leave a note explaining the pamphlet or anything. Let her make her own mind up.

  Meanwhile, I have a meeting with Dean Perjurer, to give him an update on the Eliot papers. Harper and I have made good headway into the analysis, enough that I felt comfortable sending Pierson a rough draft of our report last night.

  Of course he immediately called a meeting with me first thing in the morning to talk about it. Because he couldn’t just hit the damn reply button, or ask if I’m free before he sets up conferences.

  The moment I walk into his office, I know it’s not good news. The lines around his eyes and mouth seem to have doubled since I saw him less than a week ago, and I could swear his hairline has recessed another full inch.

  “What is it?” I shut the door behind me—I learned my lesson after last time, when Harper overheard us (though, to be honest, I haven’t hated the outcome of that eavesdropping).

  “Letter from the warden about the latest allocation of funds.” He slides a print-out of a document across the desk toward me, with our school crest emblazoned across the top. “Read it. I’ll wait.”

  Pierson leans back in his chair and kicks his feet up onto the polished wooden surface while I scan the letter. My heart sinks farther with every sentence. In between the poorly-worded business-speak about wanting to fund scientific research and technological training, preparing our students for more competitive careers in their fields of choice, I can read the other implication.

  De-funding the arts.

  Because who needs to study literature, right? Does the world really need m
ore art history majors to bum around? Clearly we should all just turn ourselves into programming robots who barf out code—until they figure out how to train robots to do that, and then what will even be the point of humans, anyway?

  I clench my fist, wrinkling the letter in the process. They even printed it on the thick stationary, the one normally reserved for acceptance letters and offers of job placement. Happy news.

  “How bad is it?” I say. Because, of course, they could never write a letter like this that just explained exactly what they planned to do. The letter needs to make it all sound positive and happy. They leave it to the rumor-mill to tell all of us lowlife academics what’s really going on.

  “He wants to cut the poetry department almost completely. Bring us down to one full-time professor. No dean, no adjuncts.” Pierson drops his feet to the floor. He’s glaring, but for once, not at me. He scowls at the letter between us. We might not always get along, or agree with 90 percent of what the other one does, but we’re in the same boat now. Sink or swim.

  If we’re defunded, he’ll be out of a job, and without any adjunct positions available, so will I.

  “Are you supposed to be telling me this?” I lift an eyebrow. Pierson has no soft spot for me. But if they’ve not announced this department-wide yet, he was probably told in confidence from the warden. So why share with me?

  “Not strictly speaking. I’m only telling you because I think you might be able to change his mind.”

  I grimace. “The Eliot project.”

  “It would bring poetry back to the forefront of people’s attention. You’d make an international splash, and with Merton’s name written all over it as the place we made the discovery. They wouldn’t dare cut the program, not with that kind of attention focused on it.” He bends over the desk, resting his elbows on it, the better to glare straight at me. “Assuming, of course, that you’re right about the author of those unsigned poems.”