by Penny Reid
“What did you get, Anna?” Taylor eyeballed me, her frowning gaze moving to the paper I held clutched to my chest.
I shrugged and stuffed it into my bag, trying to keep my tone even. “I guess everyone got a D,” I said without outright lying.
“Don’t take it so hard, Harris,” Jordan gave me a sympathetic smile. “He did warn us.”
I huffed a bitter laugh, shaking my head but saying nothing, and hoisted my bag to my shoulder. My stomach hurt and my eyes felt scratchy.
“See you guys later.” I gave my classmates an uneven wave and, for no reason in particular, walked down the stairs. This would take me to the side door of the lecture hall and into the Russian Studies Department instead of outside and to the parking lot.
I left the large classroom, turning toward the faculty offices—for no reason in particular. I stopped at the reception desk, where the department secretary usually sat, and stared at it. Unsurprisingly, no one was there. Class ended at 8:00 p.m., well after the end of normal business hours.
It took that long—the walk from my desk in the lecture hall to the desk of the department secretary—for my brain to catch up with the intentions of my feet. I scanned the top of the desk, looking for the administrator’s business card. My aim was to find her number, call her in the morning, and make an appointment with Professor Kroft, as he’d instructed, to ask about my grade.
Because I had no idea why I’d received a B instead of an A, or a C, or a D, or an F. He’d given me nothing to go on.
So, yeah, I had questions about my grade. I also had questions about why he was such an arrogant asshole. Given my state of mind, I decided to make the appointment for next week; hopefully time would help me simmer down so I could focus on my grade, and not his assholeishness.
Something out of the corner of my eye snagged my attention. I glanced to the right just as a blur of movement at the end of the hallway disappeared into an office. I stared at the open door, at least thirty feet from where I was standing. It was a corner office at the end of the hall and the door faced out, toward the secretary.
I spotted a window, a desk, a shelf laden with books, stacks of books next to the desk, and white fringe on a red carpet.
Then I spotted a man walking around in the office. My pulse ticked up, because the man was Luca. I recognized the clothes he was wearing from earlier, but more than that I recognized the way he moved.
I faced the hallway. My feet and my brain discussed the situation very, very briefly, a la:
Feet: He’s right there.
Brain: Go get him.
Feet: Roger that, we’re on our way.
Then my feet moved me toward the open door of the office. My heart beat loudly between my ears, not with nerves this time but with irrational anger, and the misguided determination that accompanies aforementioned irrational anger.
I halted at the doorway to his office and found him standing in front of an open file cabinet, his profile to me. Tangentially, I noticed his office was large, much larger than the ones I’d been in over the course of my college career. But then most of my courses were in science and engineering, where the buildings were newer, more efficiently designed. This building was over one hundred years old.
Glaring at my professor, I knocked on the doorjamb.
He glanced over his shoulder, his pale blue eyes distracted. And then he did a double take. He stiffened, frowning severely as his attention flickered down and then up my body before capturing my gaze.
He looked . . . guarded.
“Are you lost?” To my ears, he sounded gruff and argumentative.
I shook my head while I stepped into his office, shut the door behind me, and dropped my bag on a brown leather sofa at my side.
Luca’s eyes followed my movements as he turned to face me, slowly shutting the file cabinet drawer. He stuffed his fine fingers into his pants pockets. But he said nothing.
I yanked the term paper from my bag and held it up between us. He glanced at it, then moved his guarded scowl back to me.
I had so many questions. So many angry, hurt, irritated, frustrated questions. I had a torrent of them.
Instead, I asked, “You gave me a B?”
He swallowed before responding. “I didn’t give you a B, Anna. You earned a B.”
I felt my frown intensify. “How so?”
His lips parted as though he was actually going to answer, but I cut him off by obnoxiously balling up the term paper and dropping it in his trash can. He watched me do this, his attention lingering on the waste bin for three or four seconds before he blinked and glared at me again.
“How did I earn a B? Tell me, because I have no idea. I have no idea.”
Luca set his jaw, his eyes narrowing, again regarding me in silence.
Luckily, I didn’t need him to respond; the momentum of my anger had carried me too far to listen or to engage in a meaningful discussion. I didn’t care what he had to say. I needed to be heard.
“Do you know why I have no idea? Because you give me nothing. Nothing. I get nothing from you.” My voice broke. I had to clear my throat before I could continue. “You won’t call on me in class. You won’t even look at me. Why am I suddenly invisible to you?”
“You’re not invisible to me.”
I huffed a bitter laugh in response, shaking my head, because the last three weeks painted a different picture. Plus, I was too preoccupied with the crushing burden of thoughts and emotions I hadn’t realized I was feeling.
“You said you wouldn’t pick on me any more or less than your other students, but you lied. You’re an outstanding teacher, Luca, but you’re also a liar. Why won’t you teach me? Everyone else gets to debate with you, share ideas, challenge you, be challenged by you. Everyone else gets papers so covered in red ink with your thoughts and ideas that they look like evidence from a crime scene. But mine is white. Mine is blank. Mine is empty. You give me nothing.”
An irritating tear rolled down my cheek and I swiped at it angrily, furious with myself for crying even a little.
“Everyone else gets to have you,” I whispered brokenly. “And I get nothing.”
The muscle at his jaw ticked, but otherwise he remained still. Standing like a perfect, impervious statue. Glaring at me.
I needed a minute before I trusted my voice again and looking at his impassive features made my chest hurt, so I dropped my eyes to the carpet and gathered several steadying, mindful breaths.
What am I even doing here?
My anger deflated in the face of my foolishness, leaving me feeling wretched—truly wretched—and miserable.
What do you hope to accomplish, Anna? You’re making a fool of yourself. What do you want from him?
“Something. Anything,” I whispered to myself.
That’s pathetic. Why are you doing this?
I sighed sadly, the ache in my chest intensifying. I had the sudden sensation of being hollowed out, because the voice inside my head was right. I was pathetic. I had ridiculous, unrequited feelings for a statue.
I needed to leave.
I turned from him and reached for my bag, tugging it on my shoulder. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him again, so I directed a short wave at the room. “Right. Well . . . as always, thanks for the stimulating chat.”
My hand closed over the knob and I’d opened the door just three inches before it was slammed shut again. Luca’s open palm was pressed against the wooden door, level with my face. He’d pushed it closed and now stood directly behind me.
I didn’t have a moment to register shock, because in the very next second I was turned. He pulled the bag from my arm, pushed my back against the door, and kissed me.
Part 8
** ANNA **
He groaned.
Or was that me?
Not that it mattered, and not that I possessed the higher brain function at present required to debate the matter, but I was pretty sure we were lost in each other to an equivalent degree.
He ki
ssed me. A deep, searching, demanding kiss that tasted like urgency and annihilated restraint. And he placed his hands on me, under my shirt, his fine fingers digging into the skin of my back, pulling me against him even as he roughly pressed my body against the door with his body.
It took me point-five seconds to move beyond my shock, and when I did my response was instinctual, primitive. I melted against him, opening my mouth and searching for his tongue. I sucked on it, so very hungry for the taste of him, and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, yanking it from his pants.
Holy wow, I didn’t care how I got here, how we’d arrived at this moment, but I never wanted it to end. I wanted to drown in him, in the hot, claiming slide of his mouth, in this dizzy combination of euphoria and uncertainty.
I touched him—his glorious stomach, sides, and back—and shivered at the contact. His muscles tensed beneath my fingertips, his skin hot, and his body so very reactive to my touch. Luca made a sound like a growl in the back of his throat, pressing his thigh insistently between my legs, shifting it up and then down with a purposeful and brazen movement. My heart slammed against my ribcage as lust pooled low in my abdomen.
And then someone knocked on the door.
Three quick raps followed by, “Professor Kroft?”
The voice—close behind me, just beyond the door—crashed over my brain, body, and libido like a bucket of ice water. It was Taylor.
Abruptly stiff as a board, I sucked in a startled breath. My eyes flew open, crashing into his. Comprehending where I was, who I was with, and what we’d just been doing, a spike of disbelief and frenzied panic coursed through my veins.
Yet, to my utter surprise, Luca didn’t appear at all flustered.
No. Not panicked.
Not even startled.
More like . . . a heady mixture of insatiability and irritation.
His stare singed me as he calmly mouthed, Shhh.
She knocked again. “It’s Taylor. I . . . I wanted to talk to you about my paper. I saw your car in the parking lot and thought, if you have a free moment now—”
“Make an appointment.” Luca’s tone was tight and controlled. He held my gaze captive, the heat of his palms still burning my skin.
I sensed my classmate hesitate before responding. “I would, but I’m usually working during your office hours and—”
“I’m busy with another student,” Luca snapped, his voice now unyielding and laced with hostility. “Make an appointment.”
I flinched at the word student, my eyes falling to his throat as I tried to swallow. Heat flooded my neck and cheeks.
Crap. Crap. Craaaaaaaaaaaap.
“Oh. Sorry, sorry. I guess I’ll schedule an appointment or come back later.” Her voice faded, followed by dull footsteps leading away from the door. Meanwhile, I held my breath, staring at his bowtie, battling the crushing wave of turmoil holding my throat and lungs hostage.
His hands were still on my body, wrapped around my waist and digging into my back. Luca’s muscular leg still pressed shamelessly against the apex of my thighs. I felt his eyes on me, weighted like a sandbag laying on my chest.
“Anna,” he said, drawing my focus to him, his voice just above a whisper.
Even so, I jumped at the sound of my name, my fingers falling from his torso as though caught with my hand in the cookie jar, and I automatically responded, “Professor Kroft.”
He winced. And then he closed his eyes. And then he exhaled.
I stared at him, the severely beautiful lines of his face, and attempted to find the right words to express the many colors and shapes of my emotions vying for dominance. I was part elation, part trepidation, and part craving a gin and tonic.
But before I could give voice to my thoughts, Luca stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning, walking several paces away to the center of his office.
He cleared his throat once, then said in a firm voice, “You should leave.”
. . .
. . .
. . .
Ugh.
His words landed like a physical blow and the wind was forced from my lungs, leaving me breathless.
And wretched.
Breathless and Wretched, the new fragrance by Calvin Klein.
My gaze moved over the expanse of his back, his broad shoulders encased in a white dress shirt, presently untucked because of me. He felt distant, much farther away than the five steps he’d placed between us.
If I’d been a different kind of nice, I might’ve sauntered across the room, slid my arms around him, and whispered naughty alternatives in his ear.
But I wasn’t that kind of nice. I was the take-people-at-their-word nice. And he wanted me to leave.
A sharp ache filling my chest, I retrieved my backpack, not quite able to lift it to my shoulder, and turned from the sight of him. A million thoughts circled my brain as I gripped the doorknob and twisted it.
Numbly, I stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind me. But I didn’t leave. I couldn’t. I was caught in a labyrinth of turmoil and indecision, unsure if I was upset by what had happened, by the kiss and by Taylor’s disruption, or happy, or relieved, or . . . what I was.
A sound of movement from inside Luca’s office spurred my feet into action. I jogged quickly away, down the hall, out of the Russian Studies Department, and outside to tepid heat of a mid-summer evening. As I unlocked my car, wading through my mess of feelings about the kiss and subsequent interruption and rejection, I decided three things:
I liked being kissed by Luca Kroft. I liked it a lot. A. Lot.
I was upset and angry and (as of yet, some undetermined level of) hurt that he’d dismissed me afterward.
We would never be a we, because we were doomed. I was goofy. And he was . . . not goofy. Again, we were two different kinds of nice, and never the twain shall meet.
Because of things 1, 2, and 3—and because my drama-free, sedate existence appealed to me more than hot kisses paired with riding the roller coaster of rejection and failure—I was going to late-withdraw from Professor Kroft’s class, thereby greatly reducing the chances of ever seeing him again.
Adventures were overrated. I was done with adventures.
Worst of all, I still genuinely liked Luca Kroft. I admired him. At least, I admired the version of him he shared freely with everyone but me.
Being perpetually ignored and then rejected by a person I admired made me want to cry into a big pillow and listen to The Cure while watching Old Yeller and reading the world statistics about the Zika virus.
But I wouldn’t.
Instead, I would act. I would do something to extract myself from the overwhelming and oppressive feelings inspired by the last several weeks.
Swallowing thickly, I pulled the smartphone from my bag with unsteady fingers, navigated to my student account, and selected the dropdown box labeled enrollment status. Without allowing myself to debate the matter, I chose “late-withdraw” and hit the submit button, waiting just long enough for the next screen to load, confirming my selection, before turning off my phone and stuffing it in my bag.
The interior of my car had become tyrannically hot and judgmental. The word coward bounced around my brain, as though the upholstery of my aging Honda Civic had whispered the accusation in my ear.
I ignored the creeping doubt in favor of rewarding my pragmatism and swift action with a new jigsaw puzzle. Puzzles wouldn’t kiss me one moment, then push me away the next.
No. Unlike moody, gorgeous, brilliant Russian lit professors, puzzles were safe. Puzzles were solvable. Puzzles didn’t move my soul and inspire me to wish for things.
Most importantly, puzzles couldn’t break my heart.
Part 9
** ANNA **
I felt better, more at peace with my decision to withdraw as days turned into weeks. Admittedly, I missed listening to the debates during class as well engaging in discussions with my classmates outside of class, because I’d enjoyed the subject matter so much. I also m
issed Luca. I missed his brilliance. I missed listening to his lectures. I missed being challenged on a visceral level.
But gone were the emotional highs and lows associated with seeing him and being ignored by him. Gone were the weekly disappointments as well as the thrill of being inspired.
Ah well.
Such was the life of an unrepentant tranquility-monger.
Therefore, peace reigned and all was as it should be . . . until I received a call from my advisor.
“There’s no easy way to say this, Anna, so I’m just going to give it to you straight. Professor Kroft is challenging your late-withdraw.”
I frowned at the half-solved ten-thousand-piece puzzle littering my kitchen table, the one I’d purchased to congratulate myself on my quick and pragmatic thinking.
“What does that mean?”
“It means he says you didn’t discuss the withdrawal with him ahead of time and he isn’t allowing it.”
“Isn’t allowing it? Why does he have a say?”
“Late-withdraws are meant to be for-cause withdraws, used for emergencies—a death in the family, a change of circumstance. Technically, it requires documentation and agreement from the professor.”
I chewed on my bottom lip, my stomach and heart bouncing around my torso as though my hips had provided a trampoline.
“But I’ve done a late-withdraw before without this kind of requirement.”
“I know most professors in the engineering department don’t impose the rule, but it’s meant to provide a mechanism for students to withdraw from a class free of penalty when there is a significant event interfering with the student’s ability to complete the course. Whether to enforce the policy or not is left to the discretion of the professor.”
I sighed, dread rising up to meet me as I sunk into a chair. “So, what do I do? What are my options?”
Professor Cartwright also sighed and I could almost picture her expression of frustration. “These arts and humanities types . . . I’ve never had one of my engineering students go through this before. But, from what I understand, you have three options: you can take an F in the course, or you can rejoin the class and try to catch up, or you can speak to Professor Kroft and get him to sign off on the late-withdraw.”
