He rubs a hand over his face. “Shit, Sawyer. I kind of figured, but…shit.”
“That’s not the problem. She found out what happened in New York this summer.”
“All of it?”
“The part where Christina told everyone we were sleeping together.”
I was worried sick about Olivia when she didn’t meet me, but when she opened the door of her room at the hotel, face twisted with pain and accusation, I knew something was horribly wrong.
When I realized what had happened, that she wouldn’t give me the benefit of the doubt, an awful numbness seeped in.
No one ever gave me the benefit of the doubt. Why would she?
Because she was different.
Didn’t help that another student walked in on us. But there’s no way Madison knows what she saw. If she thinks she does, she’s wrong.
“You going to tell her the rest of what happened?”
“I haven’t decided.”
He grimaces. “Then go. Sell the house and walk away.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Then why do you look as if it’s the last thing you want to do?”
Frustration rises up. “I’ll leave her thinking this meant nothing. She meant nothing. I know, you’re going to tell me I can’t feel anything for her.”
He turns to a picture of his wife, Andy only a baby in her arms. “Don’t turn your back on feelings. You don’t know how long you might have with someone.”
“Seriously? I was always the ‘leap first’ one, and you were the ‘don’t do that, you moron’ one.”
His neck flexes, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Sometimes I look at Andy, and I see his mom, and all I can think about are the ways I should’ve been better. But the next second I remember I still have him, and I’m grateful. Losing someone you love hurts. But stopping loving once you’ve started...that’s even harder.”
“She was your world. This is different.”
“You care about Olivia. You can bluster all you want but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s your feelings that have you running.”
I flinch. Everyone in my life has left, and she doesn’t owe me anything.
So why does her rejection feel as if someone’s digging under my skin with a blunt instrument?
Because every second I spent with her feels like a magic I never let myself believe in.
She’s sweet and innocent and smart and brave. I wanted to possess her, to prove there was more to life than she knew. But once I had her, I was the one possessed. Making excuses to see her, to spend time with her, to show her new things.
I shake my head to clear it. “Give me the saw or I’ll rent one.”
With a sigh, Daniel leads me out to the garage. “You gone through your dad’s things yet?”
“The realtor wanted the house cleaned out so she could take pictures. I’ve thrown stuff in boxes, and I’ll move those into the garage this week. Everything except his office.”
“That have something to do with it being his favorite place, the one with the most memories?”
“I’m not afraid of ghosts, or memories.”
“Right.” He gets the saw down off the wall. Instead of letting go when I reach for it, he holds on. “It’s an art, Sawyer. Figuring out how you feel. Telling the ones who matter before it’s too late.”
“Feelings are bullshit. We’re judged by our actions.”
But as I carry the saw back across the street, I cut a look up at the window of my dad’s office.
I head across campus to my office the next morning, twisting the ring on my finger and imagining I can still taste Olivia Barclay on my tongue.
After ripping the deck apart, I found a load of patio stones beneath. Preserved as if they were going to be used then forgotten.
Still thinking over Daniel’s comments about knowing what to say to a person after they’re gone, I went up to my dad’s office to look for a record of the order. I didn’t find that, but I found other things.
The receipt for his fish tank and fish.
The bill said to hold for Olivia.
What the hell?
It means nothing.
Except…they were closer than she let on.
She’s giving me shit for what happened back in New York, meanwhile she’s hiding how well she knew my dad.
There are no classes during fall break, but plenty of people remain on campus. Grad students are working on their projects, plus faculty catch up on research and marking.
Inside the doors of the engineering department, I head up the stairs to the second floor and spin my keys around my finger as I walk to my mailbox. On the way back toward my office, I notice the sign saying the elevator is out of order.
“People can take the stairs,” the dean boasts as I’m headed past.
I pull up, thinking of a student in my second-year class who uses a wheelchair to get around campus. “Not all people. Betty,” I call to the admin assistant who’s walking by. “What’s facilities doing on this? Tell them they’ll have a lawsuit on their hands.”
“Who’s going to report us?” the dean asks.
“I will.”
His expression transforms from dismissive to irate in a second. I don’t stick around to enjoy it.
“Professor Redmond,” he calls as I start back down the hall. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about a very serious matter. An indiscretion with one of your students.”
The hairs on my neck lift, but I force myself to keep walking to the door of my office.
“We were going through some records and security realized Professor Lancaster’s keycard was still walking around. Or rather a copy was,” he pants as he catches up. “We looked at surveillance of who was entering the building at the same time.”
“And?”
His eyes glint. “And it was Olivia Barclay.”
The name makes me angry, either because of the way he said it or because hearing it twists the knife in my gut deeper.
“She’s a good student. I’m sure it was some kind of error.”
I push my door in, but he doesn’t get the hint.
“Impossible, and it’s in violation of the rules. Don’t make excuses for her. Students are adults, capable of making their own decisions and suffering the consequences.”
Angry snippets of conversation from years past echo in my mind.
“This is your fault.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why do these results show you did?”
“Is that what happened five years ago?” I ask, rounding on him. “You made a decision and I suffered the consequences?”
His jaw clenches. “This is a place to learn, Professor.”
“I think I’ve learned all that Russell has to teach me.”
“I doubt that very much.”
He heads back down the hall without a backward glance.
I’m at the campus bookstore finishing placing a textbook order when awareness prickles my skin under my shirt and jacket.
I turn to spot her scouring the shelves a few feet away.
She’s wearing a cashmere sweater a shade lighter than her skin. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. The way she’s bent at the waist means her skirt rides halfway up her thighs, but it’s her profile I’m fixated on—dark lashes, flushed cheeks, parted lips as she searches for whatever prize she’s seeking.