Crush.
He uses the word crush.
That’s what I have a feeling I will end up being before it starts, in the beginning, if there is one, and definitely at the end. I will end up crushed in one way or another.
Chapter 6
Tristan
There’s something to be said about modern technology, specifically in terms of the internet and the amount of information available within seconds. With a simple Google search and a quick glance over some information, you can know more about a person than you could learn from them personally during a conversation. It’s also helping me put a large distraction between myself and today’s date.
Society has developed this nasty habit of posting their every thought online, whether those thoughts be witty, insightful truths, or absolutely ridiculous bullshit that should have remained in their brains.
The steady flow of available information is exactly why I’ve been sitting at my laptop for nearly fifteen minutes, battling with myself as to whether or not I want to complete a Google search for one Miss Nora Morgan.
After our little waltz in my office, I’ve wanted to know everything that I could about her. What is she like outside of class? How long has she been a model? Why is she in school now much later than others? Does she have a family? Friends?
After the accusations she threw my way about following, or in her words, stalking her, the last thing I should be doing is researching more about her online.
But… I need to know.
I take a quick glance toward my office door to ensure that it’s closed. The last thing I need is someone seeing my screen covered in the “research” I’m doing on Nora.
I fire up the search engine and type her name into the bar, pausing just for a moment to consider once more if I should go against my better judgment and press send or if I should close the computer and walk away to keep things professional.
Who am I kidding? The last thing I want is to remain professional with her.
Click.
A flurry of results fills the page and the first thing I find is a link to her modeling agency, and of course, I click through to see her portfolio. When I do, her beautiful face fills my screen. I click through each picture, seeing her in a variety of poses, in different outfits, full face of makeup or completely bare faced.
She’s the most gorgeous woman that I’ve ever seen in my life, and that’s not something I would say lightly.
Rounding back to my Google search, I keep scrolling, trying to find more information, but to my surprise, there isn’t much to see.
Aside from her professional portfolio, she has a couple of social media accounts, but they are all set to private, so I’m not able to see anything about them at all.
Interesting.
Most people her age are more than eager to show off their photos on Instagram and Facebook, especially those that make a living posing for a camera.
This girl is different. I’m learning that more and more every day.
I reach my arms above my head, giving my back a little stretch, then head back to the main search results.
The lack of information is honestly staggering, but the word obituary pulls my immediate focus.
When the article opens, a young woman with dark hair smiles in a square photo with a simple paragraph next to it.
Melanie Morgan, age 42, left this world unexpectedly on June 14th.
She was a light to all she knew and will be deeply missed.
She was preceded in death by her mother, Abigail, and her father, Benjamin.
She is survived by her only daughter, Nora.
In lieu of flowers, donations to Nora’s college fund are requested.
My stomach is turning with every word I read. She lost her mom as a child and my heart aches for her.
There was no mention of a father to her or a husband to her mother, so I’m not sure if Nora even had a family after that point. That poor fucking girl.
I kill the browser and close my laptop before pushing up from my seat and heading into my office to rummage in my desk drawer for a stiff drink. The sun is starting to set, casting an orange glow through the window when I sit down behind my desk, two fingers of scotch in hand, my mind still reeling.
I still want her, that will never change, but now… I want to help her. I want to care for her. I want to make sure she’s never sad again a day in her life. A decision is made right here and now. If the only way I can help her is by ensuring she has an additional job, the TA position is hers… if she’ll accept it. I don’t care what I have to do or rules I have to break to make that happen.
I can’t explain the connection or the desire that is building inside of me where Miss Nora Morgan is concerned. Honestly, I don’t even want to question it. Thinking about her makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in months, but that can’t be allowed to continue.
I’ve always felt the universe has a way of allowing you to climb high, to escape the darkness for just a moment, then slamming you back down into the ground tenfold.
That’s what happens the moment my email pings and I see that it’s from my attorney and the first line of the email is listed under the subject.
I’m sorry, Tristan. We’re out of options.
***
I am staring at the email like I can beat it into submission with my glare alone. One step closer to regaining some sort of peace with Raissa’s death, some sort of closure with what we’ve gone through, and then… five steps back.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, “come in.”
“And you have the audacity to remind me of my language on rare occasions? What has gotten your knickers in a twist?”
There isn’t enough scotch in the world to soften this blow.
I don’t even remember that I’d asked Adrianna to come talk about my TA stipulation until she knocks on the door.
“Anna. Today is not the day. I mean it.” I can feel the teeth grinding in my mouth with every word, every breath.
She closes the door behind her and comes closer and places her hands on my desk, bending over a bit to see my eyes. “Look at me, Tristan.”
“I said it wasn’t the day. Don’t. We can reschedule this conversation.”
“No, if you can make demands of me, I can do the same of you. You need to tell me what is going on. Don’t treat me as if I don’t know what day it is either.”
Her presence is too close. Way too close. I push my chair back and the noise from the base radiates through the room like fingernails on a chalkboard. I rest my head on the pane of glass overlooking the quad. My fingers brace what feels like my entire body on the slim board of this windowsill.
“I will ask you again, are you going to stand at the window the entire time or are you going to talk to me?” I know she’s still speaking, but I’m frozen by choice within the confines of my thoughts. “Mon fils,” she calls. Adrianna breaks the formality between us very rarely so when she does, it punches through my self-made protection.
“I heard back from my attorneys today. They’ve advised that I drop the civil case against…” I can’t even say his name. It makes me sick. “They say there is nothing more that can be done because of some legal bullshit red tape. It’s over.”
“Oh. Tristan. I don’t know what to say. I know how much you were counting on this litigation to proceed. Even though we never saw eye to eye on it, I’m sorry.”