Fall Semester (17 page)

“Maren,...I can’t do this,” he whispered, hoarsely.

“What...?” She was still breathless, still surfacing from the tumult of the kiss, but the look in his eyes—the look that said she had ruined everything—brought her to her senses with an icy suddenness.

“I’m sorry...I can’t,” he said, again.

“Oh my God!” She pulled out of his grasp and stood up.

What have I done? He’s a professor!

A sinkhole of shame opened up in her belly and swallowed everything except a shiny, new pain that lanced through her.

“Oh my God.”

“Maren,...I-” He stood, but she could not even look at him.

“Dr. Vashal, I’m so sorry,” she stammered, heading for the house, but barking her shin painfully against the wrought iron table as she did.

“No, Maren,
I’m
sorry.” He moved toward her, but she side-stepped him.

“I have to go,” she said, turning away and bolting through the door, ready to run home that instant until she skidded on his wood floors in his socks.

Shit
. She had left her clothes and shoes in the bathroom.

“Maren, wait!” She heard him come through the door behind her.

Realizing that there was no way to make this any less humiliating, she turned down the hall to the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

She picked up her shoes and sat on the edge of the tub.

I will not cry here. I. WILL NOT. CRY. HERE.

But this proved to be a tremendous challenge as she stripped off the socks that she’d thought so sweet of him to give her. She didn’t waste time changing into her own clothes; she just pulled on her socks and shoes so she could get the hell out of there.

When her laces were tied, she looked at the door of the bathroom with dread. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and stood up. She gathered her running clothes, placed a hand on the knob, and with a silent prayer for divine intervention, opened the door.

He stood in the hallway holding his car keys and wearing an unreadable expression. Maren noticed he had put on his shoes.

“I can walk home. It’s not even 9 o’clock.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, grimly.

She sighed, still willing herself not to cry, and let a mask of indifference settle over her features.

“Fine.” She turned on her heel and walked through the house to the carport. As she passed through the kitchen, highlights of the evening assaulted her. What they had laughed about. Talked about. Shared with their eyes. Could she have misread everything? Beneath her disgrace, which drenched her, Maren felt confusion...and a blooming anger.

Outside, she wanted to run, desperately, but it would only make her look more foolish, so she sunk into the passenger seat of his car and stared fixedly out of the side window as he got in with what seemed like glacial slowness and closed the door.

She waited for him to start the car. He did not.

“Maren,...This is all my fault.” His voice sounded papery and dry, but Maren could not look at him.

“Please, just take me home.”

She heard him place the key into the ignition, but he didn’t start it.

“You don’t understand,” he continued. “It’s not that—”

“
Please
don’t say anything. I feel humiliated enough as it is.”

He was quiet for a moment before starting the car. In silence, he pulled the car out of the driveway and onto St. Patrick Street. Maren told herself that it would be such a short drive, she could even hold her breath until she was home, but in truth, the ride seemed the longest of her life. In the shadows between two street lamps on St. Thomas, she chanced a glance in his direction. He sat rigid in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel like he could bend it. Seeing his misery only served to confirm that what she had done was abhorrent to him.

Maren felt her eyes well with tears as they pulled onto Louisa, and he had not come to a full stop in her little driveway when she flung the door wide, leapt out, and slammed it shut behind her.

She dashed up the steps and through her kitchen door, terrifying Tuva who sat at the dinette with books spread around her.

“Mahreen!” she gasped, nearly toppling the wooden chair as she jumped up. “What is wrong?”

Maren had wept in front of her roommate before, for her father and her family, but this was different. This was not grief or fear. This was shame. As the tears started streaming down her face, she waved Tuva away and strode to her room.

“I can’t talk right now,” she managed. Perry was fast on her heels and slipped into her room as she shut the door. She collapsed on her bed and felt the terrier land near her and begin frantically licking her tears. Only now, alone, did she allow herself to contemplate the full scope of her mistake. As she absorbed each awful truth, she cried more furiously. Each seemed equally cruel and bitter to her.
Awful Truth #1:
Despite whatever they were calling it, Maren knew that she wanted more than friendship from Malcolm Vashal. From the moment he’d pulled her into his house, she’d felt sure that he wanted the same. But, clearly—and most painfully—he did not.
Awful Truth #2:
She had thrown herself at him. In her mind’s eye, she watched herself pounce on him and proceed to devour his face until he physically had to push her away. How could she have been so forward?
Awful Truth #3:
Clearly, she had lost his friendship by crossing the line. There was no way he would be at ease with her now, no way he could trust her.
Awful Truth #4:
By ruining everything, she had lost the source of joy and buoyancy that even thinking of him over the last two months had given her. Her life suddenly seemed a much darker place without that one bright spot that was completely hers.
Awful Truth #5:
Even though she wanted to crawl into a hole, she would have to go to school tomorrow and risk facing him. Short of withdrawing from the university, nothing could protect her from running into him, though she would try like hell to avoid it.

When Maren thought she had cried enough for each one of these, a new wave of anguish besieged her. This was grief. She mourned the absolute happiness she had felt in his home. And that happiness paled in comparison to the ecstasy that had drowned her the instant that his mouth opened against hers.

Maren hiccupped a breath and lifted her head from her tear-soaked blankets. He
had
opened his mouth to her, hadn’t he? And his tongue? It
had
ventured out to seek hers. Right? Had she just imagined these things? Had she imagined everything?

Does it matter?
She asked herself. Maren crawled under her covers, too exhausted to change for bed. She turned out the light and pulled her blanket around her, and feeling Malcolm’s sweatshirt and shorts against her skin, she cried anew into the darkness.

Chapter 18

Malcolm

U
nforgivable. Wretched.
Vergonzoso.
Malcolm knew that he was all of these things and worse. It was all his fault. Despite the feelings he’d surely developed for Maren, he should have seen it coming. He should have admitted to himself that she was beginning to have feelings for him. He should have stopped this before it started.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, hours after taking Maren home. He was tempted to dress, head out to find a bar downtown, and instigate a fight. He needed someone to punch him in the face.

Stupid, selfish cabrón!

He had been careless with someone far better than himself. He felt repugnant, criminal, even. He had known that associating with him could harm her, and he allowed her to do it anyway. Malcolm kept replaying the look of devastation on her face when he had so ungallantly pushed her away; the pain in her voice when she begged him not to speak; the tears in her eyes when he had wordlessly let her go.

Worst of all, he had let her believe that he did not want her.

Nothing could be further from the truth. He wanted her with every cell in his body, every particle of his being. Her kiss had evanesced him. When she had leaned in and met him with her lips, his reason, all time and space, everything that wasn’t her burned away. She tasted of honeysuckle and hunger, and the longing in her advance conquered him so that he surrendered to the pull of desire. Her lips were a prophecy, her tongue a gospel, and in her, he tasted salvation. It wasn’t until she put her hands to his face that his world with its order and consequences righted itself, and he knew he had to stop.

He did not have a care for himself. He thought only of her. She was too innocent to know that getting involved with him would have been the blight of her youth. She deserved better. Far better than what he could give her.

But he had hurt her, and this he bitterly regretted. Malcolm could think of nothing to lessen the sting, but he still wanted a chance to explain. He rolled over in bed to look at the alarm clock. 1:47 a.m. He decided that he would try to speak to her at school the next day, and if she refused, he would try to have his say in a letter. But he hoped that Maren would hear him out. It was the only way he could imagine an opportunity to see her—alone—and as wretched and shameful as he knew he was, Malcolm did not want to think about his ill-fated evening being their last encounter.

He awoke the following morning to Ricardo sitting on his chest, staring down at him with what Malcolm was sure was feline disapproval.

“Yes, I agree completely,” he said, laying a hand on the cat’s head and scratching behind his ears. Ricardo’s purring vibrated through Malcolm’s lungs “I can’t expect her to forgive me, but I’m glad you do.”

As if to show him that he was wrong, Ricardo sprung from the bed and darted out of the room. Malcolm got up and made coffee, remembering endearing little details of the night before and shaking his head at the shambles their evening had become. Before he had pushed her away, he had luxuriated in every moment.

Damn it.

As he drank his second cup, he resolved to send her a text to see if they could possibly meet today. It seemed the only way to communicate with her without approaching her. He didn’t want to upset her again. He knew that she taught at 9 o’clock. It was only just before 7 a.m., but he wanted to catch her before they ran the risk of colliding into each other at school. His plan was to see if she’d be willing to come to his office after the Creative Writing meeting that afternoon.

He stared at his phone for a good five minutes before mustering the courage to press send.

Friday, Oct. 27:
7:02 a.m.

Could I please see you today after the CW meeting?

He sat at his kitchen table, waiting, hoping for a response. After another five minutes, he got up, stuck the phone in his pocket, and went to the bathroom to shave. After he’d lathered his face with the shaving brush, he nearly sliced his cheek open when the phone chimed. He dropped the razor in the sink and rinsed and dried his hands before reading her response.

Friday, Oct. 27:
7:11 a.m.

I don’t think so.

Malcolm sighed. He already missed her. The damage of how he’d hurt her was so clear. All of her previous messages had been nothing but cheerful. He cursed himself again.

Friday, Oct. 27:
7:12 a.m.

Please. I need a chance to apologize and explain.

Friday, Oct. 27:
7:13 a.m.

You don’t need to explain anything to me, Dr. Vashal. I understand.

Friday, Oct. 27:
7:14 a.m.

PLEASE
don’t call me that. And, yes, I do need to explain. You DON’T understand.

He finished shaving and waited. When she did not respond after another ten minutes, he texted her again.

Friday, Oct. 27:
7:27 a.m.

Please just come to my office after the meeting. I promise that I won’t keep you long.

Friday, Oct. 27:
7:36 a.m.

Alright. But please don’t speak to me at school until then.

Her request sliced through him, but he quickly reassured her.

Friday, Oct. 27:
7:37 a.m.

As you wish. You won’t even see me until the CW meeting.

Malcolm resumed every tactic he had employed after the conference to steer himself out of her path. He took the north stairs; he checked his mail in the department office when she was in class, and, just in case, he purposely arrived to his own classes three minutes late so that he reduced the chances of her catching sight of him in the hallways. He wanted to make sure she did not see him; however, unlike the weeks prior to her illness,
he
was not trying to avoid seeing
her.
On the contrary, when he did catch a glimpse of her beautiful braid disappearing down the hall as he set out to get lunch, his breath hitched, and he froze in his tracks. All he could think about was her kiss. When she was no longer in sight, he silently gave thanks that she was at least in the building and he had laid eyes on her at all.

He was also grateful for his two morning classes. They were the only hours in the day when he was even remotely productive, and this was simply because lecturing kept him from staring idly into the middle distance, castigating himself with one breath and remembering the plumpness of her lips with another.

It felt like an eternity had passed when 3:00 finally arrived. And, still, he deferred to her. He made himself six minutes late to the meeting, knowing that Maren would be there on time. He wanted her to find a place to sit—among her friends—and be as comfortable as she could be before his unwelcome presence disturbed her.

But to his horror, when he entered room 504, he found that the only remaining seat was one at the little cluster of round tables directly across from her. And at this meeting—he was ironically disappointed to discover—no one smoked; any excuse to linger at the door was baseless. Still, he stood there until Jasper Rainey had to open his flabby, dry-lipped mouth.

“No need to lurk in doorways, Vashal. Come and join the rest of us,” the old fart gestured to the seat across from Maren, and rather than argue, Malcolm took it. Maren did not look up or acknowledge him in any way, but Malcolm knew that she had been aware of him even before he had entered the room. Her cheeks were colored, and instead of the usual comely blush that brightened her face, blotches of red dappled her neck, making her distress and discomfort more than obvious to him. Malcolm felt himself wincing for her and quickly tried to focus on the meeting’s agenda.

MacIntosh was discussing the DSWC Chapbook, the annual publication of all of the winning entries from the various genres of the writing competition.

“I still could use two other students to help put it together,” he said, looking around the room for any volunteers. MacIntosh waited a few seconds before changing tactics. “Let’s see...Maren, would you take on the poetry section, and...Rob...what about handling the drama?”

Malcolm saw that Maren had scarcely been listening; she looked terrified. MacIntosh misinterpreted the trepidation in her expression and tried to cajole her.

“It won’t be so bad, Maren. Just a few hours of editing and arranging the poetry entries and writing bios for the winners. Can I count on you?”

Malcolm saw that she had recovered somewhat, and he was relieved for her sake when she consented to the task.

“And we need to get this to the university press office by Nov. 15, but that is the week that Dr. St. Martin and I will be presenting at AWP...Dr. Vashal, would you be so kind as to oversee the final stages of the publication this year?”

Malcolm’s eyes shot to Maren’s, and she closed hers with a look of defeat. He hoped she would understand why he could not simply say no.

“Of course,...though I doubt Terrence, Gardner, and the others will need much supervision.” He faced Rob Terrence as he said this, but he watched Maren out of the corner of his eye. Did she know that he meant to spare her as much as he could?

For the rest of the meeting, Malcolm fought and lost a civil war. He would tell himself not to look at Maren, to pay attention to the agenda, to contribute in a meaningful way. Of course, he had to
keep
telling himself these things because he would find his eyes inevitably drawn to her, and it would not be until he would see her tremble or fidget in her seat that he would realize himself and try to redirect.

When the meeting finally ended, he left with haste, knowing better than to try to walk with Maren to his office. Once there, he couldn’t sit. Instead, he paced in front of his desk, listening through the open door for the sound of her footfalls.

He waited.

Five minutes passed. Malcolm told himself to be patient. Ten minutes passed. He wondered if she would stand him up without a word. He could not imagine it. She was too kind.

But don’t you deserve it?
He thought.

He debated with himself whether or not her virtues were greater than his vices for another five minutes before he heard footsteps as rapid as rain coming down the hallway.

She stepped up to his office door, clutching her satchel like a shield. Her lovely brow was furrowed as though she expected pain. As for himself, Malcolm was a riot of sensations. His heart could recall nothing but their kiss, and it pounded against his chest to be near hers again, but his stomach churned over the aftermath, threatening to humiliate him.

“Please come in,” he managed.

It wasn’t until she stepped inside of her own accord that he dared approach her to shut the door. When he turned to face her, he realized that she was only a foot or two away, and if he abandoned himself to it, he could have her in his arms in an instant. Malcolm found that he was sweating, and he wiped a hand across his forehead.

“Could we sit?” He gestured to the captain’s chairs where they’d had lunch only two days before. Maren bit her lip and nodded. She sat on the edge of her seat, with the bag in her lap still serving as a barrier between them. Malcolm followed suit and took a deep breath.

“I need to explain two things,” he started, quickly. “Once you understand them, I promise, I will leave you alone.”

Maren looked ready for the worst.

“Just say it,” she prompted, a measure of bitterness lacing her words. Malcolm forged ahead.

“The first thing is....that I wanted you to kiss me last night—”

Her eyes shot open.

“What?!?”

“Or,...rather,...I wanted to kiss you. I
have
wanted to for a while now,” he continued in a rush. “But I shouldn’t...And not just because I’m a professor and you’re a student...That’s wrong, no question about it, but that is not the chief reason.”

Maren frowned at him in confusion or disbelief—he couldn’t tell which—her mouth hanging open as if she were about to speak.

“The other thing you have to understand—”

“So, I was right,” she interrupted, catching him off guard. He studied her face, watching her eyes narrow.

“What?”

“I was right. You
did
kiss me back,” she said, sitting up straighter, her brown eyes darkening. He caught the flintiness of her tone, but he pressed on.

“Yes, but that doesn’t matter because—”

“It
does
matter, Malcolm,” Maren insisted, her eyes flashing. “It matters to me.”

At once, Malcolm recognized the Maren from Barnes & Noble, the one who’d challenged Jess Dalton. Maren, the Righteous. He relished her arrival before getting back to his point.

“Yes, but what I’m trying to say is that’s no excuse. The other thing you have to understand is that I am bad for you.”

Maren whipped her head back.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth, Maren. Trust me. No good could come from you getting involved with me, and you deserve only good things.”

“But you are a good thing,” she said, leaning in, looking mystified at him. Her eyes told him that she believed what she said, and something taut unspooled inside him. Her belief was an opiate. One hit, and he might lose himself to the lie and take her with him. He knew he had to make himself clear.

“No, I’m not. I’m a rotten human being, and I can’t bring anyone happiness. The best you would get from me would be regret and disappointment.”

Maren shut her eyes and raised her brows in astonishment.

“Malcolm,...what are you talking about?” She blinked her eyes open and looked at him, bemused. “You’ve already brought me happiness, and I’m only just getting to know you.”

“I know, but,...you see, the more you got to know me...if we got involved...the more you would stand to lose.” He struggled to make her understand. He
had
to make her understand. “I’ve already been down that road.”