Page 57 of Follows with Intent

“But I hope you have a lovely evening,” Nico said as he slid past them. “Oh, and Gio, remember that old people’s skin is delicate, so, you know: watch your teeth.”

Meza let out a sharp breath. Gio murmured something. Nico didn’t look back, and a moment later, the door at the bottom of the stairwell closed.

He showered until the shaking in his legs stopped. Then he padded to his room. No towel, mostly because he’d forgotten one. But also because he couldn’t bring himself to care. If Dr. Chapman spotted him, the old man was going to get an eyeful.

Jadon had been right, he thought as he stood in the tiny room, considering the clothes laid out on the bed. Right about the pretense. Right about Nico’s desperation. Right about the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Quarter-zips and button-ups and cardigans. So many goddamn chinos. Nico hadn’t even brought his best tanks—just athletic ones in neutral colors. Who the fuck was I kidding, he thought, and a wave of tears came again. Self-pity, mostly. But also frustration. And anger at himself, for having believed so much bullshit. For having wanted so badly to believe it.

He slipped into Jadon’s hoodie. It was warm, light, soft. His underwear was gone, so he found a pair of joggers and pulled them on. He’d made a mess, shoving everything into one suitcase, so now he went to work packing things the way he should have. Like an adult, Emery would have said. That made him smile, but it also made him want to cry.

It had been an overreaction, which was classic Nico. Letting his temper slip. His emotions getting the best of him. Pretty on the outside, one of his exes had told him once, and an ugly little fucker on the inside. And wasn’t that the truth? Because Jadon hadn’t been trying to ruin Nico’s career—Nico had blown the whole thing out of proportion. Hell, even saying he had a career was blowing things out of proportion. What had actually happened? Jadon had been worried for him. Jadon had been…protective. And, yes, a little jealous, which Nico could admit that he liked. The memory flashed of a kiss in the Pretty Pretty, of the untapped well of Emery’s rage, and his face heated with embarrassment. So, maybe Jadon had been out of line, first in speaking for Nico when he answered Dr. Meza’s question, and then when he had insisted he knew what was best. But the ugly stuff, the hurtful things, those hadn’t started until Nico had struck first—until he’d ramped everything up, higher and higher, the way he always did. His face got hot as he remembered how easily Jadon had identified Nico’s hypocrisy.

With a sound of disgust, he gave up on folding the clothes neatly, shoved the rest of them in the second roller bag, and decided that was good enough. He was fairly sure Emery wasn’t going to inspect his luggage—fairly sure was about as good as it got with Emery, who might, at any point, decide that Nico’s packing required his supervision. He’d order takeout, hole up in the dorm room, and yes, unashamedly barricade the door with the spare bed. And tomorrow, Emery would be here, and he’d go home, and this would all be over.

A knock at the door sent a flush of startlement prickling through him. He stared at the door, trying to tell if he’d engaged the thumb lock. Then another knock came and, “Nico? It’s Maya.”

She looked fantastic—a wrap dress with a chunky cardigan, gold bangles of varying sizes on one arm, a heavy gold necklace that managed to look both old-fashioned and stylish at the same time. She looked at him, looked past him, and then asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m all right. I guess.”

She gave him another appraising look. “And you’re not going to dinner? Don’t let that asshole win, Nico. There’s still time, and you deserve to celebrate—Dr. Young practically fell out of her chair telling you how much she liked your paper.”

“No, she said—she said I made some good points. And anyway, it’s not—” He caught himself about to tell her that Jadon wasn’t an asshole, and that it wasn’t about winning. But he changed it to: “I think I’m going to stay in tonight.”

“Want to talk about it?”

They ended up on the bed (the clean one), and Nico told her about all of it—the stalker, Jadon, the weird half-argument about North and Shaw that had escalated into something uglier when they’d run into Dr. Meza, and then the fight in the dorm room.

“That slimy piece of shit,” Maya said.

“Honestly, Maya, Jadon’s a good guy. I think it was a lot of bad stuff happening at once, and I didn’t make it any better.”

“No, that’s obviously at least fifty percent your fault. I’m talking about Meza. I thought he might be a scumbag—he’s too smooth, you know? But I didn’t think he’d proposition a grad student at a seminar in exchange for publication.”

“Yeah, well, that offer is off the table.” Maya’s thick eyebrows knitted together, and Nico added, “I think he and Gio already had round one. I caught them in the stairwell.”

“What a sleaze.”

“Who cares? It’s over.”

“I care. Assholes like him get away with this kind of behavior—” With an obvious effort, she stopped herself. “I won’t go on my rant.”

“Rant away.”

“No, you already know how I feel.”

“But you’ll feel better if you tell me again.”

She thought about it. And then she said, “In the first place, the only reason he gets away with this is because he’s a white man in an institution dominated by white men, and he uses marginalized people’s vulnerabilities against them.”

It went on for a bit after that.

“Feel better?” Nico asked.

“No,” she snapped. “Now what are you going to do about Jadon?”

“What am I going to do? Nothing.”

Maya gave him a disgusted look.

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