Page 77 of Tempest

I’m not sure what to say, so I bite my lower lip instead. I’m not current on social norms, but I suspect this isn’t the normal course of student-professor discussions.

“Tempest may be releasing his frustrations on not being able to protect the three of you by being over-zealous in other areas of his life.”

Now I’m getting uncomfortable. I cross my arms over my breasts, afraid my hardening nipples will betray just how over-zealous Tempest has become.

“Like grading students,” Rossi continues, “and coming up with almost impossible topics to write an essay on. Would you agree your relationship with Tempest has changed since your friend was killed?”

I swivel my head to the door before thinking.

“I’m making you uncomfortable.” Rossi clears his throat. “I apologize. I’m only trying to understand my TA. He’s become like a … son to me, and your paper, in particular, caused me some concern. You’re right, Ardyn. Your essay was pristine. I asked you to stay back to try and understand what would have prompted Tempest to grade you so low, and I perhaps mistakenly related it to your interactions with him last year.”

The sincerity in Rossi’s voice slackens my arms, and I rest them back on my lap. “You might not be wrong. I was taken away so quickly that I forgot how it could’ve affected the other people there. Like Clover and Tempest.”

Especially Tempest. I’ve spent most of my time worrying about Clover. Tempest is always so flippant and unaffected that I’d never thought to question how he might’ve absorbed Mila’s death and blamed himself for it. It makes sense, too. My therapy sessions sometimes consisted of misplaced blame. Could his anger towards me be explained by that?

Rossi leans forward, propping his elbows on the table and folding his hands underneath his chin. “Do you remember much about that night?”

He has to tone of seasoned therapists, soft and unsuspecting. Open and sincere. But unlike the safe space they created for me, I’m shying away from him instead. “So many people have asked me that question. Police, my parents, doctors. All I remember is glimpses of us driving, then waking up next to—her.”

Rossi nods sagely. “You and your friends had taken MDMA that night.”

“How do you know that?”

Rossi’s almond eyes widen. “I apologize if that was too forward. It was on the news, and because it involved my top student at the time—Tempest—I remember small details like that.”

“Right. I’m sorry.” I stretch my lips nervously, hoping they’re shaped into a smile. “I don’t enjoy talking about that night, mostly because I’m frustrated at how little I remember.”

Rossi reaches over and pats the top of my hand. There’s nothing sexual about it, and he doesn’t linger improperly, but I’m not comforted by it.

“I understand. Thank you for opening up to me.” Rossi withdraws his hand. “You’ve given me more answers than you think by discussing this with me. I’ll have Tempest change your grade.”

“Thank you.” It’s all I can think of to say. Rossi offers me a placating smile, like I’ve almost reached his target but didn’t quite make it, and I have the overwhelming need to correct my course. My doctors would call it anxiety-related people pleasing. I call it survival in a world I haven’t yet come to understand. “I do have a feeling about Mila’s death, though.”

Rossi pauses in stacking his papers. “You do?”

“Yes, I can’t quite explain it, but … her death didn’t seem natural.”

“I’d think not.” Rossi lowers his chin, his expression forming into the one I most despise. Pity. “You were in a violent crash.”

“No—I mean, yes, we were, but, her neck…” I shake my head, annoyed with myself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Her death was ruled an accident, and enough time has passed that I should accept it by now.”

“You don’t think her death was accidental?” He asks it carefully like he’s approaching uncertain territory.

This is why I don’t bring it up. Because people think I’m crazy, especially if they’ve researched all there is to know about my past, and I’m certain, with Tempest’s help, that Rossi does.

“Never mind.” I swipe my books off the table and stuff them in my back. “I shouldn’t’ve brought it up.”

“No, I’m intrigued, Ardyn. What do you mean by—”

The classroom door bangs open. Both our heads swivel to the sound.

Tempest stands in the doorframe, dirty, bloody, and bruised. My brows shoot up in surprise while Rossi notices Tempest’s presence with mild distaste.

“What,” Tempest asks tightly, “the fuck are you doing?”

He aims his glare at me.

---