Page 121 of Dear Mr. Brody

I didn’t give a shit anymore. I was done hiding.

He looped his thumbs under the straps of his backpack. “Not really.”

“It…” I stammered, my nerves bundling up in knots. “It won’t take long.”

His shoulders sagged and he clenched his jaw.

“Please.”

He made his way down the aisle as the room emptied, and keeping a few feet between us, he said, “I’ll make sure all my missed assignments are in on time.”

“That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

His jaw pulsed again, and God, I wanted to reach out and touch him.

“I don’t have a lot of time. I have to get back to Pride House.” He glanced at the door. “The play is this weekend.”

“I know.”

He exhaled a long breath. “What do you want, Van?”

“I… I don’t know,” I said, and his posture stiffened. “But I’m figuring it out.”

“It’s been over a week.” His bright blue eyes vulnerable, he asked, “Why didn’t you call?”

“I didn’t want to argue,” I said as the last student left the room.

“You could have texted… something. You left me fucking hanging.”

“You’re the one who walked away. You left.”

He’d told me I needed to decide, he’d put the ball in my court. And the longer I’d tried to figure out what the hell to do, the more my insecurity took root. Each agonizing day that passed, each class he missed made it that much harder to reach out to him. The more time I’d put between us, the more I’d worried I couldn’t fix this. It didn’t help that we were both trying to be martyrs.

“I’m not doing this.” He turned to leave, and as I grabbed his arm, goosebumps scattered across his skin.

“Wait, okay… just… wait a second.” It was harder to let go of his arm than I thought it would be. The heat of his body lingered on the tips of my fingers. “I’m not taking the job.”

“Van… I don’t want do this again.”

“Christ, you’re a stubborn ass.”

His lips twitched as he faced me. “I’m stubborn?”

“Full time, part time… If I stay here, we can’t be public. And before you say anything, it doesn’t matter that you’re not going to be my student after the semester. You were, and the dean knows it. When you change your major to creative writing next semester, Vivian, the entire English department, they’ll eventually know who you are, and if I’m faculty, that’s not going to fly. I can’t take the job, and I can’t stay here. I’m going to put in my notice.”

“No… You can’t.”

“I can. You told me to figure out what I wanted. And I have.”

“You can’t quit because of me.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s bullshit, Van.”

I heard the exhaustion in his voice. He was breaking too.

Stepping toward him, I said, “I know what I want.”

---