Page 44 of Taming His Teacher

She stamps her foot in a tantrum and my brain goes blank, every rational reason this would be a terrible idea buried under a fevered desire to discipline her and make her stop behaving like this spoiled brat she isn’t. I miss the adoring way she used to look at me, how pleased and flushed her face would get when we had a few minutes alone. Now look at us. This is a fucking disaster. I’m letting everybody down.

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m not smart enough to understand?”

“No, Erin. Jesus, why are you making this so hard? We can’t be together, end of story. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m not the right guy for you. So please, give it up and move on. Kurt seems like a nice guy.”

She stiffens. Kurtisa nice guy, a good teacher from what the guys say, but there’s something about him that reminds me of Will. By the way Erin flinches, I’m guessing she feels that way, too. If she were anyone else, she’d slap me across the face. I would have, because I am being the world’s most giant douche bag. But instead, her face crumples like she’s going to cry and she turns up the path without another word. I don’t catch up this time but trail a few yards behind, careful to slow my pace because though she’s hurrying as fast as her little legs will take her, it’s nothing compared to my long strides. I follow her all the way back to Sullivan and watch her fling open the door and run up the stairs before I shove my hands in my pockets and head back to my apartment to indulge in Erin the only way I’ll ever be allowed.

Chapter 14

Shep

“Where’s Erin?”

It’s a few days before the end of our month-long winter break. The department meeting has started and she’s not here. It’s weird for her not to be here. She’s punctual, and has an almost slavish devotion to her teaching duties, even inane meetings like this one.

Skip Connelly pipes up. “She sent me an email a few hours ago, said she wasn’t feeling well.”

Erin’s taught class and come to meetings when she’s been bleary-eyed and barely breathing with allergies, and when she was having the worst miscarriage you can imagine. “Not feeling well” is not accurate.

I tap my pencil against the side of the seminar table until Dan gives me a censorious look and goes back to giving an update on department matters, starting to schedule things for the fall. It’s been dicey whether I’d be here next year, but John Phelps finally announced his official retirement and odds are on me getting to stay.

I barely pay attention for the next half hour, my mind focused on Erin. She’s sick. She’s really sick, and she’s alone. I’d like to pretend I go back and forth on whether I should go over there when this is over. Erin is an adult. She’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and I shouldn’t muddy the waters. I’ve told her we can’t be together, warned her off me, and it killed me to do it. Her quavery chin, the look of betrayal in her eyes.We finally get the chance to be together and you’re saying NO?I’d done my best to convince her it wasn’t about her, but she didn’t believe it.

But she’s sick and there’s no way I’m going to leave it up to Skip motherfucking Connelly to take care of her. The minute the meeting is over, I slam my folder shut, realizing I didn’t take a single note. I’m glad for the first time that Dan is so god-awful anal-retentive he’ll be sending out minutes in half an hour. I don’t bother with pleasantries, don’t even see anyone except as shapes to avoid as I head out the door and haul across campus, bounding up the stairs two at a time to Erin’s apartment.

I wish she’d move. I hate that she still lives in the space she shared with Will. I dread going into the place where they shared meals, a bed, even the air they breathed. But that’s where she is, so that’s where I’ll be.

I knock on the door, rapping my knuckles against the wood, trying my best not to pound. There’s no answer. I lean my forehead up against the corkboard and splay my hand against the door as I close my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths.

“Erin?”

No answer. No sounds.

I knock again. I’m not sure whether to hope she’ll open the door or not. But nothing, no indication anyone’s even there.

“Erin?” I try one more time before I reach for the knob. She never locks her door. Something I’d irrationally like her to do. Nothing’s going to happen to her in the locked dorm and she’s got twenty built-in guard dogs should anyone make it in.

The brass twists in my hand, unlatching, and I push into her small living room. It’s dark and quiet; the shades haven’t been lifted. Is she so sick she didn’t make it out of bed today?

“Erin?”

I make my way down the narrow hallway and stop outside a closed door, no light shining from underneath.

I knock, loud enough for her to hear if she’s awake, but hopefully not so loud I’ll wake her if she’s not. When there’s no answer, I go in. It’s warm and stuffy in the dim room, the curtains drawn and no lights on. There’s a little mound on the bed buried under blankets and I take a few steps farther, hoping I’ll be able to see her face.

Her brown hair is strung out across the pillow, sweat-darkened strands clinging to her face and her ears. Most of her face is pale, except for two bright red patches blooming on her cheeks. She’s tucked in up to her chin and her lashes flutter over her cheeks. How sick do you have to be to look like this? Like one of those pretty tubercular women who wasted away in the sanitariums of old. I roll my eyes. Because of course I’d fall in love with some doomed consumptive—of course I would.

I hesitate. If she’s that sick, should I wake her up? I should let her rest. But odds are she hasn’t done anything about being so ill, and this doesn’t seem like something you can sleep off. So I run the backs of my knuckles against her fevered cheek, hot to the touch, until her lids lift and her big brown eyes, glassy and reluctant, look back.

* * *

Erin

“Shep.”

It comes out a whisper, so I clear my sore throat, making me choke.

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