Page 49 of Devilry

“You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” he jests.

“Ha. You wish.” I sit back in my seat, much more comfortable with the mood between us. “I’m curious. Young and free, the ‘act your age Eli’ wants to know.”

“She does it for me,” he confesses. “The threesomes, I mean. If there’s a guy I want, but I’m not sure where he stands, I pull in the big guns. He’ll either reject me and be ok with both of us fucking her, or he’ll swing my way.”

What a fucking mess.

“Don’t let anybody ever tell you you’re not full of surprises.”

He shrugs. “It works.”

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t judge,” I admonish. “But it doesn’t mean I can’t be concerned.”

“There’s nothing for you to be concerned about. Callie knows how it is.”

“Yeah,” I say casually, even though I feel anything but. “I’m sure she does.”

* * *

It’s late Saturday afternoon,two days before my Religion lecture, when a mass written email pops up in my student inbox. It informs all enrolled students that their lectures with Professor Cole Huxley will be cancelled for the next two weeks, but all materials will be uploaded with a podcast taken from the archives to assist with the workload.

Two weeks?

I don’t know how long I was expecting him to be away, but two weeks sends a jolt of panic racing through me. Is his mom okay?

There’s a closing line at the bottom of the email reminding students if they need Professor Huxley for any reason, he has advised that students can email him directly and he would endeavor to get back to them as soon as possible. I let the mouse hover over his contact details.

Fuck it.

I click on the email address and a new screen pops up. Without overthinking it, I let my fingers fly over the keys of my keyboard. Simple and succinct.

Professor Huxley.

Ugh. Too formal. Delete.

Cole,

Got the official email about your leave of absence. Two weeks seems like a long time.

Is your mom okay? Areyouokay?

Elijah

Closing my eyes, I hit send and slam my computer shut. Tossing it beside me, I get up from the couch, head to the kitchen, and rummage through the cupboards looking for something to make for dinner.

Grabbing a packet of raw penne, I make a mental note to resume the job hunting I briefly thought about before I got sidetracked with the research project and all the complicated strings that have attached themselves to it.

Aiden is always offering to throw his money around and have the dorm fully stocked, but it doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t want to feel indebted to anyone, even if I know that isn’t his intention.

Just as I’m almost done boiling the pasta and simmering the horrible—from a jar— sauce, my phone pings.

Aiden: Want to go to a gay bar?

Me: We’re only 18.

Aiden: They have wristbands. Nobody will serve us alcohol with it on.

Me: I’m not sure.

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