Chapter Eleven
MADISON
T he sun is still too bright this morning, despite the overcast grey cloud cover. After sleeping the rest of the day away yesterday, I woke up this morning feeling groggy, and panicked.
My first assignment is due at 5 p.m. today, and so far, all I’ve done is jot down some references to support my case. The 500-word essay should be easy, and I had planned on spending all day yesterday writing and polishing it. That plan dropped off a cliff, but if I write 100 perfect words an hour, I’ll get it done on time.
Inside the library, I pull my dark sunglasses off my face. The world blurs for a moment as I trade them out for the clear frames I usually wear. Finding a seat, I open my laptop and spread the photocopied texts out. I spend too long reading and re-reading the question. Longer still trying to form a solid opening paragraph. I can write a 3000-word creative piece at the drop of a hat; this essay should be a walk in the park.
But it’s not.
Trying to convey my own thoughts whilst also backing up every claim I make with an appropriate reference is like trying to fact check the world building of a fantasy novel. Long, arduous, and impossible.
After an hour, I’ve only written 80 words. Half of those don’t count. References, subheadings, my name.
“Fuck.” I whisper the words to myself as I drop my head to the desk. Thankful that I chose a table deep in the corner of the library, I close my eyes and give myself ten minutes to refocus.
I allow myself a moment of self-pity. Doubt spreads through me, squeezing at my rib cage. If I hadn’t spent the weekend with Oliver, I would have made more progress before the migraine hit yesterday. I might even have finished the essay. Instead, I wasted away my time, getting lost in the feel of his body. Imagining a world where we could be together.
Just months ago, I never would have fallen into such a fantasy, but something about Oliver has me digging this hole myself. And it needs to stop.
My neck aches, my brain is fuzzy, and bricks settles on my shoulders. I know what I need to do, but asking for help is going to hurt. In more ways than one.
Madison: Professor Fraser, I need to discuss something with you. Can we meet this afternoon?
Dancing dots appear as he writes his reply.
Oliver: Madison, are you okay?
Madison: Yes, I just need some assistance.
Oliver: My office? 3.30 p.m.
Madison: See you then.
I’ll be cutting it close, but I’m placing all my bets on Oliver being able to help me out of this mess. Professor Fraser is my advisor after all.
Instead of attempting to continue working on my coursework, I find a soft patch of grass in the courtyard. Under the shade of the tree, I lean back against my bag and play an audiobook through my headphones. Of all the things I should be doing, all the texts I should probably be reading for my classes, I’ll never give up my love for romance novels. Even if they have made my expectations for love sky high.
Maybe that’s why I had fallen for Oliver in the first place. The forbidden nature of the relationship, the way he was willing to risk it all to be with me. Until yesterday, when he showed me that wasn’t actually the case. The realisation that he wasn’t like the men in the romance novels made the whole thing feel worse than it really was.
I know I can’t turn to him on a personal level, but I’m hoping I can count on him on a professional one.
His door is open as I approach his office. Before I enter, I take in the sight of him. Leaning back in his chair, his arms stretch behind his head. The desire to crawl under his desk and taste him again surges through me. Hot lava settles between my legs. Fuck. Why does the man have to look so good in a shirt?
“Professor Fraser.”
He looks up from his laptop, the corner of his lip turns up in a smirk.
“Madison, I’m glad to see you.” One hand reaches between his legs. Another eruption rushes through me.
I push the door closed, stumbling over my words, fighting for my academic brain to stay in control of the situation.
“I need help,” I mumble, avoiding his gaze.
“Come here.”
He stands. His hard length tight against the zipper of his pants, drawing my attention to his body. Reaching behind his back, he twists the blinds closed.
“I’m sorry about yesterday. In the library.”
“Don’t be.” I shake my head. “It was my fault. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
My traitorous body takes a step towards him, my fingers ache to reach forward and stroke his length. But I am not here for sex. I let out a slow, shaky breath, urging the heat inside me to cool.
“I have an assignment.” I blurt out the words in one quick gasp. They shock sense into us both. As though a security wall has shot up between us, we step away from each other.
The bridge of Oliver’s nose scrunches. Reaching down, he adjusts himself before stepping to sit back down. I take the seat on the other side of the desk, pushing it back so I can’t reach him, even if I wanted to.
“Do you need help interpreting the question?”
“No,” I shake my head. “It’s your question about perspective in non-fiction writing. I need an extension.”
A short puff of air escapes his mouth. He leans to one side, running a hand through his hair.
“I can’t do that.”
“I had a migraine yesterday.” I try to make him understand. “That’s why I needed you in the library, and it’s why I need your help now. Only, I need your academic help. I couldn’t see, couldn’t think. I took medication that made me sleep all afternoon and my brain still feels as though the aerial isn’t connected properly. I can’t focus and I only have 80 words written.”
His shoulders sink. Dropping his head, he closes his eyes and presses fingers into his temples. He looks back at me with a stony expression, his mouth forming a thin straight line.
“I’m sorry.”
Holding my breath, I wait for him to continue.
“I’m sorry about yesterday in the library. If I knew you needed help, I would have acted differently. Dausset is suspicious, but I would have figured something out. But I can’t give you an extension.”
My eardrums throb. “Why not?”
“There’s a formal process. It’s too late now.”
The air in my lungs turns to lead. If I miss an assignment, I risk losing my scholarship.
“My advice is to submit what you can. I know you’ve done the reading and am confident you can whip together a passing grade to avoid jeopardising your scholarship.”
Leaning forward, he reaches a hand across the desk. I don’t take it. Frozen on the spot I force my head to bounce a sharp nod. Acknowledging what he has said is one thing, processing it is another.
“You can stay here while you work.”
“No, thank you.” I need to get out. I can’t stand to be in the same room as him.
Screw university policy. Screw relationship boundaries. I needed him. Twice now. And both times he let me down. Spectacularly.
I have an hour to scramble 450 words together into something that resembles an essay. Storming my way out of his office to head back toward the library, I ignore the way his voice catches as he calls my name.
Never again, I promise myself as I blink away the tears that threaten to escape. This is what happens when I open myself up to counting on someone. And I will never do it again.