Chapter 14 #2
He has to admit she has a point there. He’s not sure what, exactly, he’s apologizing for this time. For the lapse in decorum, yes, but for being a decade older than she is? Even if he were twenty-six—god help him, he doesn’t want to be twenty-six again—they’d be wholly mismatched.
Another thought hits him. When he was twenty-six, she was sixteen.
Well. That is most certainly a boner-killer.
“I can share the responsibility here,” she says. “We got carried away. Whatever it was, at least we got it out of our systems.”
Nick opens his mouth, ready to argue, but—oh. He hadn’t expected her to agree with him so easily.
“I take it you usually don’t have these kinds of relationships with your students,” she continues, curling a strand of hair around her index finger.
He wishes he were getting used to her perfume, and what might be the subtle peach scent of her shampoo, but as usual, all of it goes straight to his head.
God, he really hopes it hasn’t already rearranged his brain chemistry.
“Not—physical. Just…casual. Friendly. Something that isn’t one hundred percent academic. ”
“Never. All of this is a bit out of my depth, if I’m being honest.” He props his library books on the shelf in front of them and then has absolutely no idea what to do with his hands.
“Whatever this is between us—it’s probably my fault for going to the mall,” he says, while at the same time knowing there’s no way he could have ignored that voicemail.
“I don’t want this to impact your studies, and I can’t do anything to jeopardize my tenure. ”
“I swear, I don’t want to jeopardize that either,” Ramona says.
“So we’re in agreement. It’s…out of our systems.”
He almost expects her to extend her hand so they can shake on their new/old boundaries: professor and student, nothing more. But there’s an odd expression on her face, one he’s never seen in the short time he’s known her.
Somehow it feels she’s been tormenting him much longer than a few weeks.
She shifts positions so she’s leaning against the library shelves, the sunlight from outside catching the natural auburn undertones in her dark hair. He only noticed them in the parking lot of the taco truck—his classroom’s harsh fluorescents keep them hidden.
“I know what happened…can’t happen again.
” Slowly, she drags her fingertips up and down the spines of some anatomy textbooks.
Touching the books without any intent to check them out should be illegal, he decides.
“But what if we could be…friends.” She only glances up at him at this last word, just in time to catch the shock on his face.
Ramona holds up her hands. “I know. I know. God, why does it sound like I’m soliciting you for something more depraved than this,” she mutters, almost as if to herself.
“Trust me, in a perfect world my professor would not be my first choice for a new friend.” She breaks off, twirls a strand of her hair again.
Her go-to nervous habit, because evidently, asking him this makes her nervous.
“This might sound ridiculous. I’m aware of that. But I feel…normal around you.”
The word takes a wrench to Nick’s heart and yanks. Because if that isn’t what he’s been searching for too, unsure if he’s ever going to get it back.
“Normal,” he repeats, wondering if he and Ramona have the same definition of it.
“Even now, everyone expects me to be performing all the time. Performing niceness. Performing my appearance, not the way I want to, but the way they think I should. Acting like I’m so happy and at peace with my choices, because if not, the internet’s definitely going to hear about it.
” There’s a tight ribbon of tension in her jaw as she paces the aisle.
“I don’t know what it’s like to walk down the street without some layer of fear threatening to drag me down.
I don’t know the feeling of entering a room without people whispering.
I’ll never be able to go on a date without my whole history online for anyone to pick apart. ”
He vows to never google that again, though he hopes he did it without the kind of judgment she’s talking about.
“Even when I was younger, it was all, ‘What kind of lip gloss does Ramona Wilder wear? Who’s Ramona Wilder crushing on now?’ I mean, Jesus—there used to be websites counting down to my eighteenth birthday.
As if what, me being eighteen made it less revolting for them to jerk off to me?
Or they wouldn’t go to jail for fucking me?
” She shakes her head, letting out a humorless laugh. “And those were the tame ones.”
“Ramona,” he starts, unable to keep his disgust quiet. It boils in his stomach, crawls up his throat. “That is abhorrent.”