Chapter 2 - Isaac
The first month of the semester has flown by. I’m grateful for it because I’m afraid of what happens when time creeps too slowly.
When it does, that’s when the memories start to fill the quiet—faces and voices that claw their way into the edges of my thoughts when I least want them to.
I’ve gotten good at keeping my hands busy, my mind even busier.
If I can fill every hour with lectures, grading, and the background hum of conversation, there’s less room for ghosts to slip in.
But it turns out I didn’t have anything to be frightened of after all.
Since finding him alone in my classroom that night after the first day back, Jackson hasn’t given me any more reasons to be suspicious of him.
He’s been an exceptional student. Once he got past the nerves he clearly had around me—not that I blame him or anyone else—he started speaking up during lectures more, proving just what a brilliant mind and a passionate drive he has.
Knowing that now, my past apprehensiveness feels ridiculous.
I might also feel a bit guilty for picking on him during that first class, but he’s seemed to have let it go. We’ve struck up a good rapport, and it’s refreshing to have someone who shares my love for literature as well as challenges me.
Lately, I’ve caught myself looking forward to his comments in class, waiting to see which direction he’ll take a discussion.
Sometimes when he talks, I notice how animated his hands become when he’s excited about a text, how his voice takes on that confident tone I didn’t know he had.
It’s refreshing. Maybe even inspiring, though I’d never admit that out loud.
It’s just past five o’clock in the evening, so I shut my laptop and place it in my bag to finish grading papers at home.
I rarely stay late. That first day of the semester, I was only here to discover Jackson in my classroom after hours because I was getting my office in order after being away for the summer.
If he’s made a habit of it, I wouldn’t know.
I probably should’ve reported him for trespassing, but I decided to save myself the trouble that might’ve brought me.
Besides, he looked lost that night. Like someone who needed a place to be more than he needed to break a rule.
The halls of Old Main are quieter than usual.
Sunlight filters through the tall windows, slanting across the wooden floors and painting long shadows that stretch past my feet.
The faint scent of dust and old paper lingers in the air.
My eyes land on the corkboard outside my office as I step out—flyers for poetry readings and campus events curling at the edges—and for the briefest moment, I feel that same strange pull I felt the night I found Jackson.
That quiet intuition that the past and present were meeting in the same room.
Shaking it off, I lock my office door behind me and head for the exit.
Before leaving for the day, I decide to stop by the small cafe on campus to grab some coffee. I usually just make it at home, but on days when I have too much work to do, it’s nice to be able to pick some up before leaving work.
The moment I step inside and the scent of coffee beans hits me, I spot Jackson sitting at a corner table by himself.
His shoulders are slightly hunched over a notebook, pen moving quickly across the page, his hair falling forward like a curtain of ink.
He doesn’t look up from whatever he’s working on, so I head straight for the register.
After waiting in line, I order an espresso macchiato.
While I’m waiting for my drink, I walk over to Jackson’s table. I probably shouldn’t, but my feet apparently have a mind of their own.
Or maybe it’s simply him that somehow draws me in that direction.
He’s so absorbed by whatever it is he’s writing that he doesn’t notice me as I approach. In this age of technology, I have to admit I always appreciate the sight of a person using pen and paper.
“Waiting around to sneak into Old Main tonight?” I ask as I stop on the other side of his table.
His head snaps up, and the faintest hint of pink creeps into his cheeks as he laughs under his breath. “No. It was a one time thing.”
“Glad to hear it.” I point at the chair in front of me. “Mind if I wait here for my drink?”
He sets down his pen and shakes his head.
As I take a seat, I notice the book on the table beside the notebook he was writing in. “What class are you reading Murakami for?”
Jackson glances down at the copy of After Dark by Haruki Murakami, and that blush in his cheeks deepens. “That’s actually just for me.”
I arch a brow. “A Murakami fan?”
“Kind of?” He shrugs. “I like his short stories the most, but I’m actually enjoying this one. Even though I have no idea what the hell is going on.”
“That’s kind of the point of After Dark,” I say with a smirk as I lean back in the chair. I don’t tell him it’s actually my favorite work by Murakami. “Why haven’t you enjoyed any of his longer novels?” I ask, secretly hoping his answer is the same one I’d give.
“I mean, I try to be as objective as possible. To be fair, I really love his writing style and the magical realism in some of his books, but…well, the way some authors write women is very ‘she breasted boobily to the stairs.’”
I quickly raise a hand to my mouth to cover a snort at him quoting a meme. It’s a good thing I don’t have my drink yet, otherwise some of it may have sprayed out all over the table.
It’s not the exact answer I would’ve given, but the sentiment is the same.
It’s not often I’m caught off guard.
Judging by the cute, lopsided grin on Jackson’s face, he’s rather proud of himself.
Cute.
Fuck, that’s dangerous.
But I can’t fucking help it when he’s looking at me like that with a goddamn dimple in his left cheek while we discuss Murakami. His emerald green eyes shine with amusement beneath the dim lights of the cafe, and the air between us seems to shift. Dense. Humming. Like static before a storm.
I glance down at his notebook. “What were you writing before I interrupted?”
His fingers twitch near the pen, as if debating whether to hide the page. “Just notes,” he says after a beat too long. “Ideas. I write a bit.”
“Oh? Fiction?”
“Sometimes. Short stories, mostly.” He hesitates. “Nothing good.”
“I doubt that. You have a way of reading between the lines, of seeing intent where others only see words. That’s exactly what good writers do.”
He ducks his head at the compliment, but I notice the small smile that ghosts across his lips before he speaks again. “You really think so?”
“Of course. Besides, bad writing doesn’t exist. Only unfinished thoughts.”
He laughs quietly. “That sounds like something Murakami would say.”
“Maybe,” I admit, smiling. “Or something I tell myself when I’m grading freshman essays.”
He laughs again, the sound soft and warm enough to make my pulse jump. It’s disarming. There’s something so unguarded about him in this moment that I have to look away, pretending to check the time.
Jackson is attractive, yes, but I can’t allow myself to become attracted to him. If I don’t get out of here now, I just might.
Fortunately, the barista calls my name at that moment.
Standing, I straighten out my vest. I notice Jackson’s gaze following the action, raking down the length of my torso.
I clear my throat. “Let me know what you think of After Dark when you’ve finished. I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts.”
This time, it seems I’ve surprised him, his eyes widening a degree. “You would?”
“Sure. I always enjoy a good literary discussion.”
With you.
Of course, that’s not appropriate, so I leave that bit out.
“Have a good evening, Mr. Ellis.”
“You too. Enjoy your macchiato, Professor.”
I turn my back on him just in time to hide the grin that tugs at the corner of my lips. I shouldn’t let the fact that he was watching me before he let on that he knew I was here affect me.
After picking up my drink, I head out of the cafe and toward the staff parking lot.
The sun’s already dipping behind the old clock tower, casting long shadows across the sidewalks.
The air smells faintly of rain, and the sky has that dusky violet tint that always makes me feel nostalgic for reasons I can’t quite name.
As I drive home with the memory of his easy smile swimming in my mind, I realize I didn’t get out of there quite soon enough.
There are so many more reasons that I shouldn’t let myself be attracted to Jackson Ellis than just the fact he’s my student.
But it shouldn’t be that difficult to fight off this budding attraction.
It’s been years since I’ve let anyone get close. Long enough that loneliness has started to feel like safety.
Even if I could be with anyone right now, I wouldn’t.
Everyone always leaves.
And I’m tired of being the one left behind.