Chapter 4 - Isaac
“Did you hear he’s gay?”
“I heard he’s bi.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“You know Molly McCarthy, right? She’s fucking hot. There’s no way a guy who’s into girls would leave that.”
Those are just some of the things I’ve been hearing in the halls this past week. A bunch of homophobic and biphobic bullshit. It pisses me the fuck off.
But what possibly pisses me off even more is seeing Jackson with his head down while those whispers and rumors follow him, making it pretty clear he wasn’t the one to out himself to the entire school.
In class the other day, I called on him during our discussion of The Iliad, hoping for another of our usual back-and-forths where the rest of the room seems to kind of disappear into the background.
The moment a couple of guys in the back started whispering with their heads bowed together, he clearly got uncomfortable, his confidence retreating.
He gave me a quick, surface-level answer and wouldn’t meet my eyes.
I shut that shit down with those assholes fast, but Jackson stayed withdrawn for the rest of the class. And the one after that.
So I stopped calling on him altogether. The last thing he needs is a spotlight.
I wish there were more I could do, but for now all I have is vigilance—keeping an eye on him and stepping in when the bullies get too close.
I still remember what it was like when I was outed, and even though all of that along with my own mistakes nearly ruined my entire life, I know it sucks regardless. That’s why I’ve never publicized my sexuality, why I let it be just another one of the rumors.
Still, I can’t shake this gnawing thought there’s more going on. Those suspicions from before are back. I hate that I have them at all, but the timing of everything makes me wary. Like it’s meant to catch my attention.
But I don’t want to start assuming the worst.
I’ve done that before and paid the price.
It’s just before five o’clock Friday evening, and I’m trying to wrap up my notes for next week’s lectures when there’s a knock at my office door.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and the last person I want to see right now enters.
“Do you have a minute, Isaac?”
I close my laptop because I know I won’t get any more work done before it’s time to leave.
Leaning back in my chair, I force a weak semblance of a polite smile. “What can I do for you, Richard?”
Professor Grant shuts the door behind him before crossing the room and taking a seat in the chair on the opposite side of my desk. “I thought we should have a talk.”
Richard Grant is the head of the English department and also has a seat on the tenure committee.
He’s about fifteen years my senior, and has a considerable amount of gray hair peeking through the dark brown along the sides of his head.
He turns every one of those years and gray hairs into a tool, leveraging the authority they grant him to his advantage.
“Sure. What’s going on?” I ask even though I already know exactly why he’s here.
He crosses his legs, his hard, brown eyes unwavering. “I heard we have another queer at our school.”
You’ll lose your tenure if you punch him, Isaac.
While his tone sounds neutral, it’s deceptive at best, especially when he uses “queer” as a noun. But I’m used to it by now when it comes to him, so I’ve had plenty of practice holding my tongue.
“I’ve heard the same. Rumors carry fast around here as we both know.”
“You more than anyone.”
There’s almost a threatening undertone to his voice that has me clenching my teeth so hard they just might crack.
But I can’t say I don’t deserve it after everything that happened five years ago.
Richard may have convinced the committee to grant me tenure back then, but I know he only did it so he could hang it over my head for the rest of our careers.
So he could keep me on a leash. He was quick to let me know he didn’t think I actually deserved it, that it was conditional.
That I should be grateful. That he hoped it would help keep me in line from then on.
But he didn’t only want to keep me in line.
He wanted obedience.
And fear.
I hate to admit that it’s worked.
However, it’s less because I don’t trust him and more because I don’t trust myself.
He may be a homophobic fuck, but I can’t claim he’s been entirely wrong about everything.
“I just wanted to stop by and remind you of the deal we had,” he says.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
Our deal was that I’d never do anything else that would threaten the reputation of our school. As though he expects two queer people can’t be in the same room and keep their hands off each other.
That says a lot more about him than it does me.
His steady gaze lingers on me in that way that feels as though he’s peeling back skin just to see if he can make you flinch.
“I’m glad to hear that.” He leans back in the chair like he owns the room. “Because another unfortunate circumstance like that could do irreparable damage, more so than this school’s already had to deal with.”
“I’m aware,” I say, my voice tighter than I’d like.
He hums. “Good. Because I know this Jackson kid is in your class, and as I hear it, some say you’ve taken an…interest.”
I inhale slowly through my nose, trying to contain this rising heat in my chest. “He’s one of my best students. I take an interest in all of them.”
“Of course you do.” One corner of his mouth faintly curls. “That’s what you said about Dylan too, wasn’t it?”
My fingers twitch against the desk, and I lace them together to keep still. “Nothing is going on.”
“I just want you to be careful, Isaac.” His tone is almost gentle now, and that’s somehow worse. “We both know how dangerous obsession is. I don’t want to see a similar situation happen again. For either of your sakes. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how bad things got.”
I can taste the memory before I even let myself think it. The accusations, the disciplinary hearing, the silence of the faculty who’d once called me a friend. The way my own reflection had looked foreign for months after.
“I remember,” I say, my voice low.
“Good.” He leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. “I vouched for you, Isaac. I protected you. Despite what everyone was saying. Despite the truth. I’d hate to see all that hard-earned redemption of yours go to waste.”
There’s that word again.
Redemption.
Like tenure is some kind of absolution for sins I never got the chance to explain.
“You have nothing to worry about.”
He stares at me for a moment longer, seconds that stretch uncomfortably between us. Then he nods once, stands, and straightens out his jacket.
“I just wanted to make sure. I don’t think I could protect you a second time.”
Then he’s gone, leaving the faint scent of his cologne and the echo of his threat behind.
I stay still for a long time after the door clicks shut, every muscle coiled tight. Unable to help myself, I open my laptop again, the screen’s glow washing over my hands. I stare at the list of student essays waiting for feedback. Jackson’s name sits near the top.
For a moment, I hover over it, and my chest tightens. There’s something about him in the way he looks at me sometimes, like he’s measuring something, calculating.
It’s probably nothing.
But after everything that happened with Dylan, and who he was connected to, I’d be a fool not to wonder, to be cautious.
I close the laptop again.
Maybe Richard’s right about one thing.
I don’t trust myself. Not when it comes to men who look at me the way Jackson does.
And not with traps that look too much like second chances.