Chapter 19 - Isaac
One month down. Three weeks to go.
I tell myself that’s all I have to get through. Just three more weeks of pretending I don’t watch him from the front of the room. Three more weeks of pretending I don’t still feel the imprint of his mouth against mine.
When his eyes meet mine from across the lecture hall, there’s no trace of fear anymore, just focus and curiosity and the sharpness that’s always been there beneath everything else.
It’s easier now.
And harder.
We’ve gone back to how we were before the bridge, before the distance. Teacher and student, voices tangled only through our classroom discussions. Academic and restrained, debating and analyzing like we used to.
Last week, he challenged my interpretation of Inferno, saying Dante’s descent wasn’t just about moral consequence but about the intimacy of self-knowledge and the willingness to confront the parts of yourself that burn.
I almost told him that he’d been my favorite kind of hell for weeks.
Instead, I smiled and praised him, falling for him a little harder when he lit up from it.
It’s been hell, pretending there’s nothing more beneath our words.
Jackson is brilliant in ways that are obvious and in ways that still surprise me. This week, we’ve moved on to The Odyssey, discussing the themes of homecoming and self-restraint. About how long absence reshapes what we love.
When he argued that Odysseus isn’t really trying to return home at all, that every trial is an excuse to delay and to see who he is when no one’s watching, it hit closer to home than I’d like to admit.
Like that’s what I’ve been doing for the past five years.
And the moment I finally decided it was enough was when I had to face the monster I was becoming. When I kissed him to keep him from walking away.
I threatened to throw Jackson off the same bridge my family died at. I’m glad he forgives me because I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself.
One thing I have done for myself is let go of my suspicions, which was easier after hearing the way he talked about his father. Despite the fact he followed me that night, I think it was only curiosity that drove him. What we’ve shared is too real to believe any part of it could be fabricated.
And I want it too badly to fuck up again.
So I stay where I’m supposed to. I make sure the space between us remains professional and appropriate.
But I don’t lie to myself.
I miss him terribly.
Three weeks. That’s all.
Just three more weeks of pretending I can’t still taste him when I say his name.
The afternoon light filters through the high windows of Old Main, filling the building with pale yellow. The hallways are quieter this late in the day, faint student chatter echoing from the other floors.
I’ve just dismissed my last class of the day, gathering all my notes so I can head to my office for a couple hours.
The room still smells faintly of coffee and chalk dust. Jackson lingered behind after the lecture, packing his things into his bag slower than usual, offering a small, polite smile before leaving.
It’s been a month of those quiet, careful smiles.
One month down. Three weeks to go.
Leaving my classroom, I step into the corridor, my footsteps hollow against the old wood. Halfway to my office, I spot Jackson down the hall, knocking on the open door of Professor Grant’s office.
I pause as I watch him step inside.
Peering behind me, I see two students exiting the building and another disappearing into the stairwell. Moving forward, I see that Richard’s door is left slightly ajar. Keeping my back to the wall, I approach closer as voices carry out into the hallway.
“…just concerned, Jackson. Your grades are usually some of the strongest in the department, but this semester, they’ve been a bit…well, erratic.”
Through the crack, I see Jackson sitting across from the head of our department, posture tense but polite, hands folded tightly in his lap. His knee bounces once, betraying nerves he’s trying to suppress.
“I’ve been working through some stuff.” Jackson shifts, staring down at his hands. “But I’ve been trying to get back on track.”
Richard leans back in his chair, framed by the glow of his desk lamp. His voice carries that practiced warmth, the kind that passes for kindness until you realize it’s just temperature control.
“I see,” Richard says. “It’s just a little troubling how inconsistent your grades are.
You must know how that looks, right? I see your performance struggled only briefly about halfway through the semester, but it still raises questions.
I just want to make sure there aren’t any outside influences affecting your work, like extra help from one of your professors, outside of class. ”
There’s a pause. I can practically feel Jackson’s pulse thrumming from where I’m standing.
“Nothing like that.” His voice is steady but small.
“That’s good. The department has to maintain certain…boundaries. It’s easy for a professor to take an interest in a promising student, but it’s not always for the right reasons. We all know how rumors start around here and catch like wildfire. Whispered things travel faster than fact.”
My chest tightens.
Every word sounds careful, wrapped in concern. But underneath it, I hear the accusation. The quiet warning. The power play.
Richard leans back further, steepling his fingers. “Professor Kendall sometimes has…unconventional teaching methods. It would be a shame if students started whispering about favoritism, wouldn’t it?”
Jackson looks up at him then, sharp and startled, but he doesn’t speak. I can tell he wants to. I can almost see the thought form and die on his tongue.
Richard’s voice softens again, silky as smoke. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Jackson. I just know how easily perception can ruin someone’s reputation. And I’d hate for your academic promise to get tangled in something messy.”
Jackson swallows hard. “I understand, Professor, but with all due respect, I think you might have the wrong idea.”
“I hope I do.” His tone warms again, as if dark, chilly storm clouds never passed right over all our heads. “You have potential, Jackson. Don’t let anyone convince you that you owe them for recognizing it.”
My jaw is the next to tighten, then everything else.
How fucking dare he…
Owe them?
He stands, a quiet signal that the meeting is over.
Jackson rises too, offering a stiff, polite thank you before stepping out.
I move quickly, ducking into the alcove by the stairwell before he exits the office.
When he passes by, he doesn’t notice I’m there.
His head is down, his expression distant, the muscles in his own jaw tight too.
Only after he disappears down the hall do I exhale.
Richard’s door closes softly behind him, and the sound echoes through the hallway. I stare at swirls in the old wood grain of the wall in front of me, my thoughts spinning too fast to hold onto.
Professor Grant has always been a man who thrives on control, who likes to remind the rest of us that tenure is a privilege he helped make possible.
I’d seen flashes of his temper in faculty meetings, but this…
this was quieter. More dangerous. The kind of threat you only hear if you’ve been listening too long.
And I have.
Hearing him talk about me like that—like I’m the danger, the corruption—makes me realize something that settles like lead in my stomach.
Maybe he’s not entirely wrong.
Maybe the most dangerous thing in Jackson’s life really is me.
Three weeks.
That’s all the time I have to convince myself of something I’ve been fighting to believe for five years.
That I’m not the reason Dylan decided to leave.
Because on quiet nights, when the wind whistles through the cracks in my windows and the river sounds too much like a whispering voice I almost recognize, I still wonder if I did something to make him go.
And the more I look at Jackson, the more terrified I am that history isn’t finished with me yet.
That it’s dragging me back to that same bridge.
To watch someone else I care about disappear.