Chapter 21
Snow fell in slow, fat flakes beyond the office window, drifting sideways in the wind before vanishing against the glass. Charlotte’s fingers wrapped around a mug of tea while she stared out her window. Her office felt too quiet today, too still.
The semester was flying by. It was hard to believe that it was already December which meant that she’d spent the last two months sneaking around with Taylor.
At first, they’d only met at Taylor’s place—Friday nights after the bar closed, and gradually, Charlotte started spending the entire weekend there.
But then Charlotte started noticing regulars from campus at the bar, and suddenly The Blackwood felt like it had a spotlight.
Charlotte couldn’t risk anyone seeing her there so often or coming and going from the apartment above it.
One Tuesday night in late October, Taylor had come over instead. She’d stayed the night. And then again the next week. Tuesday and Wednesday night. And the week after that Taylor spent the weekend with her too.
Now Taylor’s guitar case sat in Charlotte’s living room corner. Her toothbrush lived in the second drawer of Charlotte’s bathroom vanity. Taylor knew where the spare key was hidden, how Charlotte liked her coffee, which throw blanket she preferred when they curled up on the couch with a movie.
Sam had asked her last week if she’d started seeing someone.
“You’re glowing,” she’d said, leaning against Charlotte’s desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
Charlotte had laughed it off, too brightly, and changed the subject to the next faculty meeting.
But later that night, Taylor had traced Charlotte’s jaw and whispered, “You’re not going to lose your job over me, okay? ” as if she could promise it.
Charlotte hadn’t answered. She’d just kissed Taylor, trying to drown the fear in the heat of Taylor’s mouth.
The problem wasn’t just the risk. It was the constant calculation.
Which nights were safe. Whether a colleague had seen them leave campus at the same time.
The way Charlotte’s stomach dropped every time her office door opened unexpectedly.
What if one of Charlotte’s neighbors started asking why Taylor’s car was always parked near their home?
More than once, she’d sat exactly like this—staring out the window, heart pounding—and decided it had to end.
She’d rehearsed the words in her head: It’s too dangerous.
I can’t do this to you. Or to myself. But then Taylor would show up at her door with that crooked smile, and Charlotte would forget every single reason she’d ever wanted to walk away.
Because when Taylor was with her, Charlotte didn’t feel forty-seven. She didn’t feel divorced, or cautious, or like the woman who’d spent twenty years measuring her worth in achievements. She just felt wanted.
She turned the mug in her hands, the ceramic warm against her palms. Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing the campus in a hush that felt like both warning and invitation.
She wasn’t sure which scared her more—the thought of getting caught, or the thought of never seeing Taylor in her kitchen again, barefoot in Charlotte’s oversized sweater, humming along to some song only she knew the words to.