17. Illicit Affairs
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
illicit affairs
IMOGEN
I’m starting to go a little crazy. It’s been two weeks since I stormed into Roman’s office and I’ve heard nothing from him about a transfer. All my emails about the situation have gone unanswered, but he’s more than happy to copy me on emails where students are requesting meetings with him.
A bead of sweat trickles down my back as I force the image of Roman Burke on his knees out of my mind, continuing down the path that leads to The Dungeon. I want to catch him before class starts and get a definitive answer. How hard can it be to confirm a transfer? How long can it take?
My ADHD makes me impatient. Delayed gratification isn’t really something that my brain recognizes. It’s part of that whole impulsivity deal, and it’s gotten me into a lot of trouble.
When I finally reach the building, I push past the heavy wooden doors to find Roman bent over a small table, his brows knit together as he swears under his breath. The room is empty, the projector screen behind him still blank.
“Morning, Dr. Burke!” I call.
He turns around, dressed in that same white t-shirt and a pair of jeans. There’s a leather jacket draped over one of the chairs, and his sunglasses hang off his collar, pulling the fabric down and exposing a little more of his chest.
Why does he always have to dress like that? It’s going to make professionalism on my end extremely difficult.
“Morning,” he grumbles, giving me a brief wave before turning back to his computer. “The cable’s in, just won’t fucking work.”
“You’re having technical difficulties?” I ask, setting my bag down on a desk up front and pulling out my laptop.
“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, straightening up. “So the cable is connected to the computer, but I can’t seem to get the computer to connect to the projector . It usually just does it automatically, but…” He lets out a soft chuckle, his cheeks going pink and my knees going weak. “Well, I guess I’m not so great with technology sometimes.”
“You want help?”
His body tenses, the smile fading as quickly as it arrived.
“No, I think I can figure it out.”
I shrug and slide into my seat, opening up my laptop. I have a paper to work on that I was planning on outlining during Roman’s lecture. If I can concentrate.
After only a couple minutes of working in silence, Roman starts cursing again. As adorable as it is to watch him be frustrated like this, I have to help him before this entire class turns into one big tech support session.
“Let me help you,” I laugh.
“No, really, it’s?—”
“Come on. I’m good at this stuff.” I put my hands on my hips. “Besides, do you really want to get shown up by a bunch of eighteen-year-olds? You know they’re going to have it fixed in like 5 seconds when they get here.”
Roman sighs again.
“I just want this damn thing to work, I don’t really care how it happens.”
“Then let me help, I promise I can figure it out. My mom calls me all the time when her Netflix isn’t working and I’ve got a 100% success rate.”
He chuckles, taking a step back and gesturing at his laptop.
“Who am I to argue with success?”
“Thank you.”
I head toward his computer and take a look at his settings, messing around with them until I find what I think I’m looking for.
“What’s the projector called?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.
“A… projector?” Roman asks.
I giggle and roll my eyes.
“No, the name of the projector. Your laptop disconnected from it somehow, which happens, but you’ve got a couple of bluetooth devices around here as well. I just want to make sure I’m connecting to the right thing.”
“Oh.” Roman rubs the back of his neck and walks over to a small box tucked behind the pulpit. “I think it’s this white thing? Try SR792?”
I try, but can’t connect.
“Nope. Got anything else back there?”
I watch him as he struggles to find the right device, getting a good look at his ass in those jeans and his shirt riding up his back, exposing lightly tanned skin.
“I think this is it. Star Projector, and the model is… XI90YT.”
I scroll down past a list of letters and numbers until I find it, hitting connect with a little prayer. After a moment Roman jumps up, clapping his hands together as the device whirs to life.
“You did it!” He laughs.
“Easy peasy lemon squeezy,” I reply, straightening up and dusting my hands off.
Roman looks relieved, and for a split second it’s like nothing happened between us. But only for a second.
“Okay, uh, thanks, Imogen.”
“No problem!” I chirp, hoping to keep things light, mostly because I’m about to launch into an incredibly awkward question. “Listen, Roman?—”
“I want to apologize,” he cuts me off. “For the way I acted at the party, and then leaving you— that wasn’t… that wasn’t okay, and you didn’t deserve that. I was being selfish, and I didn’t consider how it might make you feel. I know–”
The door creaks open and some students come piling in, their overlapping conversations cutting through our little moment.
“Can we talk after class?” I ask, lowering my voice to just above a whisper.
Roman blinks, his throat bobbing.
“Sure, but… can I ask why?”
He looks paranoid and I think I can see sweat forming on his forehead. The reluctance hurts a little, but I swallow it.
“Because I have a question?” I laugh. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah— yeah, I’m— I’m sorry. I’m just all over the place lately.”
“I know the feeling.”
More students pile in, some of them making their way toward Roman with awkward smiles on their faces. When they start asking him questions about assignments, I slink back to my desk and open up the outline for my paper.
Just sink into the work, Iggy. It’ll be there no matter how messy this shit gets.
It’s kind of my solace right now, and it should be my main focus, not some dude .
He’s just a guy.
Just a guy.
A very hot guy?—
Stop it. Focus.
Not only do I have a paper due, but a huge discussion on Bourdieu coming up for Abi’s class. I want to be well-versed, and it feels like I should have started this book two weeks ago, but I’ve also got papers due for other classes.
More reading, TAing, all of it.
Sometimes it feels like I’m teaching myself. But what if I’m a bad teacher?
That doesn’t bode well for my future.
I nibble at my thumb nail, trying to focus on my outline while Roman starts his lecture. It’s difficult to concentrate, my eyes flicking back up to take him in as he advances his slides, quickly dropping back to my laptop in shame each and every time.
“Today, we’re going to be talking about the history of the modern prison, but don’t get too comfortable, because we’ll be following that subject to its natural conclusion: punishment and its sociological implications.”
He launches into the lecture with ease, so charismatic when he’s in front of the class, presenting information in a way that’s engaging and relatable. I’ll be honest, I’ve been reading this shit for a long time, and understanding academic jargon never really gets easier. I can tell his jokes about the dense material are going a long way to make the students more comfortable.
I look back down at my outline and sigh. I’m only at the first argument with no idea what I’m supposed to be talking about. Most of the time, I just start writing, sort of wing the assignment and end up where I end up. If I had to identify my writing style, I’d say it’s like a combination of stream of consciousness mixed with a deep desperation to get to the finish line. Unfortunately, I’ve been told this can lead to arguments that aren’t exactly… cogent, so I’ve been trying a different method.
My brain isn’t used to this new format of bullet points and headings, notes and prep that will have to be translated into a fully structured essay. It’s hard for me to work in a way that’s organized. My ADHD really does make it easier to thrive in chaos, and besides, leaving an assignment to the last minute might spell disaster, but there’s a thrill in it that I kind of love. Chasing the clock has always been a huge dopamine hit. But I vowed that I would be more organized during my PhD. More calm.
So, that’s what I’m doing.
At least trying to.
Roman continues the lecture, using Foucault as his primary example of the history of the modern prison. The guy basically invented the way we think about all of this stuff now, and if you’re going to study prisons, leaving him out of your reading list would be a huge mistake.
“The Panopticon was a concept derived from the mind of Jeremy Bentham… can anyone tell me who he was?”
Nobody answers, but Roman only grins, probably excited to get a chance to dive into more detail.
“He was one of the main contributors to the school of Classical Criminology and Penology. In theory, the Panopticon allowed all prisoners in a single facility to be observed by one guard in a tower. The trick is, this would be done without the prisoners knowing when they’re being watched, only that they could be at any time. Later, you’ll read Foucault’s metaphor for the panopticon that stretches beyond the walls of Bentham’s theoretical prison, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
He continues on for another hour, the students raising their hands every once in a while as they get used to his style. By the end, everyone including Roman seems at least a little bit more confident in the material, but the students are still clearly relieved to be dismissed for the day.
I wait off to the side as a few of them linger around to ask him about the readings. He’s patient, taking the time to listen to their questions and concerns and I find myself kind of wishing he was a total douche so I could hate him. It would make this whole thing so much less complicated. When the last student wanders out the door, Roman slowly packs his bag, smiling up at me as he does.
“I’m actually supposed to be meeting your brother for a run.” He motions toward the door. “Walk and talk?”
“Sure.”
We head for the exit, and for a moment I’m worried I’ll let the awkward silence take over, but we’re only a few steps from the door before I manage to speak up.
“I was wondering why you haven’t been answering my emails about the transfer.”
Roman strokes his beard, a contemplative look on his face as he holds the heavy door open for me.
“I did say it would take a while,” he replies.
“Two weeks, yeah, and it’s been two weeks. So you’re saying you haven’t heard anything back yet? Is that why you’re avoiding talking to me?”
“I’m not avoiding?—”
“Yes, you are, dude!” I laugh. “Look, I have no problem being chill about this with you, but as it stands you’re barely answering my emails unless it’s forwarding me students to deal with. That’s not?—”
He sighs, nodding. Roman always seems to know exactly when he’s fucked up, which somehow makes things even more annoying.
“I’m sorry,” he replies.
And he’s always sorry.
“I didn’t answer you because I don’t have an answer for you right now.”
I snort.
“Then you should have been up front with that.”
I’m supposed to be meeting some of my cohort in the library right now, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate unless Roman and I had this discussion. It’d eat into all of my other thoughts, gotta get it out and done with.
“I’d just appreciate more communication, I think that’s fair considering this is my job and basically my life.”
He stops as we reach the clearing, sun breaking through the massive cedar trees that wrap around us. I can’t help but feel a little sorry for him. It’s that forlorn look in his eyes. Sometimes, when I find myself getting frustrated with other people, I try to remember something my mom taught me: It’s everybody else’s first time being a human being, too.
The thought washes over me and allows me to breathe.
“I get that, and it’s why I’m trying to make sure that this doesn’t reflect poorly on you in any way.” He tugs at the collar of his shirt like it’s choking him, a flush of red creeping up his neck and disappearing under his beard. “I swear I’m working on it. You have nothing to worry about.”
I raise a brow, carefully considering his words.
Trying to make sure this doesn’t reflect poorly on you.
I want to dive a little deeper, but that’s probably not such a good idea. He seems flustered enough. Maybe getting rid of me isn’t his main priority. Maybe there’s more going on with him.
It irritates me that the thought gives me a bit of hope. I like seeing him in class once a week, and I wish we could both have just said fuck it , but…
There’s too much at stake for the both of us.
He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder, and a warm tingle rushes down my spine, making the butterflies in my stomach begin to storm.
“I promise I’ll email you once I hear something, but I also want to do better than I have been. If you need anything, I’ll answer.”
I don’t quite believe him, but I nod all the same.
“Thank you, Dr. Burke.” I motion to the campus with my thumb. “Now, believe it or not, I’ve gotta get to the library.”
“And I’ve gotta teach your brother the importance of long distance running.”
“Want him to really remember it? Go for the backs of his knees!” I call, slipping my sunglasses on. “Long-ass legs like that? You’ll fuck up his whole day!”
Roman laughs and gives me the thumbs up.
“Thanks for the tip!”
I reluctantly turn toward the library, that feeling in my stomach refusing to go away. It’s cruel that things can’t be different between us, and it’s going to be a real struggle to work my way through this.
But all the same, I find it impossible not to smile.