Chapter 6
Six
Lucas
T he house was quiet this morning when I left for campus. Isaac and I moved him into his new place last night. His room is empty of his things, all the personal touches that he embedded into that space—the mess of charging cables, discarded Gatorade bottles on the nightstand, a punk-rock Dolly Parton poster on the wall. All gone.
As I slipped on my shoes this morning, I berated myself for getting sentimental over the fact that his dirty boots were no longer by the door. Even if he was only there sporadically for days or weeks at a time.
Honestly, I need to get my shit together.
But today was the first day in nearly a decade when I had to accept that he’s not coming back. There is no longer a physical space carved out for my brother in my home.
When I reach campus, I walk to my first class with a strange sense of anticipation. I wouldn’t call it excitement or dread, but something in the middle. Because today is Friday, which means I will see Sadie Green again.
After the incident last week when she barreled into class midlecture and got sick in a trash can in front of everyone, she’s been a little off. Her sassy disposition is gone. Instead, she’s been despondent and quiet.
Every day since, she’s walked in on time, sat down in her normal seat, taken her notes, and walked out at the end. No eye contact. No sarcastic remarks. Nothing.
To make matters worse, her essay on Paradise Lost was phenomenal—probably the best in the class.
Why is this so terrible? Because I’m pretty sure it’s something I said last week that sent her into this melancholy tailspin. I berated and insulted my best student.
What kind of teacher does that?
When I arrive at the lecture hall, Sadie isn’t there. Even after the room fills up and I start class, her typical seat is empty. It grates on my nerves that she’s missing, especially since today is the day I pass back the essays I’ve graded.
Her A+ paper is sitting on my podium, and I don’t get to witness the look on her face when she sees it. It’s like I want to rub it in that I was right.
Right about what, I don’t know.
Less than halfway through the class, it’s obvious I’m too distracted, so I call it and dismiss everyone early—again.
Before the room is even empty, I look up Sadie’s phone number in the class directory. I’m calling as her professor, so I’m allowed to do this, although it does slightly feel like overstepping a professional boundary.
When she doesn’t answer, I let out a huff.
Where is she?
Why must she always be so unreliable and disorganized? Why can’t she just show up where she is supposed to show up, on time? I’m not being too harsh on her, but especially after reading this paper, I see the potential this woman has, and she’s wasting it.
Growing more and more irritated by the second, I pull open her student record and find her address. I’m allowed to do this because she’s a friend…sort of. We have mutual friends .
Before I know it, I’m in my car and driving down the interstate toward her side of town. It’s an older, more established neighborhood, which seems a bit strange for a young woman in her twenties, but who am I to judge?
When I park in front of the address listed on her student profile, I feel a hint of apprehension. I should not be doing this—that much is clear. I would never do this for any other student, but after only five weeks in my class, it’s clear that Sadie is not like any other student.
She’s bold and not afraid to push my buttons or hurt my feelings. Maybe it’s because she and I started out as mutual acquaintances that she felt that level of comfort, but whatever has happened between us by now has paved the way for my own personal entitlement to show up at her house unannounced.
I climb out of my car, her A+ essay in hand, and stroll up to the front door. I ring the doorbell with anxiety simmering under my skin. There are no cars in the driveway. The house is a brick ranch-style home with an expansive front yard and a large oak tree that provides shade.
When I hear footsteps inside, I straighten my spine. There’s a large window to my right with a curtain that moves, revealing Sadie’s astonished face through the pane.
She stares in shock at her grumpy English professor suddenly standing on her doormat. I don’t wave or smile. I just stare right back at her and wait for her next move. Suddenly, her face disappears. Behind the door, I hear a muffled, “What the fuck?”
A moment later, the door opens.
“What…is happening?” she asks before I have a chance to speak.
She’s dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and a worn-out pair of flannel pants. Her hair is piled on her head in a messy bun, wisps framing her face like a halo.
I hadn’t quite prepared myself for what I’d say to her now that we’re standing face to face, so I lift the paper in my outstretched hand .
“You weren’t in class, and I wanted to give this to you.”
Her expression twists with skepticism as she slowly reaches out to take the paper. As she looks down at the grade scribbled across the front, her face doesn’t change.
Where is the surprise? The pride and excitement?
“You…brought me my essay?” she asks. “Why?”
“I thought you’d be excited to see I gave you an A,” I argue back.
Her tense eyes lift up to my face. “Am I supposed to thank you for this?”
I scoff. “No. Why would you?—”
She takes a step toward me, landing on the welcome mat and glaring up at me with lividity. “Because if you think you can just show up at my door to rub it in my face or act like I owe you something for taking pity on me, then you’re even more of an asshole than I thought!”
Her furious tone has my molars clenching. Rather than surrender to her outrage, I step toward her.
“Watch your tone, Miss Green,” I mutter under my breath. “I didn’t take pity on you.”
With a huff, she raises her arms. “That’s right. You don’t take pity on anyone.”
“You don’t need my pity,” I snap back.
“Then why did you give me this grade?” she shouts.
“Because you deserved it!” I’m leaning over her, my face inches from hers, as she glares up at me with determination.
Amid the awkward and elongated stare-down, neither of us moves. But when her expression finally changes, it’s not at all what I expect.
Her bottom lip quivers. Her nostrils flare. And tears fill her eyes.
Oh no.
“I’m really not in the mood for your jokes, Dr. Goode.”
“I’m not?—”
She steps away from me, covering her face with her hands. As she begins to weep, I curse myself again. Her shoulders tremble as she cries, and I awkwardly reach out a hand and rest it on her arm. Damn, I’m bad at this.
Not only have I humiliated, berated, and insulted my best student, but now I can add to that list—stalked, harassed, and made her cry.
If I don’t get fired for this, I’ll quit myself.
“I’m…sorry,” I mumble awkwardly.
She pulls her hands away from her face and wipes the tears from her eyes. “It’s not your fault,” she says. Then, after a big sigh and a wincing expression, she mumbles to herself, “These goddamn hormones are out of control, and I cry at the drop of a hat.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, unsure of what else to say.
“No,” she mutters indignantly.
“What do you mean no ?”
With a huff, she drops her hands and stares at me. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I’m…pregnant.”
As she turns those tear-soaked eyes on me, I stand in silence. My eyes blink, and my throat turns dry. Her words are like bubbles, floating toward me only to pop the moment they reach my cold, lifeless exterior.
“Um…”
With a sad laugh, she turns away. “Please don’t say anything. You’d probably say the wrong thing anyway.”
“What is the right thing to say?” I ask.
“I don’t know…” she says with exasperation. “Congratulations?”
“Is it…a cause for celebration?”
Turning toward me, she appears offended. “Of course. Right? Babies are little blessings we should be excited about?”
“Not always,” I argue.
Her eyes are glued to my face as if she’s confused by my reactions or trying to figure me out. Finally, she crosses her arms over her chest. “I shouldn’t have even told you about it. I don’t know why I keep talking to you. You clearly don’t have a relatable, sympathetic bone in your body, so it’s like I just gave you more ammunition to lecture me for being an irresponsible idiot and screwing a guy I didn’t know without protection and never taking my birth control at the same time every day like I was supposed to.
“And it’s not like you care that I now have to decide if I should keep the baby or not. Or that my parents would be furious with me because I can’t seem to do anything right in my life. And how I probably won’t graduate on time now and can’t afford to move out, and everything is going to shit. But nope. You couldn’t possibly relate, Mr. Perfect, because, as you said, some people just make smarter choices, right? Isn’t that what you said?”
When she’s done with her emotional speech, she places her hands on her hips, out of breath and clearly very emotional.
I don’t have a response to anything she said because she’s right. I did say that. And now, in this context, it sounds awful.
But at the same time, I hate that she’s beating herself up for every little thing that’s gone wrong. I don’t want to just make her feel better—I want to make her be better. And by better, I mean…good enough for herself.
Reaching forward, I snatch the paper from her hand. “This paper is phenomenal, Sadie. Your writing is eloquent, captivating, and brilliant. You got an A on this paper because you earned it.”
She scoffs. “Who cares about a fucking essay?”
“I do. You should. Because it’s not about the essay, Sadie. It’s about your potential. You are not an idiot. You are human and you made a few mistakes, but it doesn’t mean you’re not smart.”
“Wow,” she says, wiping her eyes again. “Saying I’m not an idiot is the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”
I let out a heavy breath as I fight the urge to shake her. Sadie reminds me so much of Isaac. With so much potential but so little guidance or confidence.
Relating her to my brother probably motivates me to say the absolutely wildest and most unexpected thing.
“I have a spare room. ”
Her brows knit together as her head cocks to the side. “What?”
Forging ahead with this absolutely ridiculous idea, I continue. “What you need, Miss Green, is to find a sense of confidence for yourself with some guidance from me. I have a spare room in my house. Come and stay with me, and I will help you.”
“Help me what?” she asks in astonishment.
“Help you with your studies, your time management, and your confidence.”
She lets out a guffaw of a laugh. “You must be out of your mind.”
I must be.
“I won’t charge you rent, so you can save up for your own place. All I ask in return is that you listen to me. Do exactly as I tell you. Let me guide you the way you need, and if you choose to continue with this pregnancy, I’ll make sure your schoolwork doesn’t suffer for it.”
Her jaw is hanging open, her eyes blinking slowly. “I manage a sex club, you know? I am perfectly capable of doing things on my own, and I don’t need a man to tell me what to do.”
Letting my eyes roll, I let out a sigh. “It has nothing to do with me being a man, Miss Green. It has everything to do with me being a…”
My voice trails off with a flat expression on my face. After a moment, she throws her hands up. “A what?”
I take a step toward her. It’s not that I don’t know the word she almost used to describe me—it’s that I want to hear her say it. For reasons, even I don’t understand. This is all new territory for me.
Leaning in, I ask, “You tell me. What exactly were you going to call me last week in class? Someone who gets off on telling others what to do…”
Her mouth closes. I watch the movement in her throat as she swallows. But she doesn’t back away. Her voice is soft as she replies, “I don’t need a Dom, Dr. Goode. ”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“I’m sure,” she replies, but her tone is weak. “And if I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be you .”
There’s something about the fire in her eyes that excites me. Her defiance tickles my brain in a way no one ever has before.
Stepping away with my brow in a stern line, I cross my arms. “Suit yourself, Miss Green. But think about it. No strings. No sex. Just an opportunity to scratch my back while I scratch yours.”
“So you admit it then?” she asks, mirroring my stance and jutting her chin out toward me.
“Is that what you want to hear?” I ask.
“Yes. Admit I’m right.”
“You were…close. No one has ever called me a Dom before and it’s not something I do regularly. I don’t get off on telling you what to do. There’s nothing sexual about it. I just enjoy…teaching.”
She makes a noise of interest, something between a humph and a laugh. “Well, I appreciate the offer, Dr. Goode, but being in your class is more than enough for me.”
With a quiet nod, I hand the paper back to her. It takes her a moment before she reaches out to take it.
“I’ll see you Monday, Miss Green.”
Her eyes narrow as if she takes my words as a challenge—which they are. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing Sadie before Monday.
In fact, I’m betting on it.