23. Finn
23
FINN
A llowing my students time to study in class makes me look like the cool teacher. Being on hand so I can help them is a bonus, of course, but it gives me extra time to sit and mark all of the final assignments. The sooner I complete these, the sooner I can tell which students are going to need a little extra help in the exam department.
Plus, it allows me to look up from my desk and stare up at Emma without anyone being suspicious. Every second she’s in my class is intoxicating. All I can think about is how sweet she tasted on my lips, how perfectly hot she was around my cock, and how addictive her moans were. And then, as I replay the sweet fantasy in my mind, I’m reminded of what else happened at the cabin.
How easily I could have lost her. No amount of apology has eased the confused guilt that sits like a pebble just beneath my ribs, reminding me how close I came to losing the woman I was rapidly falling for.
I watch her now as she leans over and confers with her friend, who looks to be in physical pain. I’ve learned that Ana merely looks like that when she’s utterly stuck on a question, and by the way Ana’s face relaxes, it seems like Emma has helped her through it.
That’s my girl .
I turn back to the assignment on my desk, and wince. It’s a story belonging to one of my students, Mike, but I grow concerned halfway through the story. There’s something dark about it, painfully so and it’s enough that when the bell rings, I call on Mike to stay behind. As Mike walks up to my desk, I daringly wink at Emma who swiftly sticks out her tongue and then dances out of the lecture hall with Ana.
“Is there a problem?” Mike stands at the side of my desk, his gaze down and when he spots his assignment on my desk, his brow furrows deeply. “Am I failing?”
“Failing?” Taking off my glasses, I rub at the bridge of my nose to ease some of the tired tension building behind my eyes. “No, Mike. I just wanted to go over some aspects of your story and check in with you to see how you’re doing.”
A flash of confusion crosses Mike’s face. “How I’m doing?”
“Yes. See—” I pick up his story and flip through a few pages. “I’ve noticed a growing theme in your work where the violence lacks cause.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some of the violence that occurs against your main female character is without cause and seems more gratuitous than anything else. There’s no deeper meaning, no character arc involved. It reads as violence for the sake of violence and not for the sake or purpose of progressing the story.”
“Does all violence need a reason?” Mike asks, adjusting the strap of his backpack against his shoulder. “Some people are just cruel for the sake of it.”
“That is true,” I agree. “But your assignment is to focus on how every little detail can tie into a bigger plot. I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell the reader by having such acts of violence for no reason at all.”
“You’ve said before that writing is about working through frustrations and feelings right?” Mike rapidly licks his lips. “That’s all that is.”
My chest tightens briefly and concern bubbles through me. “Is everything alright Mike?” I ask gently. “Is there anything you need help with? Did something happen?”
In the past, there’s been a few rare cases when work like this has been a cry for help and Mike, like many others in this class, is a quiet kid. I can’t force him to tell me anything, but his approach creates concern that he’s dealing with something he can’t handle on his own.
“I’m fine,” Mike says as he meets my gaze steadily. “Honestly. I was probably in a bad mood when writing that part and just didn’t flesh it out.”
He speaks honestly, and from his relaxed stance I don’t get the impression that there’s anything to be concerned about. It doesn’t completely erase all of my concerns, though.
“How would I make it better?” Mike continues. “How could I change it so that the female character still gets what she deserves and ends up with the final male character without it seeming…what did you say, ‘violence for the sake of violence’?”
“Well, like with any story, there has to be a journey. If you want the violence to be the result of something and make the reader feel like your characters deserve it then they have to do something that makes the reader dislike them. I’m presuming you don’t want your readers to feel sorry for her until later, correct?”
“Sure.”
“Well in that case, after she commits an awful act that deserves the punishment, you then develop the character further so that the reader can then sympathize with her, and root for her to get with the guy at the end. Maybe you can focus on her journey dealing with trauma and your other character could be a beacon for her. Something she wants but has to overcome a few things to get there.”
“Right.” Mike nods slowly as if deep in thought while processing my words.
“You’ll have your final exam to work on that, but I must be clear.” Sliding my glasses back on, I sigh. “You have to do this correctly, and you have to make sure you have a complete character arc or you will lose points.”
Mike nods, then he flashes me a bright smile. “I will, thanks teach.”
“Anytime. And Mike—” I stop him once more just as he throws his jacket over his shoulder and holds it in place by the blue tag.
“—if you are having any kind of trouble, and need someone to talk to, I’m here for that too.”
Mike laughs then and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.”
He hurries away and I return to my seat, folding up his assignment. I can’t give this the full marks it might deserve because of how much character growth it lacks, so I set his assignment aside and make a note to provide some extra guidance before the exam. It’s the least I can do since Mike definitely does harbor a lot of written talent.
Leaning back in my chair, the group chat lights up my phone across the desk. Picking it up, my cheeks warm and my gut clenches as a picture flashes up on screen. It’s Emma, though her face is hidden. All that’s on display are her perfect tits cradled by a purple lace bra just begging to be ripped off by my teeth. Asher and Caspian flood the chat with emojis and I add my own, then I force myself to set my phone aside. I need to get this finished if I have any chance of having fun with her later.
Two hours later, my back aches and my ass is numb from the chair, but I don’t move. Emma’s assignment is a joy to read from a personal perspective because it’s an insight into how her creative mind works. But, the more I read, the more I realize she lacks the passion that exists in all the other works. Her story is good, but there’s no spark. It’s just words on a page, lacking heart.
The more I think about it, the more I’ve noticed that trend with her throughout the year. I’d excused it away as something that would get better with time. But now that I know her personally, that I’ve seen how much love and passion exist in other areas of her life, I can tell that her heart really isn’t in this course.
Asher mentioned how much passion pours from her photographs and how talented she is. With talent like that, it surprises me that she’s knuckling through a course like mine. I mark her paper as fairly as I can and set her into the pile of people who should pass the exam easily.
I have confidence in her work, of course I do. She might lack the passion but she’s very talented regardless. I make a mental note to ask her more about why she’s taking the course and then pack up for the evening. Dinner and a large glass of wine call to me. Texting the group chat as I head out of the building, I then check Instagram, where Emma’s uploaded some of the beautiful pictures she took at the cabin.
The cabin.
My guilt won’t fade, even with Emma assuring me that she doesn’t blame me. As I walk to my car, I replay the events of that night over in my mind. I locked the door. I’m almost positive of it. I can’t explain it but I know I did. The only problem with that is the fact that if I did lock the door, someone else must have opened it which brings me right back to Emma and her sleepwalking.
If she did it herself while caught up in some dream, does that mean she can do it again? The thought makes my blood run cold. All it would take is one night of her wandering out into the street and…no. I can’t think about it.
And yet, it begins to haunt me.
Is she even safe in her own apartment?