Chapter 2
IT WAS GOOD FOR A MINUTE THERE
Clover
Five weeks later
The beep of the house alarm being disarmed wakes me.
I bolt upright in bed, breath caught in my throat.
The wisps of my dream fade out slowly. I’ve been having the same one for over a month—more like a memory than a dream.
My cheeks heat, and every muscle below my waist is clenching.
My summer fling refuses to stay in Pearl Bay.
He’s followed me here, to Chicago, and every night I have the same dream, where instead of leaving behind an empty pillow and a paper crane, I wake up with him next to me.
“Wakey wakey, eggs and bac-y!” my best friend, Sophia, calls out from down the hall.
She lives on the top floor of the duplex, and I live on the bottom.
I lucked out that the tenant who previously lived here moved at the beginning of August, giving me the opportunity to take over the lease and live close to my best friend again.
“I’ll just be a minute!” I call back and roll out of bed, sad to leave behind the dream, but excited about what the rest of my day is going to look like. I shrug into my robe as I pad down the hall to the kitchen.
Sophia is already pulling plates out of the cupboard.
“I lied about the bacon and eggs. We’re having muffins for breakfast. And they’re not healthy in the slightest. They’re full of butter and sugar and blueberries,” she tells me.
“Sounds like exactly what I need on a Tuesday morning, and blueberries are healthy.” I head for the coffee maker, which is set to brew at 6:30, so there’s a full, fresh pot waiting for us.
Back in July, I was offered an incredible job opportunity at Hawking University where Sophia works—a one-year contract to teach two first-year English and semantics classes—and I couldn’t turn it down.
While teaching at the university level full-time hadn’t been something I planned on, the salary was too good to refuse. And it’s a great addition to my resume.
Last week, things got even better when I was offered the opportunity to take over a creative writing seminar course from a professor who had to go on leave for back surgery.
He’s off for at least the rest of the first semester, if not the entire year.
He passed over the course syllabus, and today I take over the class.
Up until now, I’d been teaching courses as an adjunct professor and writing for several online publications.
It paid the bills, but it didn’t leave much left over for savings.
A one-year position teaching at a prestigious school definitely pays better.
And the addition of the seminar will not only help pad my bank account, but it’s the cherry on the sundae of this experience.
I pour two cups, feeling my phone buzz against my hip. I ignore it for now. I’m pretty sure I already know who it is.
“How are you this morning? Excited? Nervous?” Sophia asks as I set her coffee in front of her and take the seat across the table.
“Both, I guess? I have a feeling tonight’s class will be a lot of fun to teach. All these young minds learning how to create worlds. It’s amazing.”
The English 101 courses are fine, but the classes are huge, and the material is fairly general. The second-year seminar course is much more intimate and the content inspiring. And it should be full of keen minds.
“I’m glad you’re excited for it.” Sophia separates the top of her muffin from the bottom, and despite it being full of butter and blueberries, she slathers more butter on both sides.
“What about you? How are the students handling it now that the honeymoon period is over?” I ask.
“The pressure is really starting to hit a lot of the kids, especially since midterms are coming up and the deadline to drop courses has passed. We advertised a stress management group last week and it’s already full, with a waiting list.”
“Oh wow, can you add a second session?”
Sophia is a counselor for Hawking University, dealing mostly with students who are struggling with the demands of post-secondary courses.
She nods. “I think we’ll be able to get approval for it.”
My phone buzzes again, and I pull it from my robe.
I already had a few unanswered messages last night.
I finally look at it and groan, because in addition to the message from my mother wishing me luck today on the seminar class and confirming a phone call later in the week, there’s one from my ex-husband.
Or he would be my ex-husband if he would sign the divorce papers I served him back in August, which incidentally coincided nicely with my end-of-summer fling.
The unanswered message tally is up to six.
Gabriel and I have been unofficially separated for a year, which is longer than our marriage lasted.
After we walked down the aisle, the charismatic man I’d come to know changed.
And when he moved us across the country with no warning, taking me away from my support network, I put my foot down.
Well, I packed a bag and left. For nearly twelve months after that, I was off the grid.
Only my parents and Sophia knew where I was and how to find me.
But I couldn’t stay married to Gabriel forever. I didn’t want to be married to him at all. So I contacted my lawyer and had the divorce papers drafted and served last month. Of course, now that Gabriel can contact me again, he wants to reconcile.
Which is ridiculous. There’s nothing to reconcile.
“Do you want me to check it for you?” Sophia asks, obviously aware of my trepidation and frustration.
I make the go-ahead motion.
She snatches the phone and holds it up to my face, activating facial recognition.
We’re closer than sisters. She has my banking password. Sometimes I’m too reactive to deal with messages from Gabriel, especially this early in the morning.
She swipes, and her mouth turns down as she reads the message. “Oh, for fudgsicle’s sake.”
“What now? Do I even want to know?” I can feel myself deflating, which is a terrible way to start what’s supposed to be an excitement-filled day.
“He wants to have the cabin on Pearl Lake reassessed. He thinks it’s undervalued. He also wants to know if you’ve given any further consideration to seeing a therapist with him. Seems convenient that he’s pushing the ‘get back together’ angle while also trying to squeeze more money out of you.”
“Oh, fuck him. Of course he wants to have it reassessed.” I cross my arms, my heart rate spiking.
The hairs on my arms stand on end, and a zip of energy travels up my spine and wraps around my throat, creating phantom pressure.
It’s a sensation I’ve grown entirely too used to when dealing with Gabriel.
“He went there all of once when we were married, and now he wants to make it impossible for me to keep it. I need him to sign the papers so I can move on with my life.”
My parents handed over the deed to the cabin after I married Gabriel, sort of as a wedding present. Unfortunately, instead of keeping the cabin in my name only, they added his too.
Gabriel never had any interest in the cabin until I told him I wanted a divorce.
Then he seemed to realize it had some value that wasn’t just sentimental on my part.
I have no interest in giving it up, but I’m not in a great financial position to buy him out.
While the seminar course helps, it doesn’t cover the cost of half the property.
“Do you really think he wants to reconcile?” Sophia says gently.
Another message comes in.
“What else has he added to the list?” I snap, immediately feeling bad because Sophia does not deserve my wrath.
“He said he’s been talking to a therapist on a regular basis. And that he sees now why you two didn’t work. And that it’s his fault you felt compelled to run away and hide. Those are his exact words.”
“I was afraid he was going to lock me in the basement and keep me like a pet!” I run a hand through my hair, shaking my head.
I hate that he’s still trying to control me.
At least his motives are transparent to me now in a way they weren’t when we were first married.
“I’m sorry. Maybe I should look later, after I’ve finished teaching.
I don’t need to start my day in a bad mood, and you don’t need me unloading on you. ”
Sophia gives me a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay. I get that you’re frustrated. You’ve been moving on for a year, and he’s been stewing about you escaping his clutches. He’s good at holding things over your head.”
“I hope he gives up sooner rather than later, or the lawyer bills are going to eat my entire salary,” I gripe.
“I know it sucks right now, but at least at the end you’ll be free.”
“I need to be patient and not reactive. It’s hard, though, especially with the way he pushes my buttons on purpose.” It’s clear that’s his intention with his most recent messages. He’s trying to use what’s important to me to bargain for another chance.
“Do you want me to respond for you?”
I shake my head. “Leave it for now, and I’ll come back to it tonight. Now that he has my attention again, he wants it all the time, just like always.” Is it passive-aggressive on my part? Sure. But he’s being a manipulative ass.
“Okay.” She checks the time. “I need to get ready for work.”
“Me too. I won’t be home until late since my seminar ends at ten, but I’ll check in with you when I get back.”
“Sounds good.” Sophia kisses me on the cheek and heads for the front door, locking it behind her while I head down the hall to the bathroom to get ready for work.
My English 101 course starts at nine. The sheer number of students was a bit intimidating at first—there are three hundred freshmen in the class—but I’ve gotten used to the sea of bodies. I also have a TA to help grade assignments.
After my 101 class, I spend the afternoon in my office reviewing my lecture notes for the creative writing seminar this evening.
It’s much smaller, with only forty students.
And the class is three hours. I’m a little nervous about taking over for such a seasoned professor, but with my background in library science and a creative writing minor, it’s in my wheelhouse.
At six thirty, I lock up my office and head to the seminar class. I arrive fifteen minutes early and find a handful of students already waiting at the door. They’ve been informed of the change, but I still get some curious looks.
I let them in, and they murmur hello, taking their seats and setting up tablets, laptops, and notebooks on their desks.
When seven o’clock arrives, I introduce myself and explain that I’ll be taking over for Professor Connelly.
I field a few questions and reassure the students that he’s okay.
I also brought in a get well soon card for them to sign.
I pass it to the student directly in front of me, then pull up my attendance list and start calling names.
The door opens when I’m halfway through, and a student straggles in. It happened in my English class earlier, but in a class of three hundred students, it’s easier to slip in the back door and quietly find a seat. That’s what I expect this student to do.
Except his phone starts ringing. And it’s not a normal ringtone. It’s a song blaring through the room at full volume.
“Fuck. Shit.” He’s standing in the middle of the room, facing the back of the class, every single student staring at him in wide-eyed horror.
He rummages around in his pocket and pulls out the offending device as Justin Bieber croons “I’m so fucking lonely” to the entire class. Instead of silencing it, he answers the call—on speaker.
A male voice that sounds like an angry father starts yelling. “Why the hell am I getting calls about you being late for practice, you’re—”
He spins around, gaze moving over the class as he takes in their looks of horror.
He’s wearing a baseball cap, and the lights above cast a shadow over his face.
“Oh, fuck me,” he mutters. “Hey, Dad, I’m in the middle of class.
I’ll call you back later.” He rushes the words, so it all sounds quite garbled.
Then he drops into the closest empty desk and slams his elbow on the edge on his way down. He sucks in a groan.
I give the student a look that I hope conveys how unimpressed I am. “Are you quite done?” I’m ready to go off on him, but he raises a hand and knocks his hat off his head.
“Uh, sorry, Professor. I think I might be in the wrong class.” His eyes dart around the room. “Or maybe not?”
“Professor Connelly is out for back surgery. Professor Sweet is taking over the class,” the student beside him says.
“Oh shit.” His vibrant green gaze, ringed in hazel, meets mine.
All the air leaves my lungs on a whoosh. The room tilts, and I’m suddenly light-headed. I can tell instantly that he recognizes me, and the silence in the room is deafening. Fortunately, he fills it by rambling out an explanation.
“Sorry about the phone call. And for being late. Coach kept me after practice and my dad’s on my ass because I had a bad game. I’m so sorry, Cl—” He clasps his hands in front of him and bites his lips together.
“Don’t let it happen again.”
My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, and the rest of me feels disconnected from my body. Because this student, sitting in the middle of my sophomore class, is my summer fling.
My one-night stand who left behind an origami crane and a lot of memories I wish I could now erase.
Fuck my life.