9. Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Elijah
T he day that I’ve been dreading has finally arrived. I barely slept last night, tossing and turning thinking about it.
The start of fall classes. I haven’t even stepped foot on campus since the shooting. I’ve been teaching my courses long enough to not have to plan the material ahead of time and all the rosters are available online.
Standing in front of my building, I take a deep breath while I look up at the four-story structure. I hike my messenger bag higher on my shoulder and wipe the back of my hand across my forehead.
The weather’s a little warm for the jacket I have on, but they keep the building cool. And I always have a little extra comfort wearing Dad’s tweed jacket. It’s become a tradition to don it on the first day of classes.
While I’m not entirely sure he’d be proud of the life choices I’ve made up to this point, I like to think he’d appreciate that I’m honoring him in this way. I also find it appropriate that it’s a little big in the shoulders and the length of the arms. I don’t fill it in all the way, just like I’ve never been able to completely fill in for him.
I head straight for my office, avoiding looking out the window into the courtyard. The door swings open with a familiar creak and dust particles dance through the ray of sunlight pouring through the window. Everything looks virtually untouched, even though there was an adjunct professor in my stead. The room smells just as musty as it always has, a familiar comfort washing over me at the notion.
Sitting in my chair, I prop my feet up on the desk and lean back, a hand rising to rest against my mouth. Despite the worry about how the day would go, this feels right, normal.
Until a door slams down the hall and I lurch forward, my heart pounding. It’s not the sort of reaction to loud noises that I used to have, but since last year, it's sadly become the norm.
With another deep breath and a hand through my hair, I pull the roster for my first class of the semester out of my bag. Pushing aside some papers that have been dropped off by the school, my breath catches at the sight of my faded green desk cover.
A slinky dress and jade eyes flash through my mind.
I quickly shake the images away. There hasn’t been a single day since Mazie’s wedding that I haven’t thought of Bex at least a dozen times. While I’d love to chalk it up to the fact that it was the first sex I’d had in ten months, there’s more to it than that.
She brought me a sense of comfort that I haven’t felt since the shooting. I try to rationalize that it’s because she distracted me, my mind. That she gave me the nothingness I’d been craving while also giving me so much more.
But she’s gone, not to be seen or heard from again. Continuing to dwell is only going to torture me more.
I glance over the roster, giving the names a quick skim, looking for any that are familiar or that might be tricky to pronounce. While I don’t teach lectures, I do have a large class of about sixty students. This will fluctuate over the first few weeks with adds and drops. My classes all have waitlists, but sometimes a student realizes that my class just isn’t for them. Or econ in general.
Numbers are something I’ve always understood; they make sense. Maybe because they never change. Two plus two is always four. It’s like I can see an equation playing out in my head, and I get what I can only describe as a warm and fuzzy feeling when I’ve landed on the right answer. Like my body just knows that it’s correct.
There was never any doubt I was going to enter a career with a strong math focus. The only problem is that I wasn’t at MIT long enough to figure out exactly which direction I wanted to go in. I’d been dabbling. Trying a little of this and a little of that, not quite sure which school to plant my flag in.
Then life went to hell.
With a sigh, I pat my knees and stand, gathering what I need for this first class.
I don’t see much use dwelling on the past. It can’t be changed. While it was a shitty hand that we were dealt, my sisters have at least found a way to make the most of it. Me, maybe not as much. It’s why I’m certain I’d be a disappointment to my parents. They expected such great things from their firstborn. For me to lead the way and pave the road for my sisters.
Dad was never an emotional guy. I remember him wiping away a stray tear when Liv was born, but otherwise, I’d never seen him so much as well up. But when my acceptance letters to the Ivy Leagues started rolling in…when I told him I was going to go to MIT, his eyes more than misted.
To see how far I’ve fallen would certainly break his heart.
But in my own way, I like to think I’ve found a modicum of success. I’m a highly-ranked and sought-after professor. While some of that may be for my looks, I’d never date a student, to their dismay, and I like to think that I make class enjoyable and, dare I say it, fun. Economics can be tough to understand, but I try to make as many real-life connections as I can.
Walking down the hallway, a flash of vibrant copper hair catches my eye as the girl turns a corner. I practically jog to follow her before stopping dead in my tracks. With a quick shake of my head, I knock my senses back into myself.
I absolutely need to stop thinking about Bex. Not every copper-haired woman is her. Not every pair of green eyes I notice belong to her.
The fact that she still has me so wound up is incredibly unnerving. Never has a woman occupied my mind so much, and right now it’s a distraction I don’t need.
With my hand on the knob, I walk into the mini amphitheater and down the few steps to the podium. There’re a few early birds, as there always are, especially on the first day.
While it may make me an asshole, I ignore them and go about setting myself up for class. The sign-in sheet is set down at the first spot in the front row, followed by a handful of syllabi at the end of each row.
Some professors like to dive right in on day one. But I take a slightly different approach.
As students file in and find a seat, I stand behind the podium looking down at the syllabus in front of me. I haven’t changed it in years. But a refresher is always nice.
“Good morning. Welcome to economics. I’m your professor, Mr. Baker. If you are not in the right class, now is the time to leave.” I give a moment and glance around the room as nobody moves.
“There will be a paper coming around to sign in. This will happen every day. Be sure to sign legibly or you may be marked as out for the class. If I can’t read your name, I can’t tell you’re here. Syllabi are also going to be coming around.” I gesture to the end of the rows where I placed the stacks.
Silently, I chew my lip and take a deep breath. So far so good. The normalcy of this has me on autopilot, but I can’t ignore the slight tremor in my hands and the rapidness of my pulse.
I spend the next twenty or so minutes going over the syllabus. It’s not in great detail, but enough that they’ll know when big assignments are due and when tests are scheduled. With being in upstate New York, I have to allow for the possibility of snow as early as late October. I make sure to tell them that the only thing this would interfere with is an exam, as all papers are handed in digitally and a snow day is not an acceptable reason to not have it turned in.
“And that will take us to finals in December. My office hours are every Wednesday from three to five, and you can usually catch me for something quick right after class if necessary. If you miss a class, it’s on you to get the notes and be caught up. Don’t come to me asking about your grade for a test, a paper, anything. You have the dates, plan accordingly. Do the work, use the notes. Prove to me that you’re learning something from this class, and your grades shouldn’t be an issue. Look over the syllabus. If you have any questions, email me, or wait until next class.”
It’s not until I’m looking around for the first time as I dismiss class, that my eyes land on hers. Everything stills in my body. The blood, the air, even the neurons that should be firing in my brain. It all ceases.
Because this time, I’m not imagining Bex. She’s really here. In my classroom.
Fuck.