21. Chapter 21
Chapter 21
Elijah
I let Bex leave without switching numbers, without a commitment for a future interaction. Or at least, outside of the professor and student roles. I want her to have an easy out.
One thing I hope I made very clear is that I want her. But that has to go both ways. She’s young; she has so much life ahead of her. What could she possibly want with someone like me? Someone over ten years her senior. I was going off to college before she even started elementary school.
At the time, I thought I was being a gentleman, that I was doing the right thing. Now, a mere twelve hours after I said goodbye to her in the resident parking lot this morning, I realize I’m a fucking moron.
The least I should have done was get her number. I could have sent her a message and put the ball in her court. Let her decide if she wants to continue this or not. Now? I’ve basically made it where the only time for us to talk is an extremely inopportune time. Because it’s when we’re firmly planted in the roles that make it so wrong for us to be anything in the first place.
But the scent of her lingers in my apartment and on my sheets. The sounds of her moans reverberate through my mind and haunt me throughout the day. And though I know it’s crazy, it’s like I can still taste her on my tongue.
None of this allows for any sort of relaxation. The football game drones on in the background, barely giving me a distraction from my pacing.
I don’t even know what dorm she’s in, though it’s not exactly like I could just show up and knock on her door.
Mazie wanted me to go to family dinner tonight, but there’s no way. I’m far too distracted and on edge. They probably wouldn’t bring it up, but I wouldn’t be able to handle the staring and kid gloves they handle me with. And I keep being an asshole who uses the hostage situation as a reason for my shitty behavior.
The only choices I have are to try to run into her on campus, which is hard to do when I’m stuck in my classroom or office or wait until class to see her. Hopefully, now that there’s more going on, she won’t keep hiding in the shadows. Though maybe it’d be better if she did, so I didn’t get utterly lost in her beauty in the middle of class.
Don’t most people become more intelligent as they age? It seems like I’m going the opposite way and becoming dumber. Or at the very least, that I’m forgetting how to be around a girl who I want more than just a hook up with.
I weave my fingers into my hair and pull. “Fuck!” I fuck up every other part of my life, why would something with this amazing woman be any different?
A light bulb bursts in my head. I have papers from her class. I wasn’t planning to get to them for another couple of days, but the urge to do them right now is strong.
I still have every intention of grading them blindly, but once I finish that, I can slip a note into hers.
Brewing a fresh pot of coffee, I take the stack of papers from my satchel and drop them on my small desk, clicking on the table lamp.
Though economics can be difficult, especially this slightly more introductory class, which tends to make or break many students, the group as a whole is doing fairly well. I’m impressed with their abilities.
The papers are well written, their arguments strong. Mostly. There are a few who have struggles, a few who have heavy grammar mistakes. While I’m not an English professor, I do expect for my students to be able to write a well thought-out and self-edited piece of work.
There are the few who clearly have no understanding of what we talk about and will likely drop any sort of business degree. Then there are the few who have clearly overloaded their schedules and are hacking papers from other classes to pad this one, even though it makes no sense. While those students may ultimately do well in my class, they’re going to overextend themselves and burn out at some point.
But then there are the few stars who really seem to have a strong grasp on the material. Not just the math behind economics but the way it works and how we interact with it on a daily basis.
It fills me with pride when I go through the papers at one in the morning and see Bex’s name mixed in with the high achievers.
Setting her paper aside, I file through my desk drawer for a sticky note, finally finding a pad.
I scrawl a quick note, saying that I should have given it sooner and make sure I write my number as legibly as possible so there’s absolutely no mistaking it. Then I stick it to the middle of her paper.
It’s not a place she’s likely to find it until she’s back in her dorm. I put the grades on the final page, so almost everybody flips there immediately. I don’t want any of her neighbors to see she has a personalized note with my phone number. That would end all kinds of badly for both of us.
A sense of relief floods through me as I lean back in my chair. At the very least, now she’ll have a way to contact me. If she wants to. And if she decides she doesn’t? Well, at least I can say I tried.