Chapter 15
I am absolutely not analyzing the fact that I gave Benoit Bardot a blow job before allowing him to wash my motherfucking hair.
Obviously, I do asinine things when I’m overstimulated.
With finals coming up, what I don’t need is a distraction. Especially not one with chocolate-colored eyes, cute little reading glasses, and a nice—
No. Focus, Cole.
I have an appointment with my advisor later this afternoon.
She sent an ominous email yesterday that I’ve been agonizing over ever since.
I swear, there’s a special place in hell for people who set a meeting with no explanation or—even worse—text you saying, “Call me.” My stomach has been in knots for multiple reasons, this meeting is just the icing on the cake.
I need to distract myself and use my time wisely because my favorite table was available as soon as I walked into the university library today.
This almost never happens, and usually I end up sitting across the room, with the sunlight blazing into my eyes, as I watch a table of undergrads fuck around at my table.
But today, I arrived in time to grab it and I’m taking it as a good omen.
It really is the perfect spot. Slightly separated from the main library seating area, there are half-shelves that form a wall between me and the entrance to the cafe.
I can get up, refill my coffee, and also keep an eye on my things.
I’m not sure who would steal a stack of psychology textbooks, but those things are expensive and I can’t afford to replace them.
Between that and my banged up laptop, the logical side of me knows that I’m not really taking a risk by leaving such valuable items out while I go in pursuit of more caffeine, but I still feel better being nearby.
My finals include two written exams and a presentation.
The written exams should be fine, it’s the presentation I’m worried about.
I’d rather pluck my toenails out one at a time than speak in front of a group of people that I know will be judging the quality of my work.
I know it’s unavoidable, especially in academia, but my body goes red with all of the attention, truly helping me live up to Ben’s nickname for me.
Shit. Don’t think about Ben.
And I don’t. For the next hour and a half I do a great job of outlining my presentation, filling in a few lingering gaps. My phone dings, reminding me that I have an appointment with my advisor in thirty minutes.
It doesn’t take long to get across campus, so I find a seat outside of my advisor’s office and use the extra time to squeeze in a little more studying.
I’m almost immediately distracted, however, by a laugh that sounds strangely familiar.
I eye the end of the hallway, watching as Elaine Bardot rounds the corner.
Despite the fact that we are technically housed in the same building, we don’t see each other very often.
The waging Don’t-Think-About-Ben internal battle comes to a screeching halt as I try to hide myself behind my open textbook.
I like Elaine, actually. She’s a badass sex therapist, and even with four kids, was somehow at all of the important events when we were in school.
Something my own mother wasn’t able to do with one child.
I’m baffled by how she spawned such a rage-inducing human.
A strange feeling unfurls in my chest at the thought.
Jealousy, that’s what this is. Now I’m fucking jealous of Ben.
I roll my eyes, sliding deeper into my chair, forgetting that my bright red ponytail acts like a flashing neon sign above my head saying Colette Russell is sitting here!
“Studying hard, dear?” Elaine asks, sitting casually in the chair next to me.
“Oh! Hi, Dr. Bardot. I didn’t see you there.” I lower my textbook, still not making eye contact.
“Elaine, darling,” she scolds. “Dr. Bardot is so formal.”
Sitting in the psychology building—her place of work—I can’t help but think that our relationship is formal.
She is a professor, albeit not mine. As if she can read my thoughts, she interjects, “It’s also a rule of mine that if I’ve known you since before you hit puberty, any formalities are out the window. ”
“That… seems like a reasonable rule,” I concede.
Elaine’s hands hit her knees with a resounding smack. “I thought so! Now, I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve been meaning to invite you to family dinner, it happens every Sunday, and I think it’s past time that you made an appearance.”
Blinking rapidly, I peek over to find a beaming Elaine. As if she didn’t just throw out a family dinner invitation to a relative stranger. “You want me at family dinner? A dinner that is with your family? And me?”
She purses her lips, but there’s a lingering twinkle in her eye. Something that tells me there’s more to this request than she’s letting on. “Obviously,” she says.
Obviously?
“Does—uh, does Ben know that you’re asking me?” I can’t imagine he would be thrilled for me to show up to his family’s home—his safe space. Only, sometimes I think…
“Ben would be elated to have you!”
I quirk my eyebrow, searching Elaine’s face for the lie.
“Right, I will—”
“Ms. Russell, are you ready?” My advisor, Dr. Winthrop, pokes her head out of her office, surprise flashing across her face when she sees Elaine sitting next to me. “Dr. Bardot! I apologize for interrupting.”
“Not at all, Vivienne. Colette and I were just finishing up. She’s all yours!” She stands, patting me on the shoulder. “See you Sunday, dear.”
She’s gone before I have time to formulate a response.
“Ms. Russell, come on in.” Dr. Winthrop pushes the door open, holding her arm out to welcome me into her office.
It’s creepily clean, the books seemingly organized by height versus by topic or author.
There’s a singular family photo on her desk that I have to tear my eyes away from because all three of her doll-like kids are eerily similar looking.
Same bright blonde hair clipped back with a seersucker bow, same shit-eating grins, same rosy red cheeks.
Do they have blush on? They can’t be older than seven?
“Aren’t they sweet? Triplets. Blair, Darcy, and Sutton. They are the light of my life.” Dr. Winthrop’s sickly sweet tone has always thrown me off, and it’s positively dripping now. There’s a false sincerity that underlies everything that comes out of her mouth.
When I don’t respond, she continues, getting straight to the point. “Well, I bet you are wondering why I called a meeting today.”
Duh, Vivienne.
“The good news: you were approved to pursue an emphasis in forensic psychology next year.” She taps her pencil three times in rapid succession. “An interesting choice. A loss for the Marriage and Family Therapy department, for sure.”
Dr. Winthrop pauses, as if she’s expecting me to change my mind. When I don’t, she clears her throat. “Right. Unfortunately, there is some bad news.”
My stomach clenches painfully. The seconds feel like they stretch into hours as I wait for her to get on with it.
“Currently, half of your tuition is covered under a scholarship that will no longer be available next semester. The donor planned for it to be an annual donation, but, well, these things change.”
Fuck. Fuck!
There’s a loud buzzing in my brain as I register what Dr. Winthrop just said to me.
I had a plan when I moved. Money saved. Enough money to cover my apartment and half of my tuition, the other half covered by this scholarship.
That was supposed to carry me through this degree.
I can make one more semester work at full tuition, but then what?
I’m spiraling quickly, my breaths shortening.
“I am happy to set up an appointment at the Financial Aid Office for you,” Dr. Winthrop continues, seemingly oblivious to my approaching panic attack.
All I can do is nod. Words no longer exist.
“Okay, let me look at their schedule…” She turns toward her desktop, the screen illuminating her face with a blueish glow. “Does next Tuesday work for you? They have an 11:30 appointment available.”
“O-okay.” My voice is feeble and I hate how affected I sound. But this is my life. My future. And it feels like it’s crumbling around me inside of this sterile office, creepy children mocking me from inside the frame.
“Great, it’s booked. You should be getting an email shortly.” She turns back toward me, bright white smile broadening as her eyes dart toward the doorway. “Anything else you need from me, Ms. Russell?”
I suppose that’s my cue. In a haze, I stand, leaving the office without another word. It may be considered rude, but I could not form a coherent sentence if I tried.
I make it exactly twenty seven steps away when my phone dings. Opening up my email, I see two unread messages. The first is from the financial aid office. The second is from Elaine Bardot.
To: Colette Russell ([email protected])
Subject: Meeting Confirmation
This email is to confirm your appointment at the HU Financial Aid Office on…
Swiping out of the message I move on to Elaine’s email.
To: Colette Russell ([email protected])
Subject: Family Dinner!!
Hi Colette!
I realized I don’t have your phone number. See below for information about family dinner and I’m also including my cell number. Text me so I have yours or I will be forced to get it from my son. Don’t make me do that, dear.
The rest of the email included an address, a phone number, and little room for argument.
I ignore both emails.
It takes me a month before I eventually make it to a Bardot family dinner.