Chapter 30
THIRTY
Alexia
The locum doctor the guys insist on calling in clears me for work on Tuesday afternoon, after I've spent two days on the couch trying to think of ways to escape my jailers. Professor Pollack, apparently, had told Rhys I could take as long as I needed. Rhys took the permission seriously.
But I'm up bright and early and in the bathroom on Wednesday morning, trying to cover my bruise with a third layer of foundation when my phone buzzes.
Rhys:
Good morning. What time will you be ready?
My stomach flip-flops at his name on my screen.
I've barely spoken to him since Sunday afternoon, since Aria and Betty left trailing glitter and gossip.
He's been around. But quieter than usual.
Present at meals we've all had together, but just sitting in the background as we listen to Marcus and Zachary debate the merits of any number of topics that neither has any expertise on.
I grab the phone and reply.
Alexia:
About fifteen minutes. Why?
Rhys:
I'll come get you. I'll drive us in together.
My reflex is to tell him there's no need, I have my own car, I've been cleared to drive, I do not need chauffeuring, but the protest doesn't actually make it to my thumbs.
Alexia:
Thank you. I'll be waiting.
Twenty minutes later I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, dressed and ready, bag packed, when Zachary appears in the doorway jingling his car keys.
“Ready?” he asks with a smile.
“Oh, Rhys is taking me in, actually. It's more convenient, it'll save you the drive.”
“He is?” Zachary frowns, a little confused. “He asked me to take you.”
The bottom drops out of my chest but I fight not to show it. There's probably a perfectly reasonable explanation. “Oh. Must've got my wires crossed. No worries, I'll just—”
“I've got you,” he says.
Marcus is waiting by the front door when I come out, holding up a giant insulated bag. “Lunch. And there's a muesli bar in there for if you get light-headed, and an electrolyte drink and—”
“A ten-course meal?” I joke, eyeing the sheer size of the bag.
Zachary scoffs, takes the bag, and carries it out to the car for me.
Craig is worse than I'd prepared myself for.
It starts small, a comment when I mix up a date on the assignment brief, benign enough that half the class laughs, including me.
Then it happens again when I mix up two oft-confused terms, and again when a student asks a genuinely reasonable question and I take half a second too long to answer it, only because I'm thinking of the best way to explain it.
By the third snide remark, one of the students says, quiet but firm, “Hey, it's cool, everyone loses their words sometimes.”
Craig turns on her instead. “If you're planning on taking too long to answer simple questions, don't come crying to me when you fail.”
A couple of students turn to look at me, waiting, and I watch Craig watch them watch me, and then, like flicking a switch, the charm slides back over his face, easy and warm. I try to smooth it over for the sake of the class, and he does his best not to interact with me at all.
I try to catch him after. He shuts me down before I've finished the sentence.
“What, you going to send your three bodyguards after me for speaking the truth?” It comes out light, like a joke between colleagues, already walking away. “Didn't realise professional feedback was a crime now.”
I don't have a response fast enough. He's gone before I find one.
But it leaves me in a mood, a dark cloud hovering over me.
All morning I look forward to my standing appointment with Rhys, but when the calendar notification pops up cancelling it, no replacement time offered, I read it three times because it just doesn't compute.
Rhys doesn't cancel things. Rhys is aggressively, constitutionally reliable.
I sit there in my office and feel something in my chest quietly deflate.
I debate texting to ask if something's wrong, considering that's twice he's cancelled on me today, but then Professor Pollack comes in to check on me and I let it go.
By the time I make it to the courtyard with the lunch Marcus packed, my head's started up that low, insistent throb that means I've pushed harder than advised.
I'd made a point of going outside for fresh air, but the noise is quickly proving to be way too stimulating.
And when my phone buzzes, it's like a taser to the brain.
I grab it, hoping it's from Rhys with an explanation.
And quickly regret it. It's from my landlord in Sydney.
He's raising the rent, effective next lease renewal, after I'm set to return following my three-month placement in Adelaide.
Unless I want to move out by the end of the month, in which case he's got someone lined up and he'll waive the break clause.
I sit with the notice, Marcus's lunch forgotten. I've always meant to go back, and it's never once occurred to me that I might not actually want to go back.
But now...
It's too soon to make this decision. I'm not ready. I pick up the phone to call Mum. If nothing else she'll remind me to breathe and tell me that whatever I decide, she'll support me.
But when I pick up my phone, I see another email waiting for me.
I should just ignore it, put it away, deal with one thing at a time.
Rack up another mistake for Alexia.
It's from Graham in the fellowship submissions office — someone I've worked with before, and someone Rhys suggested I get in touch with for some insight.
The email is kind but honest, brutally so: the applicant field is strong, with most candidates having more experience than me — there's one glaring gap in my submission as it stands — limited collaborative or team-based research experience.
Networking. The exact skill set that solitary doctoral work never really provides.
I put the phone face-down on the bench and press the heel of my hand against my eye socket, and I'm still sitting there when the TA email comes in — one of the other tutors, genuinely apologetic, genuinely unwell, asking if there's any chance I could cover her afternoon tute.
I say yes before I've even finished reading it. If I need more networking, it starts now.
Two and a half hours later I'm dragging my body through the campus like it's wading through tar, the ache in my head now like a vice tightening with every breath. It's so bad I genuinely wonder why I'm even trying to move, but the couch in my office is calling my name.
One more step, I keep telling myself, the day wearing on me like a dark weight. It isn't until I round the corner that I see him.
Leaning against my office door, hands in his pockets, staring off into space.
He straightens the moment I register that the figure is him.
Just then, one of the postgrad students clips past, does a double take, and says, “Rhys?
You're still here?” Then, seeing me, he waves.
“Yo, teach! Finally! Put the man out of his misery.
He's been out here for hours, since right after lunch.
You really should get one of those whiteboards for your door so you can say when you'll be back!”
He keeps walking, not waiting for a response. Though I'm not entirely sure I would've had a chance, because Rhys is suddenly right in front of me, staring down at me, his hand coming up as if to cup my cheek.
“What's wrong?” His voice has dropped into something low and urgent I don't have the energy to resist.
“Nothing,” I say, and take the final few steps to my office, and try to close the door with him on the other side. I'm in no condition to confront him about why he cancelled on me today. Not if I don't want to say something I'll regret, not with everything else on my mind.
He just pushes lightly on the door and steps in behind me, then closes it with a small click.
“If you think a door's going to stop me getting to you when you're obviously upset,” he says, “you've either got a very optimistic idea of what a door can do, or a pessimistic view of what I will do to get to you.”
Taking my arm, he leads me to my office chair.
I don't stop him. I don't have the energy to.
Twice, three times he asks me what's wrong.
I ignore his question each time. I'm about to drop into the chair when, without another word, he wraps both arms around me instead, and that's the action that finally breaks me.
The tears burst from me like a breaking dam, my whole body shaking with sobs. Neither of us says a word while I let the tears fall. He just keeps holding me, tight and steady.
When I finally pull back, my face is just as much a mess as my emotional state.
“What are you doing here?” I swipe at my cheeks. “I don't want you seeing me like this.”
Both hands come up to tuck the damp hair from my cheeks. “Like what?”
I gesture at my face. “Like this! A complete and utter mess.”
“Why not?” He tilts his head, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. “Why can't I see you like this if this is how you're feeling?”
“Because! You... you're always so put together!” I cover my eyes with my palms.
“Hey, hey.” His voice is soft but firm. “Look at me.”
I do. When I don't say anything, he just says it again. “Look at me.”
It takes me a second to understand what he's asking, and then it registers — the crumpled collar, the crooked tie, the tired eyes. Then he leans in and gently rubs his cheek against mine. It's rough. He didn't shave. I can't imagine anything happening that would mean Rhys Pham would forgo shaving.
“Are you okay?” I ask, worry for him eclipsing anything I could possibly feel for myself.
He shakes his head. “No, Alexia, I'm not.”
I wait for him to elaborate. He cups my cheek with the softest touch and says, “Do you know the last time I didn't shave?” His voice has gone quiet in a way I haven't heard from him before.
I shake my head.
“Six years ago. The week after you left Sydney.” His jaw works. “I could barely get out of bed. I couldn't handle the fact that I could no longer drive to your house whenever I want to and see you.”
“Rhys. You left me. I fell asleep in your arms, as we talked about a future, and then you just left. Without a word.”
The sorrow in his eyes drains the breath from my lungs. It mirrors the look in my own eyes for months after.
“I know. And you'll never know what it did to me.” He drags a breath into his lungs and runs a hand through his uncharacteristically tousled hair.
“But just so you know, I'm not always put together, Alexia.
When it comes to you, I'm barely holding it together.
I'm a collection of broken pieces, and the sum of all of them is one hopeless, desperate, empty man who doesn't function properly without you.”
I sigh, every part of me feeling wrung out. “What happened this morning, Rhys? Why didn't you drive me to work?” I say, not caring about the desperation in my voice.
He sighs. “Because I walked past your door when you were in the shower and Marcus and Zachary walked out. It was clear they'd spent the night in there with you. And I... I couldn't handle it. In that moment, I couldn't breathe. So I had to leave.”
“But what's changed between this morning and now?”
“Nothing. Just the knowledge that it's my problem, not yours.” The words come out rough, almost angry, all of it aimed at himself. “But I've realised one thing. I don't know how to not be close to you. So I'm just going to stop trying.”
I almost reach for him but I don't. I'm not sure if he's ready yet.
“Now.” He clears his throat, visibly hauling himself back together. “Tell me what's actually wrong.”
So I do. I tell him how I was already upset about him cancelling on me. Then the way Craig had acted. The issue with my submission, and then my rental in Sydney. And the memories of the weekend, flashing back at the most inopportune moments.
With everything I share, something shifts behind Rhys's eyes. Stormy, angry. I'm barely done telling him what Craig had said when he moves for the door, and I catch his wrist.
“No. Rhys. Can you just stay with me right now? I need you,” I say, letting the last of the barriers I'd built around my feelings for him break away.
Every instinct to leave flees from his body and he's wrapped around me again.
“Tell me what you want, what you need,” he says instead. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
I lift my arms to grip his back, feeling the muscles under my fingertips. “Just — stay. Please. I just need you.”
He nods, dropping his chin down on my head, rocking me gently.
We're just standing there when I remember something. “Why are you here? Were you really waiting over an hour?”
He lets out a little exhale. “I've been waiting for you for the better part of a decade.” He says it so simply it nearly undoes me all over again.
“Something tells me I'll be waiting the rest of my life, one way or another.
But I was waiting because I saw the email from the guy at the admissions office — he forwarded it to me too.
And I thought you'd need someone to talk to.
I'm sorry I cancelled our standing appointment. I failed you. Both privately and professionally.”
I let the words sink in before asking what I've wanted to know since the day he waved that envelope in my face.
“Why are you saying all this now?” I pull back enough to see his face properly.
“Is it because of the other guys? Because you feel—” I don't quite know how to finish it.
“Left out? Because whatever's going on with them isn't about you, Rhys.
It has nothing to do with you and me. It's not a competition.”
He doesn't look at me, turning to the door. “Do I love the idea that you've been with not one but two of my closest mates?” A short, humourless laugh. “No. But it's not because it's them. I just don't love the idea of anyone touching you who isn't me.”
I open my mouth but he stops me. “But if I get to touch you like this—” He turns back, one hand coming up to trace my cheekbone, achingly light.
“Or like this—” his hand slides down my arm, around to the small of my back, “—or pull you in like this—” he does, hard, until there's no space left between us at all, “—or breathe you in like this—” his face drops into my neck, and I feel the breath he takes, unsteady, like I'm something he's been starving for, “—then I guess I can live with the fact that they get to too.”
His forehead drops to mine. “But if it were up to me,” he says, so low I feel it more than hear it, “it would always be me. Always me standing this close. Always me being the one who gets to kiss you like this.”
And then he does.
And there's not a single part of me that thinks about pulling away.