Chapter 24 Deirdre
Deirdre
“The angels, not half so happy in heaven, went envying her and me.” Edgar Allan Poe
Today I’ll be hunched over a notebook furiously scribbling down notes on Dante instead of watching Kieran’s fingers tap against the podium or counting the ways his tongue darts out to wet his lips when he’s thinking or tracking the slow roll of his sleeves up his forearms when the classroom gets warm.
No, today, I get to be a student.
Claire’s humming fills our dorm room by the time I peel myself from beneath my warm comforter.
When I reach for the closet door, I notice the chaos across the room—her bed buried under a retail hurricane of cashmere scarves, leather ankle boots, and what must be every pair of designer jeans she owns.
“First day back together, D. We’ve got to make an entrance,” she says, pulling a sweater over her head.
I laugh, shaking mine. “It’s not the Met Gala, it’s Tipton’s class.”
Still, the nerves in my stomach begin to churn, and I find myself taking my time choosing.
I settle on a soft cream blouse, my high-waisted houndstooth pleated skirt, paired with my black ankle boots.
Simple, semi-professional, but still me.
I smooth the fabric down nervously, brushing invisible lint from the hem.
Claire, of course, looks effortlessly perfect in her burgundy sweater dress and tights, her curls bouncing like she is one of those models with their own personal wind machine.
We shrug into our coats, sling our bags over our shoulders, notebooks and pens clattering inside, and then we’re out the door.
The January air slaps my cheeks raw, stealing my breath in visible puffs that hang suspended in the air for a moment before dissolving.
My California-thin blood protests as my fingers stiffen inside inadequate gloves.
Around us, New Haven wears its winter proudly—tree branches encased in glass-like frost, sidewalks gleaming with treacherous patches of black ice that sneak up on you, and students are walking through the courtyard hunched into their heavy coats like turtles retreating into their protective shells.
Some still bleary-eyed and clutching coffee cups, others are already chatting about their schedules.
As we cross the courtyard, my eyes flick instinctively to the Scholar’s Auditorium.
Its arched windows gleam in the pale morning sun.
Behind one of them, a shadow moves back and forth—Kieran, no doubt, arranging his papers with those long fingers, adjusting his glasses, rehearsing the phrases that will soon fill the hall.
My mouth goes dry. I smooth my skirt for the third time and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, though it was already in place.
My body wakes up just at the thought of him being so close, yet so far that I can’t touch him. Today, we have to keep our distance. I have no reason to go near Scholar’s. It would add fuel to Sheridan’s suspicions.
Claire bumps me with her shoulder. “Hey. You good?”
“Yeah,” I lie, forcing the corners of my mouth upward into what I hope seems convincing.
She doesn’t need to know that every fiber of my being, from my restless fingertips to the hollow pit in my stomach, wants to jump ship, skip the fluorescent-lit lecture halls, and spend the entire day wrapped in the Egyptian cotton sheets of my professor boyfriend’s king-sized bed.
Her eyes are practically sparkling as she chatters about life returning to normal, with us shuffling between crowded classrooms together again, giggling over cheap wine during girls’ nights, and highlighting textbooks until our fingers turn neon yellow during marathon study sessions.
Cornelia Masters Auditorium looms before us, its limestone columns casting long morning shadows across the quad. My neck cranes back to take in the carved owl above the entrance, wings spread wider than I’d remembered.
Inside, a wall of sound hits us—the scrape of chairs, the click-clack of laptop keys, coughs and whispers bouncing off the domed ceiling.
Students pour through the double doors, their backpacks bumping as they funnel down the center aisle.
Two hundred seats, maybe more, stretch upward in concentric half-circles, yet only about forty or so are claimed, since this is a specialized class for literature majors.
My fingers press white marks into my leather journal. The steps seem steeper today, each one carrying me deeper into the crowd. My heart thuds against my ribs until Claire’s cool fingers wrap around my wrist.
“This way,” she whispers, her smile crooked as she pulls me sideways toward one of the middle rows. “Not close enough to get called on, but far enough to miss Tipton’s spit when he gets to Inferno, Canto Five.”
I slide into my seat, the vinyl chair cold against my thighs. Two girls in matching sorority sweatshirts laugh three rows ahead, their ponytails swinging in unison. My fingers tap against my unopened notebook as my chest tightens with each inhale.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I force my shoulders down from where they’ve crept toward my ears. I can’t pinpoint if this nervous energy is stemming from the start of a new semester or, subconsciously, from the plans that await Kieran and me in just a few weeks.
Seven fifty-nine.
The minute hand on the wall clock jerks forward. Through the window, I can see students still streaming into Scholar’s across the courtyard. Chewing on the end of my pen, I find myself jealous of the student who is sitting in the front row, getting a perfect view of Kieran McKnight.
The door slams shut at eight sharp. A girl in a wrinkled blue hoodie yanks the handle, her mouth forming a perfect O as the lock clicks. Tipton’s eyes flick to his watch, then to her, before his hand flutters dismissively toward the exit. My pen hovers over my notebook.
Don’t be a second late. Noted.
The second hand on the wall clock hasn’t completed another rotation before Tipton’s chalk squeaks against the board: “T-I-P-T-O-N.” He barely wastes a second. The man hardly says his name before launching into a syllabus thicker than my world literature textbook.
“Your first assignment, as you should have already made yourself familiar,” he drones, holding up the stack of papers like a weapon, “is an analysis of Dante’s Inferno. A comparative breakdown of at least three cantos, cross-referenced with one other text from the classical canon. Due next Monday.”
A chorus of groans ripples through the lecture hall. Claire throws her pen down dramatically.
“Oh, come on,” she mutters beside me. “He’s not even half as attractive as McKnight to be throwing out this kind of torture on the first day.”
I bite my lip to stop a laugh, but a snort slips out anyway. A couple of students glance back at us, but Claire just leans back in her chair like she’s accomplished something.
Tipton continues, oblivious, his monotone bouncing off the walls. He rambles about Dante’s use of allegory, symbolism, and morality plays, weaving a lecture so dry it could practically be used to sandpaper my brain. And yet…
I can’t help it. My heart gives a little flutter at the name Dante. He’s always been my second favorite—right behind Poe. The descent into darkness, the aching search for meaning, the obsession with love, faith, and loss. His words hold an ache that has always spoken to me.
Not that I dare admit that to Claire. She’d never let me live it down if I confessed I actually found this lecture intriguing while she’s still muttering about Tipton’s unfortunate lack of bone structure and the way he spits when he talks.
Poor Guy.
By the time the class ends, my notebook has more doodles than notes, but my pulse is steady with relief. Day one: survived. I lean toward Claire.
“Library?”
She groans but nods. “Yeah. Might as well start the suffering early.”
I shoulder my bag and fish out my phone, only to see Kieran’s name light up my screen.
Kieran: Come to my office.
The giddiness takes over as I type out my response.
Deirdre: Library. The beast wants us to die in this class.
Kieran: Good luck with that first analyst assignment. I knew it was coming.
Deirdre: Thanks for the warning.
Kieran: Guess I’ll have to find more ways to see you, since your studies will keep you from me.
Deirdre: Professor McKnight, are you turning into a Golden retriever boyfriend?
I don’t get a response, and before I can slip my phone away, Claire peeks over my shoulder.
Her grin is wicked. “McDreamy again?”
I roll my eyes, thumbs flying across the screen. “You can practically feel his frown through the phone.”
Claire bursts out laughing, tossing her hair over her shoulder as we join the stream of students filing out of the hall.
“Of course, he’s frowning. Now that he has you back, he doesn’t want to stop.”
I flush, hugging my bag closer. “He’ll see me tomorrow. At Salvation.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, sing-song. “That man doesn’t strike me as the patient type.”
Her teasing lingers with me as we cross campus toward the library, the bitter air bites my cheeks, making my eyes water as I practically speed walk to the library.
And though I force myself to focus on the clatter of footsteps and chatter of students around me, I can still feel the weight of his unseen frown pressed against the back of my mind.
The library smells faintly of old paper and coffee, the kind of scent that seeps into your clothes if you stay long enough.
A sophomore with dark circles under her eyes clutches a travel mug like a lifeline. Two tables over, a boy with a backwards cap whispers to his friend, who nods while highlighting an entire paragraph in neon yellow.
Claire and I drop our backpacks onto a table where dust specks dance through sunbeams. I spread out my notebook, three different highlighters, and a granola bar to keep me from eating my arm while studying. Claire’s phone keeps lighting up with texts she ignores.
“Gabe?”
She nods.
“How are things on that front?”
“They’re getting back to normal. He just doesn’t understand how daunting these professors are.”
“Sounds like someone I know, and he IS a professor.” I laugh.
She giggles as she picks up a textbook lying beside her on the table.
Claire flips through her World Literature syllabus, her eyebrows inching higher with each page turn.
“Tipton’s out of his damn mind,” she mutters, jabbing her pen so hard it tears the paper. “First day, and he drops Dante on us like it’s light reading. If he wants Hell, he’s got it right here.”
My fingers trace the syllabus where Dante’s name appears. I bite my lip to suppress a smile, remembering the dog-eared copy of Inferno hidden under my mattress since tenth grade.
I shrug and say, “At least it’s not McKnight-level intense. You know he’d find a way to make it twice as hard.”
She rolls her eyes, laughing. “Yeah, but at least McKnight’s easy on the eyes while he ruins our GPA. Tipton? Not so much.”
I laugh with her, shaking my head, and then pull my journal closer, pretending to take notes. In truth, I’m just doodling in the margins, writing down fragments of thoughts. Every time my phone buzzes in my pocket, my pulse jumps. But I resist the urge to look.
By the time the sun dips lower, our “study” session has devolved into scrolling takeout menus on Claire’s phone. She ends up ordering Thai, our go-to comfort food, and we spread cartons of noodles and spring rolls across the table, ignoring the dirty looks from the more studious students around us.
When the food is gone and our brains are fried, Claire packs up her books with a dramatic sigh. “Dante can wait. I’m putting my faith in Meredith Grey tonight.”
I grin, sliding my notebook back into my bag. “Deal.”
By the time we’re back at the dorm, our shoes squeaking against the frosty sidewalks, we’re already debating which season to start with. Vincent had given Claire the night off, and she made it her mission to squeeze in as much girl time as possible.
Later, curled up on our beds with cartons of leftover noodles and the familiar theme song playing on her laptop, I realize how much I missed this. The normalcy. The laughter. The way Claire groans at every dumb decision Meredith makes, resulting in her throwing popcorn at the screen.
For a few hours, the weight of everything else—classes, Sheridan, Trevor—fades into the background.
And maybe that’s what I need right now. A reminder that even in the middle of chaos, there are still these little pieces of light.