22. Silas
I’m in the faculty lounge going over the seminar schedule when Camila drops into the seat to my right. Her skirt rides up a little more than is appropriate for a professor, and one look at her face tells me she’s in a mood.
“You haven’t called in more than a month. Did something happen, Silas?”
I look at her, remembering now why I shouldn’t have acted on her advances one evening when it hadn’t seemed like a bad idea to spend the night at her place.
I blamed it on too many tequila shots at the time, but in reality Camila is a beautiful woman, and in that moment my head was working normally.
Now, the only thing it seems to be thinking about is Amalia’s eyes and how they shine when she comes. How she makes those tiny, breathy sounds or how her fingers dug into my shoulders when she came, and fuck I’m getting hard just remembering.
“Nothing happened, Camila. But I don’t remember agreeing to make that evening into anything ongoing.”
I watch a flicker of vulnerability cross her expression, and I wish I could feel something, but my mind steps in to remind me that she’s a thirty-seven-year-old woman who knew what she was getting into.
I didn’t promise her anything. I stopped responding to her messages altogether once I realized that answering was encouraging something I had no intention of following through on.
“Understood,” she says, and there’s something in her voice, a bitterness that makes me frown, but in the next second she’s already out of the lounge.
This is exactly why I don’t do relationships. Things get complicated the moment reason stops speaking over whatever that organ in your chest is doing.
I think about yesterday with Amalia, about how the hours disappeared without me noticing. When her phone went off and I understood she’d have to leave, something shifted in my chest. For a fraction of a second, I almost asked her to stay.
I’ve never spent the night with a woman. Every time, after sex, one of us left, and I never once minded which.
I find myself wondering whether she’ll come by the apartment today or keep her distance.
I don’t even know what we are, only that having her around gives me something I don’t have a name for.
She has a way of telling stories that pulls you straight into whatever world she’s describing, makes you forget you’re sitting still.
I press the back of my hand to my forehead like I’m checking for a fever because something has to explain this.
Makes you forget you’re sitting still, Silas? Seriously. Get a grip.
I need coffee more than I need to sit here unraveling, so I head down to the cafeteria.
I spot her the moment I walk in.
She’s sitting next to a girl who looks exactly like her, and I assume that’s Lupe.
You can tell from their posture and the way they move how different they are, and even though Lupe is more polished and put together, my eyes stay on Amalia, on the storm of lavender, yellow, and green all living on the same blouse.
Her glasses have slid too far down her nose while she’s in the middle of telling her sister something, and I watch her push the frames back up. I catch myself smiling at the gesture.
Is this the early onset of dementia? No, I’m too young for that.
In the background I spot Hugo Duarte watching her with something close to hunger, and I’m grateful the mugs here at the university are made of sturdy ceramic, because the grip I have on mine right now would shatter anything less.
With one final glance at Amalia, I exit the cafeteria and take the stairs to the second floor.
I have class in twenty minutes, but right now I need to have a very direct conversation with a certain fool who seems to think my girl is his next conquest.
A fragment of rationality tries to remind me that what I’m doing isn’t okay, that I’m putting my career and my integrity on the line for her.
For this thing I can’t even name. Is it a relationship?
Is it a fling I need to get out of my system?
I could have had her yesterday. I could have.
But her lilac and chocolate scent washed over me, and the only thing my brain wanted was her pleasure.
The need to make her feel good, to hear those soft, breathless sounds she makes, to feel her skin under my fingers.
I check my watch and wait.
Exactly six minutes and nine seconds.
Hugo Duarte comes into view, scrolling on his phone, completely oblivious to everything around him.
I check the hallway. Two students are chatting at the far end, but here, tucked between the pillars, no one has a clear line of sight.
The second he passes by, I grab him by the back of the neck and pin him to the wall.
“What the—” he starts, but I apply more pressure. “Professor Vaughn?” spills from his lips.
“I’m going to make myself very clear because I understand that letters and words can be complicated for you, Hugo.
Amalia Sanchez ceases to exist to you starting right now.
You see her? You look the other way. That flowery scent of hers reaches you?
You turn the other way. You so much as think about her lips, I will know, and there will be nowhere to run.
I will make sure the dean and the campus police know about the stash you keep in your locker.
I will make sure you’re off the football team before the week is out.
I will make sure no one remembers your name. ”
His eyes go wide and he nods, as quickly as a man can with a hand at his throat. He starts to stammer something, but I’m already walking away toward my classroom.
Eight minutes and fourteen seconds to make it.