Chapter Twenty
Sadie
T he look on Ethan’s face when I shut down his apology nearly broke me. It felt mean. Cruel. And not like me at all.
But if I’ve learnt one thing in my life, it’s that you have to take care of yourself. Opening myself up to Ethan again is way too dangerous.
After I’ve left him on the path and stomped back to the Ancient History building, I’m tempted to message Bella. But the last thing I need right now is her putting doubt—or is it hope?—in my head.
When I got back from Bangalay and told Bella about what happened between Ethan and me and our subsequent argument, she was both elated and disappointed.
“Woo hoo! This is progress. You went back for seconds,” she’d cheered.
“Well, there won’t be thirds. There won’t even be friends,” I shot back as I whipped off the clothes that smelt of Ethan, preparing for a shower.
“You guys are as bad as one another,” she said, following me down the hall of our apartment. “But I predict this story isn’t over yet. By the way, I googled him. Hot AF.”
“Not helping,” I muttered as I slammed the bathroom door in her face.
She’s always been my ride or die. I’ve never doubted it, but I suspect there’s more than a little part of her that’s joining Team Ethan.
Meanwhile, all I can do now is suck it up and bury myself in work.
In the weeks that follow, I walk a strict line. I’m professional. Businesslike. Scrupulously organised. But that’s it. I’m determined not to let my personal feelings—whatever they may be—affect either my work with the students or my PhD. And those feelings change daily, sometimes hourly.
Technology becomes my best friend. I email Ethan any results and questions or concerns about students, rather than discussing it in person. I text rather than call. I sit at the very back of the hall in lectures and wait till he’s out of the room before moving to the front. I stick religiously to the topic at hand during my thesis meetings, which I usually manage to arrange in the meeting room rather than the closer quarters of Ethan’s office. I don’t need to be trapped in his personal space, surrounded by the evidence of his work and travels, and with the delicious smell of his body wash reminding me of what he can make me feel.
When Ethan calls a meeting in his office to talk about teaching plans for the first semester next year, I make sure his other tutoring assistant is present as a buffer. I don’t think I imagine the look of disappointment on his face.
All this avoidance mostly works.
That’s not to say I don’t wobble on the line I’ve drawn like an American failing a roadside sobriety test. There are times when all I want to do is hurl myself into his solid, peppery embrace and tell him I don’t care about what people say about me. I don’t care that he’s still grieving and not ready for a relationship. I don’t care that being with him would put my PhD in jeopardy and turn me into my mother.
But none of those things are true. I do care. So I walk the line I’ve drawn. All the while aware of him watching me like an MI6 agent in a covert surveillance operation.