Someone to Love (16 page)

The class ends and bodies drain from the
room. I wait until the last of the stragglers dissipate before
making my way to the front.

“I see you’ve outfitted me with a syllabus
tailor made for your sexual pleasure.” I mean for it to come out
peppered with humor, but it comes out a sad admission from the one
who all but declared herself anti-love. Anyway, that’s basically
how I introduced myself to Cruise, so he should be the least
surprised.

He glances up at me from behind his large
mahogany desk, looking dangerously sexy as he takes off his
glasses. He walks over, wraps his arms around my waist and holds me
for a long span of time. I take in his scent—memorize the girth of
his body entangled with mine. He feels safe, nourishing, and
hearty, as though I’ve hungered for Cruise my entire life and now I
had the vitamins, the essential minerals I needed to survive. All
along I had been anemic in the very thing I decried—love. Cruise
was the iron my marrow so desperately needed. He kick-started my
body again, put God’s own breath in my soul, and I had the nerve to
deny him right to his face, openly calling these feelings budding
inside me a flat-out lie.

A ragged breath escapes from me, and then the
unthinkable happens. Tears begin to fall, and I’m weeping a river
over his freshly pressed dress shirt. It’s as if I’d carried a
weight around with me my whole life, a heart of lead and granite.
And today, in front of God and Cruise and about fifty of my newest
peers, I dropped it. It lay shattered at my feet because I didn’t
want it anymore.

I do want to believe in love. I want all of
its trappings, and if it costs me my sanity and a very good divorce
lawyer, so be it.

I pull back and gasp at the mess I’ve made of
Cruise. His shirt has turned to velum, and his skin glows beneath.
Two necrotic butterflies stain his once-pristine dress shirt, and
I’m mortified at what I’ve done.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, gently tapping the
mess with my fingers. God knows I can only make things worse. It
seems to be my specialty.

“Come here.” His dimple goes off as he buries
a smile in his cheek. Cruise exudes his affection for me. All of
his formidable lust pours out like oil, spilling its riches right
into my soul. He leans in and blesses me with a soft peck, then
dives in for something deeper, kissing me thoroughly, fully, and
intensely on his quest to leave no lingual stone unturned as his
tongue warms mine.

Cruise pulls away and his mouth opens as if
he’s about to say something—say
it.
A breath gets caught in
my throat at the prospect, and I wait but it never comes.

I wonder if it ever will.

Cruise

Kenny.

I don’t remember ever walking around campus
with a goofy grin on my face when I professed to “love” Blair. In
fact, quite the opposite, I dragged my ass all over town like a
beaten down wuss with my tail between my legs—hardly smiled at
anyone. That was a relationship filled with death and dying. I
lived out each of the seven stages of grief every day, and twice on
Sunday. I should write her a thank you note for letting me out of
the tower and escaping exorbitant legal fees somewhere down the
line. Although, her father is a notorious divorce attorney and
would have probably only billed me my half. Looks like I avoided
having my ass handed to me twice.

I hustle over in the direction of the
administration building. A puff of fog illuminates the campus soft
as a gas lamp. Kenny lit up my world. She peeled off the layer of
hurt I’ve been hiding under all these months, filled me with her
presence, and now the entire universe glows under her beautiful
light.

Horton Hall comes upon me with its arched
Roman colonnades, and I run up and duck inside. It’s warm and
suddenly, I have the urge to take off this thick ape suit I’ve
strapped myself in. But Kenny left her calling card on my chest,
and I’m certain the board would have its curiosity aroused at the
sight of those tragic smudges.

Back in September, I applied for a
fellowship, and now the committee has called me in. I’m amped as to
what it might mean—hopefully dollar signs. If I get it, I might
actually afford to feed myself, and Kenny, too. I’d move heaven and
earth to have her stay at the house forever even if she thinks the
concept of love is just an illusion. Kenny is a dove with a broken
wing, and I want to be the one to help her mend it.

In the office, members of affluent academia
line the periphery with the dean of graduate admissions, the dean
of doctoral studies next to him, as well as Professor Bradshaw—and,
holy crap, he looks like a corpse.

“Cruise.” He stands to greet me, and I take
his hand in both of mine, afraid he might keel over and explode
into dust. He’s lost about fifty pounds, and he hardly had it on
him to begin with. His skin is pale and thin as parchment with dark
circles beneath each eye. If ever there was death on the move, it
was encapsulated in Bernie Bradshaw. I’d ask how the chemo was
going, but I think I know.

“Did you enjoy your first class?” He gives a
pleasant smile as he lands hard in his seat.

“It went great. Better than expected. I
appreciate the opportunity.”

“Fantastic,” Dr. Barney, Dean of admissions,
interjects. “I hope you’ll appreciate this new opportunity that’s
about to come your way. You might even call this your lucky
day.”

I glance at the three of them. I’m a lot of
things—lucky isn’t one of them.

“Unfortunately for Garrison”—Dr. Barney
offers a morbid nod—“Professor Bradshaw has decided it’s best for
him to step down at this time.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Shit. Knew it
wasn’t good.

I swallow hard. Bradshaw has been a mentor to
me. He assisted in structuring my thesis, tailoring it for a
surefire admit to the doctoral program.

“Cruise”—Barney leans in—“we’d like to know
if you’d be willing to take over for the rest of the semester?” He
glances over at Bradshaw. “We realize you signed on to help out
with a few classes, but this would mean running the course on your
own. Professor Novak volunteered to oversee the situation.
Technically, it will be considered co-teaching. Although, Professor
Bradshaw assures us you’re more than capable of running the show on
your own. Your passion for gender studies hasn’t gone unrecognized.
However, we understand you have your own coursework to tend to, and
should you decline, we would certainly support you either way.”

A surge of adrenaline races through me.
Hell yes
, I want to shout but somehow manage to remain
subdued.

“Should you accept”—Professor Bradshaw expels
the words as if he were utilizing his dying breath to birth
them—“you’ll have the tuition of one course credited to your
fellowship as income, this semester.” He withholds a smile and
tilts his head back with pride.

“I got the fellowship?” A credit for one
course no less?

“Congratulations.” Dr. Barney bears his
yellow fangs, and I’m more than glad to see them. “As a part of
your doctoral studies, we’d appreciate it if you would continue
teaching the class in the fall as well. It will be a pleasure to
watch you grow as you, yourself, become an esteemed colleague right
here at Garrison.”

“Thank you.” My heart lets off a few
irregular beats like it’s misfiring. It all feels surreal. Kenny
and now the fellowship? I’ve got a gut feeling someone upstairs is
making more than their fair share of errors, but I’ll be the last
one to point it out. “It’s an honor to be considered. I
accept.”

The three of them stand, and I shake their
hands in turn. I pull Professor Bradshaw into a half-hug and
accidentally brush up against the bony protrusions of his
spine.

“I won’t let you down,” I whisper. “I
promise.”

His bushy brows lift, revealing a network of
green and blue veins beneath his onion-thin flesh. “You’d better
not. There were far more qualified candidates, but I knew you had
the fire in your belly. You’ll carry out the program much better
than any of those dry wells. Just remember”—he clasps both his
hands over mine—“believe what you teach. What was the topic
today?”

“Love.”

“Do you believe in it?”

Kenny blinks through my mind.

“More than ever.”

I bolt out of the administration building
feeling like I’ve just won the scholastic lottery because, holy
fucking shit, I have.

That stupid grin takes over as I head into
the stream of bodies rushing to their next classes. The ground is
dusted with a layer of snow, and the first thing that comes to mind
is Kenny and her serious lack of winter clothes. I’ll take her
shopping to celebrate. I’ve got an entire semester’s worth of loans
I don’t need to worry about, and even though I’m sitting under a
mountain of financial duress, I’ll gladly treat Kenny to something
that can keep her pneumonia-free for the next several months. Hell,
I might even take her to dinner. Although the fellowship still
doesn’t change the fact I’m a little low on spending cash at the
moment.

I sweep my eyes over the vicinity, hoping to
see her and with my newfound luck, I just might.

I scan every dark-haired girl as far as the
eye can see and none of them even come close to the beauty that
Kenny holds. Kenny is an exotic flower in a sea of common
houseplants.

All last semester, I sat at the University
Bar and Grill and listened to Cal rate girls in ratio to how many
beers it would take for him to sleep with them. I never once found
them exceptional, but that night at Sigma Phi when Kenny walked in,
I couldn’t take my eyes off that face—that mind-blowing body, her
heart-stopping beauty was alarming in every good way. She openly
defied my thesis on the heresy of love at first sight. I knew then
I had to have her, if only for a night. A lifetime seemed like an
impossibility in the least, and now, it didn’t seem like enough
time at all.

I stop just shy of the bookstore and glance
at the corkboard filled with requests and opportunities. A bright
yellow sign catches my eye.

Need $200? Not shy? We want your body!
Contact Professor Webber. Art department.

I tear a fringe off the sheet, with a number
on it, and tuck it in my pocket. I think I just found Kenny’s new
winter coat and boots.

A familiar head of blond hair catches my
attention from inside the bookstore and I peer in to confirm my
worst nightmare. Blair. She rocks steady on her heels while
browsing the literature section. She peers out from over her book
as though she’s been eyeing me all along.

I turn and head in the opposite
direction.

Shit.

She can’t be here. She transferred to
Dartmouth to follow the idiot whose dick she impaled herself onto
before she officially dumped me.

I take a deep breath, giving one final scan
of the campus for Kenny before taking off.

Blair can’t be back.

Garrison isn’t big enough.

Kendall

Run into Your Arms

The Fine Arts building is situated on the
outskirts of campus. Its large circular architecture is reminiscent
of an igloo if, in fact, an igloo was designed to stand
seven-stories tall.

I stumble into the giant studio in which the
“study of the human body” is conducted, and after experiencing
countless miniature desks that progressively seemed to get smaller
throughout the day, a cavernous open space is a welcome change of
pace. Benches are laid out in lieu of a miniaturized workspace with
easels situated in front of each one. A charcoal pencil lies at the
lip of the unit, along with an eraser that looks as though it’s
made from a giant wad of grey gum.

After spending over four hundred dollars on
less than five books for only
two
of my classes, I’m hoping
the accessories list for this class won’t break the bank. My
scholarship strictly covered tuition, so books, and my non-existent
dorm, are the only things my mother is taking a loan out for at the
moment. I’m pretty sure it isn’t going to thrill her to know she’s
spiraling into debt for coloring supplies. Although, technically,
the loan is mine since I promised I’d pay back every dime.