I blink at the open slide deck on my laptop, forcing myself to focus on the data table I'm supposed to be creating. I need to get it finished tonight and sitting in Professor Rennberg's inbox by morning.
Professor Natasha Rennberg, inventor of the Rennberg Retinal Prosthesis (TM), is a huge name in my field. I studied her work in grad school, and her presence at Wallingford is one of the reasons I came here. A word from her could make or break my chances at tenure. I can't afford to squander an opportunity to impress her. There will only be so many chances before she retires in a few years, and her successor will be named.
Tabitha's convinced the decision will come down between the two of us. She's being generous in this assessment, and we both know it. If it comes down to Tabitha or me, she's got it in the bag. I may have been invited to collaborate on Rennberg's latest symposium presentation, but Tabitha has me beaten by a mile when it comes to schmoozing faculty and playing departmental politics. She's on a first name basis with everyone on the tenure committee. Heck, she and Jae play doubles pickleball with the Chair. Tabitha's next in line, and I don't begrudge her in the least. She'll be a good best friend to have once she's a tenured faculty member herself.
But this presentation is my chance to get some valuable exposure. I should have had it done hours ago, long before I left the office and headed home. The clock on my computer screen ticks forward from 11:59 to 12:00 am, and I suppress a groan.
It's no use. The numbers swim before my eyes. I can't concentrate, and the reason has nothing to do with the vagaries of the tenure committee. I've been distracted all afternoon, ever since a certain someone dropped by for office hours.
I shut my laptop and blow out a long breath. Jamie Bowen has been back in my life for a grand total of 12 hours, and he's already living rent-free in my head.
"Here I am at last, with my very own university ID..."
No wonder I failed to process the color of the print on his ID card. I was still in shock at seeing him, and then he hit me with that piece of news. A first-year undergraduate? I've been a ball of mixed emotions ever since.
I never thought I'd see the day. Back when we were together, Jamie reacted to any suggestion of further schooling with a cool contempt I never fully understood. He wouldn't elaborate on his objections. The topic was simply not up for discussion.
And now here he is, a freshman in college? And not just any school. It's no cakewalk to land a spot at Wallingford. The competition for admission here is fierce.
"I thought you might be pleased."
He was right about that. A part of me is pleased. A part of me is downright thrilled. He finally got his head out of his ass? A part of me is jumping up and down and yelling "I told you so!" at the top of my lungs.
But a part of me can't help but view his sudden presence here with a healthy dose of suspicion.
Of all the universities in the world, he chose this one. An insular campus in the middle of nowhere, where the undergrad dorms are the only viable form of housing? It doesn't add up. Plenty of people his age go back to school, but not here. There are a million other programs located in major cities, set up for older career changers who prefer to live off campus.
No, it's a red flag. No doubt in my mind. It can't be a coincidence that Jamie would choose Wallingford University of all places. There's only one conceivable reason.
Me.
He's here to mess with me.
Which is why I was completely justified in my reaction...
I stand up from my desk and pad into the kitchen area of my studio apartment. I need some tea to soothe my jangled nerves. Junior faculty housing may not be spectacular, but at least I have a full kitchen at my disposal. Not like the rooms in the building I saw listed on Jamie's ID card. Pound Hall 342. That's one of the newer undergrad dorms, if I'm not mistaken. He probably has a single to himself—but a tiny shoebox with no amenities. No kitchen. Not even a private bathroom. He'll be sharing showers with a dozen teenagers. I can't imagine living like that again.
My teapot whistles. I pour the steaming liquid, and the soothing scent of chamomile fills my lungs. I lean against my kitchen counter and imagine Jamie in a tiny room like the one I was assigned at Princeton when I was 17 years old. The tea should relax me, but the mental image only deepens my unease.
Why would he subject himself to that? There are only two conceivable explanations, and I'm at the center of them both:
A) He loves me, saw the error of his ways, and came here as some grand romantic gesture to win me back.
I know that can't be it, but I delineate the possibility in my head in the name of logic and completeness. It would be unscientific to jump straight to Option B.
B) He hates me, bided his time until the opportunity arose, and came here to torture me/ruin my life.
Could he really despise me that much?
I shake my head. There's no sense obsessing over it. Either way, it amounts to the same thing from my perspective: A disaster.
Jamie's presence here puts my tenure chances—my whole career—in jeopardy. This afternoon could easily have ended in catastrophe. The thought of it sends a shudder racing down my spine. Standing there in my office, pressed up against my bookshelf, three inches from his face... three seconds away from kissing him.... And my office door stood wide open all the while, for anyone walking down the hall to see.
Does he understand how serious that could have been for me?
He's an undergrad! I'm a professor. The honor code at Wallingford is clear. Any inappropriate faculty/student relations are strictly forbidden. Period. No exceptions. No second chances. Zero tolerance.
If anyone had seen us, I could be brought up before the Honor Board. For that one interaction alone, I could be censured. If I did more than kiss him, I could be dismissed altogether from my position here, with a huge red flag on my record for any future employer background check.
I set down my teacup with a clatter and turn away. I'm going to need something stronger than chamomile tea tonight. I keep an old bottle of whiskey in my pantry for times like this. I pour it straight into my teacup, and swirl the bitter brew.
Is it possible he doesn't know about the honor code?
I should have asked more questions, but I was flustered. I was still holding his ID card when he let the bombshell drop. I meant to hand it back to him, but I'm not exactly known for my eye-hand coordination. What little grace I have flies out the window when I'm agitated. My hand jerked harder than I meant, and the card went flying. It landed at his feet. He had to stoop down in front of me to pick it up.
I wrinkle my nose at the image of him lowering himself before me. No doubt he thought I threw the card on purpose. Maybe it was for the best. It emphasized the fact that we are not on equal footing here at Wallingford. We may have been peers in the past, but that was then, and this is now. In the eyes of this institution, there's a hierarchy, and I did my best to impress that fact on him.
"Listen to me very carefully," I'd said to his bowed head as he plucked the card up off the floor. "I'm not Cora to you anymore. I'm Professor Glass."
He slipped the lanyard around his neck and stood up straight. I couldn't read his expression. His eyes were on the ground between us, studying a stain in the beige carpeting.
"Or better yet, I'm no one," I went on. "You don't know me. You don't speak to me. You don't attend my office hours. You don't ask my colleagues if I'm single."
My voice rose a little at that last one, but I got it under control.
"You don't call me. You don't email me. If you see me on campus, you don't stop to say hello. You don't even make eye contact. Am I making myself clear?"
"Crystal." He'd lifted his eyes to mine, and they narrowed as he hissed his one word answer. Then he turned and left before I could say anything more.
I blow on my spiked tea and take a sip, coughing from the way it burns inside my throat.
My words were harsh but justified. I had to set a boundary. A firm one. So, why don't I feel good about that conversation? Why is the whole interaction playing on repeat inside my head?
The answer hits me, and I suck in the air between my teeth.
A memory comes back to me of a different conversation, the first night we spent together. We were still strangers then, sleeping in separate rooms—or trying to sleep without success. I had terrible insomnia, and Jamie stayed up late to keep me company. He convinced me against my better judgment to join him in his bedroom, and we talked and cuddled beneath the covers in the pitch black dark.
Another sip of whiskey rolls down my throat, burning me from the inside out.
I'd set boundaries with him that night too. At least I'd tried.
"That does present a challenge," I remember he had answered.
"It's not a challenge. Men always think these things are challenges for them to overcome. But it's not. Do you hear me? It's a boundary. A firm one."
"Good," he'd said. "I prefer my boundaries firm."
I knew he was lying. He might have been a stranger, and the room may have been too dark to read his face, but I wasn't a total fool.
"Not at all," Jamie had insisted. "Firm boundaries and firm mattresses. I like a bit of resistance to press up against."
My face heats up all over again when I remember what he did next. To this day, I relive it in my fantasies. I shouldn't have liked it, but I did. He took hold of my waist and rolled me on my back, too swiftly for me to issue a word of protest. For a moment, he let his hips press down against mine. And then he rolled back onto his side of the bed and spoke in that cool unbothered voice, as if nothing noteworthy had happened.
Firm boundaries? Yeah right. Jamie Bowen never met a boundary he didn't try to cross.
I set my drink back down on the counter, and my eyes wander to my apartment door. The whiskey must be getting to me. For a moment, I imagine the sound of knocking. What if he ignored my warning and showed up here in the middle of the night?
It wouldn't be the first time. I told him in no uncertain terms that we couldn't be together once our trip had ended. But did he listen? No. Of course not. He came knocking on my old apartment door. And I let him in. I let him stay.
That's the problem, isn't it? I can't blame Jamie for crossing lines. It was me who invited him across the threshold every time. I told him the day we met that he wasn't allowed to kiss me—and three days later I was kissing him myself. I warned him not to get emotionally attached—and the next night there I was, confiding my deepest secrets. Three weeks later, I told him I was in love.
No wonder he thinks my boundaries are a form of foreplay.
I have to let him know I meant what I said this time. For real. The door is closed, locked, and bolted. No contact whatsoever. Not as long as he's enrolled here as a student.
But how do I reiterate the message without contacting him myself?
Pound 342...
I know his room number. I could sneak over there. Now. Late at night, under cover of darkness. For once, looking like a student might play to my advantage. Dressed as I am right now in baggy pajama pants and a Wallingford sweatshirt, no one would look at me twice.
No, no, no. Bad idea. I told him not to speak to me, and three seconds later I'm going to sneak into his room for a late night tête-à-tête?
But I can't leave things the way I did this afternoon. I know that won't be the end of it. I know him.
No, I have to make sure he knows about the honor code. Let him know there's more at stake for me this time. It's more than just a boundary. It's a warning.
I know what I need to do. I have a copy of the Wallingford Faculty Handbook somewhere in my desk. I rummage through a drawer and pull it out, along with the marker I use when grading exams.
I turn to the relevant section and circle the passage in bright red.
Faculty/Student Relationships
I scribble a few hasty words in the margin. Then I stuff the book under my arm and head off into the night.
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