Since returning to campus a week ago, healed except for yellowish bruising about his lips and eye, Thorne saw Jeannie everywhere and nowhere. Any woman similar in height and had soft curls (black, blond, brunette or red), was Jeannie.
The first lookalike was the cashier at a grocery store. She was at least twice Jeannie's age and three times her size. That didn't stop Thorne from staring at her skin that looked as soft as Jeannie's. When the cashier handed him her telephone number on an old receipt, Thorne snapped from his trance and moved from the line, giving an apologetic grin to those impatiently waiting behind him.
The next day, a female student leaned over his desk to ask him a question, ivory cleavage on full display. Jeannie's brown globes came mind—heaving in rage as she'd all but pushed him out of her apartment that night, refusing to hear his apology. After their argument, Thorne had packed a bag and headed to The Source to spend his time recovering there. It was the deprivation of her company that had increased his phantom sightings as Jeannie remained on his mind.
The day after Jeannie had thrown him out, Thorne had asked Quentin and Dalton to dismantle the camera and the mic in her living room and kitchen. To their credit, they hadn't teased him or asked questions, just completed the task the next day after Jeannie had left for school.
The Source had always left surveillance up to Thorne's discretion. In the past, he'd never had a use for it, but for Jeannie, he deemed it necessary.
Why?
He didn't know then, but it only took a week of not seeing her to figure out the reason.
From the beginning, Thorne had wanted to know the real Jeannie, the one behind closed doors. As Thorne watched her, she'd grown on him.
When Jeannie sang to herself as she baked, Thorne had sung right along with her as he watched her from his apartment, their voices entwined in harmony. Many times Thorne had eagerly listened as she chatted animatedly with her father and he'd always wished her "goodnight" when she retreated into her bedroom.
Thorne had done his best to be friends with her, but deep down, he always knew he wanted more. Now, much to Thorne's frustration, they were far from friends. Jeannie had ordered him out of her apartment and from her life with no hesitation. His charm had not worked to bind her to him.
Nope. Not at all.
Jeannie had proven to be an enigma he couldn't solve even with the arsenal he'd had at hand and his failure mixed bitterly with the taste of defeat. Left to fester, the corrosive feeling slowly ate away at his apathy, turning it into a deep regret.
Even worse, since he returned home, Jeannie's study group came to her apartment every few days. And, as always, heralding their arrival was the tantalizing smell of cake, pie, or fresh bread.
Too many times to count, he'd opened the windows and cracked his door to let the mouthwatering scent invade his abode. And while he lay on his couch, breathing in the fragrance, he always wondered: what could have been?
"I haven't seen Hawthorne lately. Is he okay?" After nearly a month of trying, Jeannie had finally cornered Quentin.
Shon was the reason for her not catching Quentin earlier. Shon had constantly held her up—pestering for an invitation back to Jeannie's apartment while Bekka shot daggers at her.
Luck had been with Jeannie this time. When Professor Longborn had asked Shon to stay after class, Jeannie seized the opportunity to dip out of the door, catching Quentin by the arm before he could scurry into the sunshine.
"He-Hey, Jeannie. Long time, dude." Quentin looked anything but happy to see Jeannie, more like nervous in fact. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and he shifted from one foot to the other.
"Quentin, will you please answer my question?"
"Ah, well, you see ... Thorne is ..." Quentin's face flamed red.
Had he been avoiding me on purpose?
Jeannie clutched the strap of her bag tighter to keep from snatching a plug out of his arm. Her patience for foolishness had run out. She needed answers.
Jeannie stepped towards the stocky man, backing him into an empty lecture hall by applying a firm hand to his shoulder. "Quentin," she growled, "Is. He. Okay?"
"Ah. Um. He ..."
The pressure on his shoulder increased and Jeannie looked down at his crotch with a purpose. When her hard eyes met his, Quentin quaked in his shoes. The implication in her angry gaze was clear. If he didn't give up the information, Jeannie would squeeze the life out the most treasured part of his anatomy.
Sweat from his forehead trickled down his face. Quentin's mind raced as he wondered what to say. So many times, he'd gotten in trouble for giving away information during training exercises at The Source. He'd never been allowed talk to the marks, just observe. That suited him just fine.
Then Jeannie had come along. Thorne had Dalton and him doing all sorts of weird stuff. Like that grab bag situation—
"Well?" Jeannie said, flexing her fingers.
Her no-nonsense gaze had Quentin tripping over his words, "He is... Well—"
Jeannie's hand moved, faster than lightning. Quentin felt a tingle before a sizzling pain spread through his lower half, rising from his stomach and falling through the soles of his feet.
"You don't want to make me have to ask a third time." Jeannie accompanied her statement with a twist. Quentin groaned, his knees nearly buckling underneath him. Only the podium he leaned against saved him from falling.
"Fine ..." he choked out, tasting burnt metal. "He's fine. I swear."
"Where is he now," Jeannie asked, releasing him.
Quentin, staggered into a chair behind the lectern, nearly kicking over a trash can. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, the dull ache in the pit of his stomach bubbled up into a feeling of nausea. He moved the trash can closer as Jeannie waited patiently.
"He's back to teaching."
"Since when?"
"A week."
Jeannie tilted her head, contemplating his answer. "Okay. Thanks." She left with her head held high and chin lifted in confidence.
Quentin wanted to call her, to tell her to leave Thorne alone, but his stomach, clenching like an out of tune accordion, prevented him from doing so. Quentin grabbed the trashcan just in time to release its contents, missing the opportunity to save his friend a world full of hurt.