Big Love Abroad Page 16

  He let the music play counterpoint to the whine and snarl of the engine upshifting and downshifting, keeping silent and just driving. He parked when we arrived back at the college and then came around and opened my door for me, and walked me to my dorm. At my door, he paused, shifting from one foot to the other.

  "Nina, I--"

  "Lucas, that was one of the most intense experiences of my life. I'm not mad, I'm not upset, I'm just...overwhelmed. There's just...a lot."

  "Part of what had you crying in the rain?"

  "I wasn't crying."

  He laughed. "If you insist. But still, part of what had you not crying in the rain, then?"

  "Maybe some, yeah."

  "Care to share?"

  "No. It wouldn't be fair to you. There's just...I'm--"

  "Overwhelmed, as you've said." He nodded. "I hate leaving things like this. I feel like I've cocked it all up."

  I couldn't help laughing. "Well, you cocked me all up, that's for fucking sure."

  He snorted. "God, Nina."

  "It's okay. Really. I just need to sort myself out. Thank you for the amazing wine, and the delicious dinner, and for--"

  "You promise you're all right?"

  I nodded, summoned a smile for him. "Yeah. I'm good."

  "I'll just go, then. I'll see you at the library?"

  I lifted a shoulder, sort of but not quite nodded, something between a nod and a shake. "Yes, see you at the library."

  He waited until I had my door open, and then he turned away. I closed the door and watched him through the peephole. He walked away until I had the door closed, and then he stopped and turned, stared at the door, an expression on his face that I couldn't quite fathom.

  A moment, in which I watched him, and he stared at the door as if maybe seeing me, or knowing I was watching him.

  Moonlight silver on the grass, ancient stone looming behind him, his tall frame straight, one hand in his pocket, long hair loose around his shoulders, eyes like dark gimlet holes in his pale face, watching me, inscrutable, unknowable.

  I made it a dozen steps before I had a complete and total breakdown. A dozen steps, incidentally, is the number from the front door to my bed. I wasn't even sure why I was crying, but I was and I couldn't stop it, couldn't hold it back.

  I couldn't even begin to sort out my feelings. I just let it all go in a deluge of confused and stormy tears.

  I passed out, hard.

  *

  I managed, like an idiot, to avoid my own emotions for three more days, and then classes started, and I was able to focus on learning rather than feeling. Feelings sucked, and I had so many fucking feelings that I just didn't even know where to start. So I didn't.

  I went to the library, but I never ran into Lucas.

  Thank god. I still wasn't sure how I felt about him, and our night together.

  Classes were amazing. The first three were close studies, small classes, intimate, absorbing. My last class, on Friday, was a sort of novelty notion class. It was a study of the various iterations of the film adaptations of Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility, comparing them against the books themselves. I'd chosen it because it sounded fun, honestly, and I confess I hadn't paid much attention to any of the information regarding the class. So when I set out to find the classroom, I had to dig into my paperwork and find the classroom assignment. Which, of course, also included the name of the attending professor.

  My heart stopped.

  The sheet read: Pride and Sense: Adapting Regency Era Literature to Film; Professor L. R. Killian.

  Shit. Shit. No. No. Fuck no. It had to be a different L. R. Killian. Had to be.

  I swallowed my panic, found the classroom, and took a seat near the back. Yeah, cowardly, but shit, if it was him, how the hell was I supposed to handle this?

  I was early, so over the next few minutes a dozen other students filtered in, taking seats around me, fidgeting and conversing the way you do on a first day when the teacher hasn't shown up yet.

  Two girls sat behind me, both around my own age. They were angled to face each other, knees in the aisle. "My older sister took this class last year," one of them said to the other in a hushed whisper, just barely audible to me. "She told me Professor Killian is really, really hot. Like, she couldn't believe he was actually the real professor. Apparently, he's one of the youngest professors here in the last hundred years. I mean, really, he's the only reason I'm even taking this class. Good thing Mum and Dad are paying!" She laughed, and their conversation devolved into stories of what they did over the summer--which primarily involved alcohol and sex and shopping.

  I felt my heart sink, clench, twist, felt my gut rise. This was going to be so awkward.

  The door opened, and yes, a tall, lean frame ducked through the doorway. He was dressed in pressed khakis, a white button-down, and a corduroy blazer. Long hair bound back neatly at the base of his neck, beard trimmed close. He had a leather satchel over one shoulder, bulging with books. Under his other arm he had a brown paper-wrapped rectangular parcel, twine crossing twice over the width and length of the package and knotted in the center. He set this on the desk, then placed his bag next to it, standing facing away from the students. He took a moment, adjusted the sleeves of his blazer, then turned to face the twenty or so gathered students.

  I shrank down lower into my seat, then caught myself and sat up straight. No shying away from your decisions, Nina, I scolded myself.

  His eyes roamed the room, going from face to face, stuttered over me, kept going, and then swept back. He paled visibly. He turned away momentarily, touching the paper-wrapped package on the desk with the index and middle finger of his right hand, as if to reassure himself.

  Turning back around, he smiled and, if I hadn't met him, I wouldn't have known he was suppressing anything. "Good morning, everyone. I'm Professor Killian. This is the movie adaptation class, in case you are wondering if you are in the correct place."

  And then we were off. He didn't avoid looking at me, but he didn't go out of his way to look at me either. He managed to act as if nothing at all had happened between us, as if I was just another student in his class. He was a great teacher. He laid out the goal of the course, discussed Regency era lit with precision and consummate knowledge, never stuttered or stumbled or used extraneous filler words. He knew his material, had an opening spiel that clearly delineated the expectations and goals of the course. It wouldn't be a pushover, or an easy-A course, that was clear. He expected you to know the material, to pay attention and draw your own comparisons and write lucid, competent essays supporting your positions.

  It was hard to keep my eyes off him, and equally hard to bear the brief moments when his eyes met mine and neither of us would look away, and he'd almost lose his place, but then would blink and tear his gaze away and keep going.

  I'd fucked my professor.

  We'd been two consenting adults, yes, and classes hadn't been in session yet, true. But still. I'd fucked my professor. Or rather, more accurately, been fucked by him. Been tied and blindfolded and tortured into more orgasms in one night than I'd ever had in my entire life added together up to that point.

  But we could totally make it through the semester like well-behaved adults, right?

  Right.

  Right.

  As soon as he dismissed us, I was out the door and hauling ass down the hallway. I half-expected him to chase after me, which would be proper romance-novel behavior protocol. But he didn't, because as I've established by now, my life is not a romance novel.

  *

  After class I went back to my dorm and had lunch. Did homework. Wrote two short papers, caught a bit of a Dr. Who marathon, made a grilled cheese for dinner...all the while wondering if Lucas had been thinking about me. Had he regretted anything, had it been just sex for him or...or what else could it have been? He was even more of a complete stranger than--NOPE. Not going there. Not thinking of him.

  Because he was there, underneath everything. Underneath
all my thoughts, behind my memories, woven through all my fears and worries and confusion and guilt and desire. He was there.

  Ian.

  I shook my head, returning my attention to the good Dr. Who and his inter-dimensional adventures. I was not thinking about Ian, or Lucas, or anything, or anyone.

  That worked for about twenty minutes, and then there was a knock at the door.

  I took a deep breath. Preparing myself.

  Lucas, Hi. Hello. How are you? Good, good. No, I'm not doing anything. Sure, come on in. Talk? Talk about what? Oh, that? Yeah, no big deal. Right?

  That would work. Easy-peasy.

  Another deep breath. I smoothed my sweater down and tugged at the V-neck a little. I forced myself to blink away the nerves.

  I opened the door, a smile starting on my lips, polite, welcoming, neutral.

  Then I had the door opened, and my breath caught and my smile faltered.

  Fuck.

  I should have checked the peephole.

  Ladies, a Public Service Announcement: Always check the peephole before you open the door. Always.

  "Nina." Low, deep, rough voice; unexpected, jarring, thrilling, terrifying, familiar, bone-shivering. "You took off rather suddenly. I had a few personal things to sort out in London, so I couldn't chase after you straight away."

  CHAPTER 9

  What the what? Was this actually happening? For real?

  Ian was standing on my doorstep, looking down at me.

  Sexy.

  Huge and hard and muscular.

  A little angry.

  Actually, a lot angry.

  But also hot as hell, and amused, maybe even a little nervous.

  "Ian. Hi. Um. Hi?"

  Fucking stupid sexy mouth of his, quirked up, smirky, snarky smile. "Nina. Hi. You busy?"

  I blinked up at him. "Uh. No?"

  "Is that a question?"

  God, I loved his accent. Izz'tha'a question?

  "No. I'm watching Dr. Who. Not busy, I mean. That's what I mean. I'm not busy." Yet I didn't move out of the way. I just stood there stupidly, staring up at Ian.

  "May I come in, then?"

  I backed up, swiveled; Ian swept past me. I smelled his cologne, spicy, familiar, intoxicating.

  Ian glanced around at the mess of books piled on the couch, on the table, on the counters. Books everywhere. Papers, too. Syllabi, grading rubrics, essay prompts, handwritten drafts of the papers I was working on. Yeah, I still wrote essays by hand before turning them in. With a real #2 Ticonderoga. Sometimes I switched it up to a Faber or whatever other brand was available. But I generally preferred the Ticonderoga.

  Rambling. God, I was rambling mentally. Putting off my reaction to Ian's unexpected arrival.

  He moved into the living room area, pushed a stack of books carefully aside, sat down, found the remote, and unclicked the pause button. Dr. Who resumed. Ian even put his feet up on the coffee table, thumping his big black combat boots on the wood. I just stood there, gaping. He was here, suddenly, no explanation, just here. In my dorm. Light blue jeans with rips at the knee, the artful kind of rips. A dark red Lumineers T-shirt tight around his chest, hugging his trim waist. It was the concert shirt that was designed to look like an optometrist's eye chart. Why that was important enough for my brain to take note of, I wasn't quite sure.

  And now he was just sitting there, watching Dr. Who.

  Not asking what had happened, where I had gone, or why. Nothing.

  I blinked several times, took a deep breath. Moved around the couch, pushed the books aside yet further, and sat down beside Ian. Knees drawn together, hands on my knees, breathing a little too deeply, a little too quickly. Ian seemed oblivious to my befuddled, ruffled, utterly baffled state. What did I say? Did I wait for him to say something?

  I leaned back, tried to relax. But I couldn't.

  I snatched the remote from Ian and clicked off the TV. "Ian, god, I don't even know what to say. You're here, and I--"

  "You don't know what to say?" Ian turned to face me, eyes blazing. "You don't know what to say?" He said it twice, emphasizing it two different ways.

  For extra emphasis, I suppose. To great effect, as well, I should add.

  "I--"

  "How about 'shit, Ian, I'm sorry, mate. I just panicked and I should have spoken to you instead of vanishing.' You could start with that."

  Oh boy. He was really, really pissed.

  "Ian, I--"

  "Unless you did a runner because you wanted to get away from me, in which case I'm sorry for showing up like this, and I'll just leave."

  "No, that's not--no."

  "Then what? I know you're surprised, but you could at least say something coherent."

  "Ian, I--"

  "I mean, either way, you do owe me a fucking explanation, I'd think, right?"

  "Ian, I--"

  "That's the third time you've said that."

  I lost it. "Then stop fucking interrupting me!" I stood up, pushed away from the couch and paced across the room. "I panicked, Ian. You got that part right. And I should have talked to you about it, but I just--I couldn't. Because you would have just talked me out of...I don't even know what."

  "That doesn't even make any sense."

  "It's panic. It's not supposed to make sense."

  Ian nodded and shrugged. "Guess that's true enough. But still. You panicked, but you couldn't talk to me about whatever it was you were panicking about, because I would have somehow talked you out of something you're not even sure of?"

  "When you put it like that..."

  Ian laughed. "That's how you put it, babe."

  "It's not that simple."

  "Then explain it."

  I couldn't look at him and explain anything rationally, so I stood facing away from him. "I'll try. But you can't interrupt me." I turned and glanced at him, and he was just staring at me, blue eyes fraught with a thousand emotions, boiling and storming and piercing me. I turned away, staring at my feet. "Everything about you, about us...it was so confusing. I thought it would just be...fun, I guess, you know? Like, new experiences in a new country, or something. I came to England to do something different, to go where I wanted to be in my life, not where my parents expected, not where my sisters expected. England was supposed to be--not starting over, exactly, more...turning a page. A new chapter. Whatever other cliche you want to use.

  "But then I met you on the plane, and you--you're so...much. Larger than life. Intense, and into me. You're not safe. You want things from me, you expect things of me, things that I--that I didn't know I wanted. Things I didn't know I liked. But I did, and it was--being with you, having sex with you, it wasn't what I thought it'd be. I thought going into it that I could keep things casual. But I couldn't. I know myself better than that. But I kept trying. Because I was going to end up here in Oxford, and you were going to stay in London, and I couldn't risk not living my dreams, you know? And if I'd stayed with you, which I wanted to do--it could have been risky for me. That's why I left, Ian. Because I wanted to stay."

  "Nina--"

  "No, I said don't interrupt. I know that makes no sense. I get it, okay? I left because I wanted to stay. Stupid illogical girl logic, right? Yeah. I get that. But it's the truth. That night, with you, it was...it wasn't just sex, okay? I know that. I knew that then. And so did you. I saw you, I fucking saw you feel it too. And that scared the hell out of me. Because--what I felt, what I saw you feel, it--it wasn't something I could handle, not then. Neither could you. It wasn't--"

  "Convenient?" Ian supplied, and managed not to sound bitter as he said it.

  "Exactly. It wasn't something either of us were in a position to deal with."

  "News flash, Nina." His voice came from right behind me, making me freeze in place, not even breathing. "Love is never convenient."

  Knock-knock-knock.

  Shit. I knew that knock. Brief, efficient, polite. Not too loud, not demanding.

  "Expecting someone?" Ian's voice sounded suspicious, tin
ged with the beginnings of bitterness.

  "Fuck." My own voice was quiet, the single syllable spoken quietly, harshly.

  "Nina, I think we need to talk." Lucas's voice, muffled, came though the door. "I've searched the whole library, which is rather a lot of territory to cover, actually, so I know this the only place you could be. Open up, will you?"

  I moved away from Ian. "Ian, I--"

  "Say that one more time, and I'll be angry. Just send him away. We have unfinished business, you and I."

  Will be angry? If he wasn't yet, then I should be scared to see what real anger looked like.

  "It's not that simple--" I started.

  "Nothing is ever simple, Nina. It's how you deal with the complications that defines who you are."

  I closed my eyes, blocking out the bleeding edge of hurt I saw in his blue eyes. I shook my hands, blew out a shaky breath. I opened the door, trying to keep the opening blocked with my body.

  "Lucas, hi." I was starting to feel like a record on repeat. "Um. Now is really--"

  "You can't avoid me forever. You're in my class, for Christ's sake. It doesn't have to be awkward."

  "But it is, though, isn't it?" I couldn't help the comment from slipping out. "Look, can we talk another time?"

  "It won't take but a minute, I swear." He held up the package he'd had with him in class. "I just came by to give you this. You did win the bet, and I--I always pay my debts."

  There were very, very few things I wouldn't do for a first edition Jane Austen. I stared at the paper-wrapped parcel, blinking, trying to figure out a justification that would allow me to accept the book.

  I came up blank.

  "I can't, Lucas. Keep it."

  "But Nina, it's...it's a first edition of Pride and Prejudice. It's worth thousands of pounds. It's--it's a signed first edition. One of the very first printings of the first edition, actually, so it's especially rare. You have to take it. I--it's taken me quite a bit of courage to package it up for you, to get to a mental and emotional place where I can part with it, so you have to take it. You have to."

  "No, Lucas. No, I can't."

  He glanced down at the book still extended toward me. Then he looked at me, and past me. He saw Ian, and understanding flooded his features. He backed up a step, two.