“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.