Dirty Professor (15 page)

But do I want to stay here, at Noland? After all of this? Can I even last until Christmas break? I don't know. For now I'm undecided, which is precisely where I was when I started college in the first place two years ago.

The good thing is that the press about me has seemed to calm down, especially after Chase’s book leaked. That became the bigger story, and even though there’s still whispers, the attention on me is a million times better than it was.

Kensie’s on her bed with a spread of pretzels, chips and all kinds of terrible-for-you foods watching TV. She turns the volume down when I come in, and says "I just ordered one of those hair removal things from the shopping channel."

I laugh. I actually laugh. It feels good.

Nights are still tough for me, though, and more than once, Kensie's gotten out of her bed to come sit with me. Last night wasn't too bad, because I only cried for a little bit and passed out shortly after Kensie sat on my bed. I might have gotten a full five hours of sleep. That's pretty good for me these days.

I take a pretzel from Kensie's mini banquet. I still don't have much of an appetite, but I'm eating a little more now. "Ugh," I say when my phone starts vibrating. A couple of media outlets got my cell number, and tried calling me, but that's died down since Bryce Bowker's death leaked. It sounds weird, but I'm almost grateful to Bryce for dying, because it's taken a lot of the heat off of me. I don't recognize the number calling, so I almost ignore it. But with Kensie here, I feel a little bolder, so I go ahead and take the call. "Hello?"

"Hello! May I speak with Addison Simmons?"

"Who dis?"

Kensie snorts and gives me a thumbs-up. Once, when some news outlet called and I stupidly picked up, she took the phone from me and started talking to them in a Cossack accent.

"This is Gregory Wegman from Jefferson and Wegman Literary."

Literary? Literary what?

"Is this a magazine?" I ask.

"No, I'm a literary agent."

Oh my God.

"This is Addison!"

"Wonderful. Hello, Addison, and thank you for speaking with me. I'd love to chat with you about your project, if you have a few moments."

My project. My project. "My... my story?"

"Yes. I happened upon the excerpt of your work and I'm impressed so far. I'd be very interested in seeing the rest of your work."

My jaw drops open.

"Who is it?" Kensie mouths.

"I... you would?" I ask, sounding brilliant.

"Absolutely. Is it a complete manuscript?"

"Yes," I say. And it is, funnily enough. I don't know how good it is, but I finished it during those days when I refused to leave my room.

Gregory Wegman gives me his e-mail address and I jot it down with one of Kensie's glitter pens. "Thanks again for talking with me," he says before we hang up. "It was a pleasure."

When was the last time a stranger has been that nice to me? Without some snide remark or shitty accusation? I sure as hell can't remember.

"You'll never guess who that was," I announce.

"Well, you're not cursing or crying, so... someone good?"

"A literary agent. He wants to see my story."

"Literary agent." Kensie frowns a little in thought. "Those are the book senders, right?"

"Yeah, the liason between writer and publisher. And this guy wants to check out my stuff."

"What happens if he likes it?"

"He signs me up and then starts showing it around to see if someone wants it. Or at least starts sending a description of it around to see if anyone wants to read it." Chase explained the process to me, but I'm not sure I have it completely right.

I wonder if I'll ever be able to do something as simple as read a book or go to the store without relating it back to something Chase said or did.

"So you're going to send it to him?"

"I dunno."

Kensie flips the TV off. "What? What do you mean? You do know."

I grab another pretzel. "I'm not one hundred percent sure. What if he hates it?"

"He won't."

"What if it's just too much?"

"I seriously doubt it." Kensie's looking at me almost in awe. "Add, come on. This is big."

"What if I can't handle having something so personal out there?"

"I think," Kensie says slowly, "you've handled it pretty damn well already. But that's just my opinion. Now send him the motherfucking book."

I sit with Kensie for awhile, helping her snack and playing on my laptop. While I click around, I open the document I wrote my story on and fix some grammatical stuff. I clean it up a little, hopefully enough.

Kensie's balls-deep riveted in a Game of Thrones marathon when I attach the file to an e-mail and hit send.

A
DDISON

Hi Ms. Simmons,

I hope this e-mail finds you well! I'd love to schedule a phone call with you at your earliest convenience. I absolutely love your project.

All Best,

Gregory Wegman

This is not happening. I mean, this kind of thing doesn't happen to me. This is way, way too good to ever be anything that would relate to me in any capacity.

"I think we have something special here," Gregory Wegman says several days later in my ear. I'm sitting at the corner booth at Drake's Burgers, where Luna first spotted me and Chase. I picked an off time for the call-- four o'clock, and I'm the only customer in here. "I haven't been this excited about a new project in a long time, to be honest."

Mr. Wegman-- he insists I call him Greg-- enthusiastically tells me a bunch of things he likes about my work. I ask him questions I'm supposed to ask an agent that I found online. I ask him about how he works, and how often he touches base with his clients, things like that. I hope I'm asking the right things. Greg answers everything, and I get a good vibe from his willingness to explain things in detail and his affable personality. We hang up the phone when he tells me he'll send me the contract.

I look around Drake's and declare this a victory. I always imagined that Chase would be around to walk me through this, if it ever happened to me. But now I'm doing it all by myself.

And it feels pretty empowering.

Greg calls me a week later, when I’m returning to my room from class. "Are you sitting down?"

"Yes," I say, plopping down onto my bed.

"Amaya Green at Mermaid loves it and wants to make an offer."

I almost drop my phone. "Mermaid? I... offer?"

"Mermaid Press. You've heard of them, I'm sure."

I sure have. My mom has a few books from that imprint. They put out some pretty big titles.

Gregory goes on. "She wants to move quickly. Are you ready to sell this novel?"

"Yes!" I shriek into the phone. "I mean, yes. Yes!"

When Kensie comes back a little while later, I pounce on her so frantically, for a minute she thinks I'm upset and something bad happened.

"You're going to be an author," she gushes, putting her hand over her mouth. "A real author."

"It hasn't hit me yet," I say. "But I can't believe it."

"You deserve it."

I give her another hug, and feel the tears pricking my eyes.

***

I sign my book deal, and my editor, Amaya, is really cool. She's full of great feedback about my book, and she tells me more than once how talented she thinks I am. Nobody's ever given me this much praise.

"You need to come here," she announces one day during a phone call about my book. I love how casual she is with me now that the deal's been made and we've gotten to know each other a little. "Everyone at Mermaid would love to meet you. Have you ever been to New York?"

"No," I say. I've traveled a lot with my family, but New York is one place I keep missing. "I would love to go. When were you thinking?"

We pick a date, and I get started looking for flights.

This is going to be insane. This is going to be amazing.

I just have to make myself forget who else lives in New York.

C
HASE

New York.

Almost what, nine million people? I'm surrounded by them.

I've never been more lonely in my entire fucking life.

A
DDISON

T
here's
nothing like flying into New York. The skyline just leaves you gawking out the window like a fool.

A Towncar is waiting for me outside of La Guardia, and my driver meets me at the baggage claim, taking my roller suitcase for me and welcoming me to New York.

"Thank you!" I squeak.

I hum that Welcome to New York song in the backseat of the Towncar on the way to my hotel. I'm staying at the Peninsula, which is right on Fifth. My dad recommended it. And Dad might not be the best at a lot of things, like, oh, empathy, and not pressuring people. But he's no slouch when it comes to choosing incredible hotels.

My parents and I have come to tentative truce. They were relieved I was going back to school, and at least for now, we have a don’t ask don’t tell policy about my major.

"Why you scream Fifth Avenue?" My driver looks at me with a confused smile in the rearview mirror. "Fifth Avenue just a street."

"It's
the
street," I tell him. I've been fantasizing about Fifth Avenue ever since I learned New York was an actual place and not just where the muppets on Sesame Street live. And turning onto Fifth was even more exciting than seeing the city from the plane.

The Peninsula, of course, is stunning. I get up to my room and gaze down at Fifth Avenue churning along below me. One day I'll come back and stay during Thanksgiving so I can watch the Macy's Parade from here. I've always wanted to do that.

I take it pretty easy my first night, just wandering around and grabbing some pizza. The next day I sleep in and get ready for my editor/agent/author lunch. When I finish putting on my makeup-- pretty light, just mascara and lip gloss-- I stand looking in the mirror above the marble vanity.

Chase would be proud of me.

No. No, no, no, I scold myself. Not thinking about him today. Today is
my
day.

I ride the elevator down to the grand lobby, stride out the door that's help open for me, and hail a cab.

"Amy Ruth's, please," I tell the cabbie, and give him the address. I lean back, watching the streets and people zip by as we head up to Harlem.

Gregory Wegman is already there, waiting.We chat about New York, and how exciting this is for me, and then Amaya from Mermaid Press joins us as the hostess leads us to our table.

"Amy Ruth's is an institution," Greg tells me. "You might have to roll me out of here."

We sip sweet tea-- the most delicious tea I think I've ever tasted-- and salivate over the plates of food we see being delivered to nearby tables. "Chicken and waffles," I say, staring way too hard at someone's lunch. "I might have to order that right now."

I still can't believe I'm at a real publishing lunch. Who gets to do this kind of thing?

I guess I do.

And Chase does.

Stop. Thinking. About. Him.

But it’s impossible.

Everything reminds me of him, even more so now that I’m here, in New York.

Ever since I got here, I keep thinking I see him everywhere – in the lobby of my hotel, standing in line for pizza at the deli on the corner, rushing toward the subway…

Even right now, I’m almost sure I see his doppleganger stride in, looking left and right.

My heart lurches, but I keep nodding and smiling as Greg talks to me. But I’m so distracted. The guy who just came in is looking around, trying to find the people he came to eat with. He just looks so much like Chase.

Like...
exactly
like Chase.

Wait a minute.

I cough and press my napkin to my mouth.

"You okay?" Amaya asks.

"I..."

My mouth opens but I can barely speak. Everything turns to slow motion as he turns from profile, and now I can see his face clearly. And now I know that it’s really him.

Chase Brooks is standing right here.

Relief flashes across his face as we make eye contact. His cornflower blue eyes bore holes into me.

"What's he doing here?" I say under my breath. "What is Chase Brooks doing here?"

I say it low, but Greg and Amaya hear me. Their heads swivel like they're choreographed together to look.

My stomach tightens. I have no idea what this is about, but I feel slightly sick. It’s too much—seeing him is too much, and all of my emotions are flooding back to me now.

Chase approaches our table, and the closer he gets, the more my heart slams into my sternum. When he stops right in front of me, I can't do anything but look up at him and try to keep my mouth from hanging open.

Amaya and Greg are silent, just completely stone silent. They're watching him, too.

In fact, so are more than a few people in this restaurant.

"Hello, Addison," he says, his voice soft.

This is what he says to me. After everything.

I find my voice. "Hi," I croak. My voice is thick with shock and I sound horrible. I clear my throat once, twice. Three times.

Chase smiles.

What the fuck is he up to?

"Addison," he says again. I remember how I used to love the way my name sounded when he said it.

“Don’t,” I say, my voice shaking. “Don’t come here and act like everything’s okay. Don’t—”

“I know everything isn’t okay,” Chase replies. His eyes are steady, sure. “I’m here to make it okay.”

I feel my heart leap, but I don’t let myself smile. I won’t fall for this. I’ve been too hurt, too disappointed…I can’t possibly let him back into my life again. If that’s even what he’s hinting at. Maybe he just wants closure?

I shrug. “Well, I don’t think this is really the time or place. And I don’t see how you can just make it okay.”

Chase runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time, I can see the strain in his eyes.

Is Chase Brooks actually nervous right now? “Addison, I failed you. I failed myself. And I’ll never be able to change that fact.” He takes a deep breath, and then lets it out. When his eyes meet mine again, I feel the shock of it.