If I Stay (6 page)

I think, in those instances, it's maybe alright to gloat a little.

Sacha hated Toby, though. He hated the entire relationship. Much like Brandon, Sacha would always drone on about how Toby was an asshole. Toby was a womanizer. Toby didn't really love me, and just wanted to keep me around so that when he didn't have someone else, he could fuck me. He said all of this without his eyes fixed directly into mine, which even in his attempted subtlety told me he was hurting. He never liked to look at me when he was sad.

Now that the relationship was over, he'd at least let up about it. Which was nice. It allowed me to breathe a little more, and breathing is always comforting. And vital to survival.

As Brandon and I slid down the halls, careful to avoid the puddles from snow and wet shoe-trackings, Sacha was standing in the halls, looking at a display of his own photographs. Hands, mouths, hips, all different body parts. Sacha, unlike Brandon, had an obsession with the female anatomy.

“Sacha. You pretty boy, pretentious, photo-obsessed bastard. You never returned any of my calls.”

Brandon's voice echoed off the walls, and a few people turned, laughing quietly. Brandon had that effect on people. Sacha shrugged, looking at me with a small, acknowledging smile.

“I've been busy.”

“Bullshit.”

“Oh?” Sacha quipped. “I guess you must be a mind reader or something.”

“I'm a lot of things,” Brandon answered smugly. “Anyway, whatever. How was your Christmas?”

“It was Christmas. Mom was able to avoid a crisis throughout most of the day. She didn't get too drunk, either. Yours?”

“I got the most bitching cardboard cutout of Nic Cage. It's in the apartment. It's pretty much my new favorite thing ever.”

Sacha laughed, looking at me. “How was your Christmas, Gems?”

“Not bad,” I answered. “It was just me, the folks, the grandparents. I got the same bottle of perfume that I do every year. Some new sweaters.”

“Don't forget the Keurig that we're never going to use,” Brandon added, and we both looked down at our coffees with that guilty sort of feeling that came about when we acknowledged the stupid little things we shouldn't be spending money on. But do anyway. “That was a nice gift.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It was.”

I didn't really like to talk about my family. Not because they were horrible or anything. Really, I was quite lucky. But I suppose in some ways it was sort of a sad state of affairs. My mom was in a very unhappy marriage with my father, but they stayed together – mostly because, deep down, they couldn't really afford to divorce. My father, who my entire life had worked in some form of the construction business, was often laid off. My mother, who had never achieved a formal education, supplemented the income working three jobs as a waitress. I was the only child, and although immensely loved, was always more caught up in feeling sorry for my parents. Like they were missing out on something. Like they were older than the numbers that they muttered begrudgingly whenever someone asked their age. Quite frankly, it was something I would just rather avoid talking about. I liked to spare myself the headache.

“We should probably get inside,” I mumbled, glancing down at my phone.

“I'm already hating this,” Brandon groaned. “Is the semester over yet?”

The three of us found our classroom, settled into our spots, and removed our notebooks and pens. Watching the clock, I spent the passing minutes sketching little cartoons. A monster eating a building, and a girl with super long hair flying in space. No wings or anything. Just her.

Ben.
I couldn't shake him, and my hand was giving everything away as my pen started sketching the outline of his face in the corner of my notebook. His messy hair followed by hasty pen-strokes, his Vulcan eyebrows. Two black dots for eyes. A small wisp of a smile, the flick of a pen tip, and there he was.
Ben
. Ben the Poet. Ben the Stranger. And now, Ben the cartoon.

I checked my phone again, expecting the time, but when I saw a text I nearly jumped out of my seat. Clicking it open, I angled the phone away in a small attempt to keep the message away from Brandon and his prying eyes.

Lousy mornings are lousy.
The text read.
But thinking of seeing you tonight makes today feel a lot better. I only wish I didn't have to wait.

I slid the phone back into my coat pocket, smiling from ear to ear. Oh, God. Things were looking up. Work could suck. Bills could pile up. I could slip and fall on a million patches of black ice, and none of it mattered.

Then the door opened, and Daryl Hunt walked in. The head of the English Department. Which told me immediately that there was likely some sort of big news, as department heads typically didn't just show up on the first day of class without some sort of announcement.

Still, this isn't what surprised me. It's who followed him in.

“Holy shit,” Brandon whispered. And if I wasn't more subtle, I would have exclaimed the very same thing.

Ben was standing in front the class, holding the same suitcase that I'd locked myself up with in the bathroom of his hotel. His eyes bore into mine, and I knew. I knew.

I knew exactly what this was.

SIX

Ben and I stared at each other for what felt like the longest, drawn-out, most painful amount of time that I'd ever experienced in my twenty-two years of life before Dr. Hunt finally spoke. Slicing through the tension like a serrated blade through hard plastic.

“Good morning, everyone! My, don't you all look bright and eager to start the semester.”

Nobody moved, aside from those that were flopped over on their desk, half asleep. Ben's eyes dropped to the ground, the suitcase still cradled in his arms. He wore a dark brown pinstripe suit jacket, with dark jeans and a pair of black Converse. His shirt was light blue – nearly white, with a red tie contrasting with the pale-colored fabric. Over it all he wore a light brown overcoat. I couldn't stop staring. Because quite frankly, even despite the circumstances, he still looked totally adorable in the cheekiest of ways. Especially with his lovely hair all tousled by the harsh winter wind. Oh, and the black, rectangle-framed glasses that rested on the end of his nose. Glasses.

Kill me now. A swift death would be less anguishing than this.

“Doctor, is that you?” A student yelled in the background, and Ben's eyes lifted bashfully in the direction of the voice. “Where's your Tardis?”

“Enough,” Dr. Daryl Hunt said curtly. “Now, class. For those of you who haven't heard, Dr. Davis has suffered a terrible accident that has left him unable to teach this semester's Creative Writing course. However, I'm certain that...”

Brandon lifted his hand timidly, cutting Daryl off. He groaned a little under his breath, and answered.

“Yes, Mr. Holt?” Dr. Hunt always addressed everyone by their last names. Even the kids who were stuck with terribly embarrassing surnames, like Stoner or Buttery. Which yes, were totally legitimate and very real last-names. It was practically a curse.

“What was the accident?” Brandon asked.

I swear, the entire class moved forward to hear the response. Perhaps the only thing that could rouse a classroom of tired twenty-something college students, aside from coffee, is the news of some huge accident. Really, we're kind of the worst sort of people.

“He fell out of a tree, I'm afraid, and broke his back.”

Brandon immediately stifled a laugh, covering his mouth, and I kicked him hard in the shins. This didn't stop the rest of the class, though, whose muffled laughter swept over the room like a blanket of guilt-riddled hilarity.

“That's terrible,” Brandon finally choked, proceeding to rest his head down on the desk. I could tell he was dying on the inside.

“Anyway,” Daryl pressed his lips together. “Although Dr. Davis will certainly be missed over the next few months, it gives me a great honor to let you all know that you should be quite excited to be learning from the mind of a
very
accomplished gentleman. Class, may I present Benjamin Hugo Lawson.”

“
The
Benjamin Hugo Lawson?”

One of the girls in the back, Darcy Steinfield, piped up. I'd shared a table with her once during Sophomore year. Ethics class. And she was always rambling on over vintage-whatever, film, and literary everything. Aside from her platinum hair, false eyelashes and love of stark-black lipstick, I pretty much just hated her face for reasons unbeknownst to me. Maybe I was just immature. “I knew it! You wrote
Sideways
!”

She was already smitten. I could tell. However, that wasn't the greatest of my concerns. What
I wanted to know, exactly, was what she was talking about.

“Yes!” Dr. Hunt exclaimed. “We have here in our institution the New York Times bestselling author of - as Ms. Steinfield has so excitedly noted –
Sideways
.”

“Among several other awards,” Ben added, a shit-eaten smirk rising at the corner of his lips. He looked at me again, and I could hardly stand it. For many reasons. “However, I trust that my time here will be much more rewarding than any acknowledgments that have been given to me for my written works. As some of you are aware,” and for the briefest of moments, his eyes met mine again. “I am a fond admirer of the written word. Aside from literature, I write both poetry and short stories. As for my academic accolades, I hold a two masters degrees in Literature and Creative Writing. Really, though, it truly excites me to be putting my formal education to use as your newly-appointed professor. I hope that all of you will enjoy these next few months with me. I'm sure that I'll enjoy my time with you.”

Darcy giggled in the background, Brandon kept his head down, still shaking in laughter from Dr. Davis and his untimely fall, and Sacha watched me as I watched Ben - whose eyes were locked on my frame, the suitcase falling from his hands in a hard
thud
.

On top of this, Dr. Hunt appeared so totally star-struck that he couldn't seem to pull himself away from Ben, his inflection melancholy as he muttered, half-quietly:
well, I suppose I'll leave you to your new class
, and with a quick bow he exited the room.

It was only Ben against the sea of faces – however, it felt like we were the only two people. It took awhile before he could open his mouth again.

And only I understood why.

“I'd like to start off with a little introductory assignment,” he finally said. “Oddly enough, this has nothing to do with writing. This little exercise will be testing your reflexes and will force you to unclutter your brains for the starting of this class. I want all of you on point this semester, and trust that I expect the best of work from all of you. Believe me when I say, dear students, that you will leave this class much more eloquent than when you arrived. That, or you'll probably loathe me.”

Jesus, could he please just talk forever? I was distraught. Utterly gobsmacked. Still. I was also contemplating whether or not there existed a recording app on my phone that would allow me to store and replay his lectures whenever I so desired. For scholarly purposes, of course.

I kept my stare on him as he knelt down, opening the suitcase and withdrawing a red, glossy apple. He tossed it up and caught it in his hand a few times, and then proceeded to toss the fruit at random to a student in the front row – who caught it, luckily. The look of shock on his face was priceless.

“Good catch,” Ben said. “Now, call me cliché, but I've always found humor in the whole apple/teacher thing. I mean, do you think we ever really eat them? No. Most get tossed in the trash bin. I mean, for goodness sake, who knows where your grubby hands have been. That being said, I
did
contemplate just bringing a standard ball. But that would be much too expected, wouldn't it? So. You.” And he pointed to the wide-eyed boy who was now holding the apple. “What's your name?”

“Derek Webber,” he answered.

“Fantastic. Now, Derek...” Ben continued. “Describe to me, in one word, how you are feeling about the end of this coming semester. You're welcome to take a moment to think about it, if you'd like.”

“Whatever,” he said. “Um, totally stoked.”

“Good,” Ben smiled tightly. “However,
totally stoked
is not one, but two words. I'll let it slide this time around if the next person you toss the apple to catches it without fumbling.”

Derek grinned, tossing the apple to a blonde-haired girl a few rows over. She caught it, stood, and gave her name: Sarah Clements. Her feelings about the end of the coming semester? Excited.

The apple made its rounds, with Brandon saying that he felt
excellent
(mocking Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, air guitar and all) about his college career coming to a close, and Sacha admitting that he felt anxious. Surprisingly, not a single person managed to lose their grip, their reflexes perfectly timed.

That is, until it finally came hurdling towards my face, and I ducked like a complete idiot.

The apple rolled down the steps, landing at Ben's feet. When I looked up, he was holding it in his hands.

“One more try,” he said, his voice low. “Are you ready?”

No
, I wanted to scream.
No, I'm not ready. I wasn't prepared for any of this.

Ben tossed the apple, and I caught it with one hand. My insides shaking, the act so simple and at the same time so symbolic. Yet, like everything else, it was something only known between the two of us.

He waited wordlessly for a few moments as I stared down at the red, fleshy, spherical object that rested in my palms. Then, clearing his throat, he asked:

“What's your name?”

There it was. Like we were nothing but strangers. I stared, tempted to take the apple and throw it at him. After all, this was the man who moments before stepping through the classroom door had messaged me about our
date
that would be happening this evening. Or, at this point, should have been happening. It wouldn't be at this point. Not anymore.

I didn't want to look at him, even though I still felt the pull. Even though I couldn't even quite accurately describe what I was feeling. I couldn't hate the man. It's not like he lied to me. Really, we were just two people that met with no real idea of who the other person was. I hardly had the time from stepping foot into his hotel room and then scrambling out while Ben was asleep to get to know him. The real him. The
him
that wrote books, and not just poetry. Award-winning books, so it seemed.

It was like I was looking at someone so different. I couldn't stand it. He was remarkable, beautiful, and staring at me with the same expression as he had while standing on stage, across the clouded bar. And in the same shallow breath, he was still The Stranger.

“Gemma,” I said quietly. He nodded slowly.

“And how do you feel, Gemma?”

The way he said my name gripped me with the intensity of hot wax dripping against my skin. Soft, anxious, waiting. He was waiting. Everyone was waiting, actually.

Everyone was staring.

“Ill,” I told him.

His lips parted, the look that touched his face was pained. But knowing that there was nothing he could say, he didn't say anything at all until he was able to snap himself out of the visible funk.

“Good,” he remarked, quickly smiling. I lowered myself cautiously into my seat as Brandon nudged my arm tenderly. “Now, your first assignment, because I'm awesome, is to simply think about what you've just confessed today. Contemplate the word and
why
you chose it. We'll be writing about your thoughts next class. Now, everybody scatter. You're dismissed.”

Great. So I couldn't just say the word, I had to write about it. And I had to write about
why
I felt so ill. Nothing about this semester would be easy.

What was I really expecting?

I waited at my desk, still holding the apple, until the last of the students filtered out. Brandon, who already knew, slid out quietly after handing me a note that read for me to meet him in the Student Cafe. Sacha waited at his desk, looking puzzled.

“You alright, Gems?” he asked. “You look super sullen.”

“I'm fine. Really,” I smiled at him. “You want to meet up later and do something?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I definitely would.”

“Great. I'll shoot you a text.”

Sacha smirked, practically skipping down the steps with his backpack slung over his shoulder. I stayed put, waiting and watching as only Darcy remained, looking totally love-struck as she rambled on to Ben about how much she
loved
his book. He nodded, his eyes empty, making little remarks here and there: “Thank you. Oh, you're too kind. No. I'm not sure when my next book will be released. Yes, I will be sure to keep you updated.”

I finally stepped down, clearing my throat a little and not caring whether or not I was coming off as slightly rude. Darcy glared at me, quickly looking back at Ben.

“Well, thank you...
Professor.
” The last word fell sickeningly sweet from her tongue. “I'll see you next class.”

He nodded sternly, giving away no emotion whatsoever. Completely empty. Which, I'll admit, made me feel slightly better. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel any pang of jealousy when I saw how Darcy was eying him. But when she was finally gone, and it was just the two of us, I swear – it looked like he was going to collapse. His entire everything softened.

“Looks like you don't have to wait after all,” I told him, shrugging my shoulders heavily. “I guess tonight is off, then.”

Ben didn't say anything, removing his glasses so that I could fully see those two familiar dark eyes. They grazed over me slowly, his lips pressing together in a way that told me he hated the situation just as much as I did.

“I hope you don't feel deceived,” he finally murmured.

“Did you intend on telling me?” I asked. “About your...situation.”

“What situation? My books?”

“Your fame. The fact that you're some award-winning author. And here I was thinking that you just wrote poetry. That you were normal.”

The air between us was so thick that I could hardly breathe. Maybe
fame
was just slightly melodramatic, but still. His notoriety. His
status.