The Black Hour (27 page)

Learning.

I faltered. Nath dropped to his knees and kissed the tender flesh next to my scar. Everything else faded beyond my attention. His mouth—

I opened my eyes. In the mirror, I watched as Nath ran his hands up the backs of my legs, hooked his thumbs under my panties, and tugged.

“No.”

He held on, flicking his tongue at my navel in a way that made the floor fall out from under me. My knees shook. I reached for the edge of the sink.

“No—Nath. Stop.” I grabbed the back of his hair and pulled. He looked up, eyes still somewhere else, his lips swollen.

“Why?”

He thought he knew why. He thought it had something to do with me being his teacher. But that was not the truth.

The truth was that I didn’t want to kiss him. I wanted to consume him. I wanted to take everything he was and had and make it mine.

What kind of teacher was that? What kind of human?

“I—can’t.”

“You want to.” One hand traced the curve of my lower back and brushed over my ass. I wasn’t teaching this kid a thing he didn’t already know.

Part of me did want to. I stepped backward.

He dropped his hands, adjusted his khakis. “Right.”

“Nath, I’m so—”

“Please.” He cleared the pleading note out of his throat. “Please don’t apologize.”

He’d be burning with rejection. I knew it well, better than he’d probably guess. Joe’s look of panic the night before shamed me. How long would Nath glow with embarrassment when he saw me or thought of me? It was too late to do the right thing.

Nath pulled himself off his knees to sit on the side of the tub. He reached for handle of the tub faucet to start the water.

“I can do it,” I said.

“People can drown in two inches of water.” He sounded like he knew what he was talking about. “Don’t take any more pills tonight.”

I clutched the sink’s edge until the water was deep enough, then waited until Nath had turned his back to drop the last of my clothes and step into the bath. The water was scalding, and I was glad. Of all the grime that I needed to sear off my skin, this last layer seemed the least likely to come off. He’d added some shampoo to the water for bubbles. I gathered them to cover myself. “Forget what I said about Leo Lehane. I don’t care anymore. I mean—it’s fine if I never understand it. I’m dropping it. Promise me—Nath, promise me you’ll drop it.”

In his efforts not to look at me in the tub, he stared at an empty spot on the wall.

“Nath?”

“I hate that.”

“What?”

“The—the not knowing,” he said.

I did, too. Could I live with it? I thought I could, since it looked as though I’d have to. “Not much we can do about gray areas. Besides, this is my burden, not yours. I should never have dragged you into it.”

He looked at me, then away. We sat for another minute or so, listening to the tiny sound of bubbles popping. At last, he said, “You’ll be—uh, OK?”

Not allowed to apologize, I couldn’t think of the right words. “You can go.”

When he left, he pulled the door delicately, as though closing in a sleeping child. I listened for his steps and then the front door. Then my own breathing, until I despised the sound.

I woke in the cold bath, my chin dipped under the water line. I sat up, startled.

The sound came again.

Footsteps.

I stretched for a towel and dragged myself out of the tub, dripping, shaking, looking around for any kind of weapon.

“Mel?”

Doyle?

I cracked the door, a heavy bottle of shampoo raised. “Nicholas, for the love—”

His shoulders slumped. “Jesus, change your door codes once in a while. And you might try getting a cell phone.” He flicked the hall light on and took in the towel, my dripping hair.

“I’ve been home all night.” My teeth chattered. I searched for a clock. “What time is it?”

“Then answer your home phone when it rings. I’ve been calling for an hour.”

I hadn’t heard the phone. Maybe Nath was right to worry about those two inches of water. “What’s going on?”

“What happened in the living room? You need to declare a federal disaster in there.”

“Why were you calling?” I said.

“I—I don’t remember.”

That was a lie. I put down the shampoo and tightened the towel. What would Mrs. Nick think of him helping himself to my apartment while I was half-naked? I’d already had one near miss with bad decisions today. I didn’t need another. “Why don’t you try to remember while I get dressed? Is Nancy in the car?”

“She’s at home.”

“What did you tell her?”

He blinked at me for a moment too long. “I’m not sure why I bothered.”

The visit began to unnerve me. Late-night visit, unannounced. The wife left at home. I found myself checking Doyle’s hands to make sure they were empty.

They were. I wiped my hand over my face. It had come to this. “You were just—worried?”

“Should I be? Passing out in the classroom? Hanging out at the Mill all hours, a student trailing after you wherever you go?”

Now I understood. “Are you following me, too?”

“
Too?
” he said. “I’m not even going to—tell me that I don’t need to worry about you, about our students. After last year, I can’t write off your bad behavior and let something happen again.”

I couldn’t even argue the bad behavior. “You didn’t let anything happen the first time. Dammit, Doyle, it had nothing to do with you. Or me.”

“Are you sure?” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “No one else is sure. They all want to be on your side, but they’re not sure.”

Wolitzer’s surprise that I’d returned. Jim’s retirement offer. They weren’t on my side. They were on the safe side.

“I’m sure,” I said.

“Because if it happened again—”

“I have no more control over that than I did the first time.”

“Control is actually what I’m asking of you,” he said.

We stared at one another. Doyle didn’t even know the half of it: Nath, and all the sad ways I’d leaned on him. “I’ve got control. You’re going to have to trust me.”

“I hope so, Amelia.”

“If you leave now, I’ll change the codes behind you.”

He turned on his heel and stalked to the door. At the last moment, he paused. “You know what I told Nancy tonight? I told her I needed to check on a friend. I think—I think I have to stop thinking of you that way.”

Again: the soft door close. The way men said good-bye.

Stupid.

The door to Dr. Emmet’s building slammed open, then closed with a slow and silent click behind me. It was still light out, hardly evening.

I’d ruined everything. Or maybe she’d—no, I was so stupid.

I shouldn’t have looked when I said I wouldn’t. Had I said that? Wasn’t that what I meant when I said it was OK?

Or did I mean—

My fault. I’d wanted to see the scar. I wanted to touch it. I wanted it to be mine, for her to be—mine.

Not romantically.

Not
necessarily
romantically. But—any way I could.

I wiped my hand across my face, smelling the cleaner I’d used on the carpet. Had that all just happened? I felt as though I’d crossed an invisible border into a different country or across the dateline into another day with no sleep. The rest of Willetson went on working, but I lived somewhere else, somewhere in-between. It was not a real place. I wasn’t real. None of this—

Down the street, I saw a yellow Jeep, parked but with someone inside, watching. That seemed pretty real. I skirted the street and took to the alleys toward home.

A breeze kicked up as I passed campus. By the time I reached my building, the wind cut at me. I could feel the lake in the air; it had something to say.

My room, Kendall-free. I flopped onto my bed, but that sent me back to Dr. Emmet. The way her mouth opened, let me in—

I was charged, a race horse strapped into a carousel.

I shouldn’t have left her.

I couldn’t have stayed.

Ruined. I’d ruined it.

I reached for the phone and dialed. Changed my mind, changed it back.

“Hello?”

“Bryn,” I said. “It’s me. Nath.”

“Nathaniel?”

“Yeah, how are you?”

“I’m—fine. How are you? You sound—uh, how are things going?”

“Great, great.” Did we know each other well enough that she could tell I was lying? We’d known each other, once. I remembered those nights, a woman in my bed. Me, not believing my luck. “I’m good. Getting lots of work done. I got a TA job with the professor I wanted to work with.”

“The one from the newspaper? Nathaniel—”

“I go by Nath now.” I sounded ridiculous, even to myself. “Just a nickname a friend gave me.”

“That’s—that teacher. You’re being careful, right?”

“Are you still with that guy?” I said. “What’s his name?”

“Nathaniel, are you sure you’re OK?”

I wasn’t. I felt feverish and raw. “Yeah, yeah. Just really busy.” Just eviscerated, I wanted to say. And not because of her—strange and wonderful and terrible that after what I’d almost done to myself over Bryn, she wasn’t the best or the worst thing that had ever happened to me. My luck hadn’t been that good.

So then. Nothing much had changed.

“I’ll let you get back,” I said. “To whatever.”

“Nathaniel—”

“Nice talking to you.”

Nothing much had changed. Except everything.

The next day I shuffled between my bed, the kitchen for a microwaved bowl of noodles, and back to my bed. I felt shredded. I hadn’t heard anything from Dr. Emmet, and I waffled between being mad I hadn’t and being mad at myself for expecting to.

“What’s wrong with you?” Kendall said, watching me in the mirror. I sorted my clippings on Dr. Emmet’s shooting. Again and again, her photo: the same hesitant smile, the same tilt to her head. Some of the clippings showed their age and use. I should laminate them, take them to the copy shop and have them preserved. I let the scene play out in my head: The copy shop guys give me the uh-oh look. Someone calls the police.

Bad idea.

“What?” Kendall said.

Had I said something? “Nothing. Never mind.”

Kendall launched himself into his loft and peered at me from above. “Are you OK?” He cleared his throat. “If you ever need to, you know, talk to someone—”

“Got it covered.” This he could take however he wanted. That I was speaking with someone already, that I had plans to, that I didn’t need anyone at all. I had it covered, and he could feel good about asking. “Got it under control,” I said.

The truth was that I’d be seeing the people he meant in only a few hours. I thought back to the night I’d announced plans to kill myself at the bar. I’d seen it so clearly. If I pretended to need help, if I dug deep to resurrect the helplessness I’d already known, I could fool them. I could walk right into the hotline and ask for that hope they promised on the refrigerator magnet. And the pen.

But now. Now I didn’t need a way in. I didn’t need an excuse. I felt bad enough; the only thing I needed to pretend was that I was fine.

I sorted the clippings again. The only thing I needed to pretend was that I was cool.