5
The whole class is like a fever dream.
Wyatt keeps speaking words, probably important ones, but it’s like my brain is made of oatmeal; I don’t process a single thing he says. He doesn’t look at me the whole time. Every time he scans the class, his gaze jumps right over me and onto Michal, as if I occupy a black hole, as if G-d just clipped this random fourth-row seat on the sixth floor of the Parker visual arts building right out of existence.
I kind of wish I actually were invisible. Life in the soul-crushing core of a black hole is probably better than whatever awkward-as-fuck conversation Wyatt and I are gonna have after this class is over.
What is wrong with me? How did I end up in this situation? Normal people don’t. I have never in my life met another human being who accidentally had a one-night stand with their professor. This is not a thing that happens to responsible people. This is a thing that happens in sitcoms.
How am I going to survive an entire summer like this? How are either of us? Is he going to be able to take me seriously now that he’s seen me naked? Am I even going to be able to learn a single word in this class when I’ve seen him naked?
But then I hear Wyatt’s voice say, “Ely,” and I glance up, and he’s finally looking back, his eyes on my eyes, and he says, “Please stay after class for a few minutes.”
Shit.
I haven’t felt guilty in front of a teacher like this since I was a teenager and got caught using an unfiltered phone during Midrash class. At least Wyatt is unlikely to call my mother.
Still, Michal arches her pierced brow at me as we pack up our things. She graciously doesn’t ask me why Wyatt knows my name; it’s not like he took roll or anything. And she doesn’t ask what I did wrong.
I wonder what I’d tell her if she did.
The other students filter out the door, some of them casting curious glances at me over their shoulders as they go. I pack my things away slowly, lingering over the clasp on my bag like delaying this interaction will somehow make it better.
“Ely.”
When Wyatt says my name, all I can hear is the way he said it last night, low and soft, sweet as honey. I close my eyes for a moment, digging my nails into my palms. Then I make myself look.
He stands at the front of the room, one hand braced on the edge of the table and his weight shifted over onto his left foot—uneasy. Or maybe just embarrassed. He looks the way I feel, like I want to break apart into my component atoms and disappear.
I make my way up to the podium. He seems to be having trouble meeting my gaze; his eyes keep flicking down and to the left, as if to stare at me is to stare directly into the sun. So, obviously, I keep my own attention fixed on his face. One of us will refuse to be embarrassed about fucking the other one.
“Hi,” I say. “I feel like I know you from somewhere.”
His cheeks flush a dull red. “Did you realize? Before?”
It takes me a solid fifteen seconds to process what he’s trying to say. And then once I do, I’m embarrassed all over again. It’s not like New York is positively littered with guys named Wyatt, after all.
“I couldn’t hear you in the club,” I admit. “You kept saying your name, but I couldn’t understand it, so I just…went with it. I didn’t know you were—well—you.”
Which is the truth, but once the words are out of my mouth, they don’t sound all that convincing.
“I see,” Wyatt says. “There’s nothing to be done about it now, and obviously neither of us—that is, we didn’t expect— What happened happened, and the important thing is…well. It can’t happen again, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echo.
He must have taken that as agreement because he clears his throat and nods, even if he still can’t quite look me in the eye. “The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable, so…”
“Do I look uncomfortable?” I ask, and so what if it comes out flirtatious? I do want to fuck him again. Gladly.
Wyatt sighs and—finally—meets my gaze. I can practically see him piecing together what he wants to say to me, pulling the guise of responsible, grown-up, sober professor over himself like a cheap Halloween costume.
“I can’t have power over you after what happened,” he says. “It’s not right.”
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
He shakes his head, lips pressing into a grim line. “That’s not good enough. I’m sure you’re a wonderful person—but my career and my reputation mean everything to me.”
What a slap in the face. He says it as if he just assumes I’d want to continue the relationship. As if I’m some silly girl with notions of forbidden love floating in her head.
“My reputation matters to me too” is the only thing I manage to get out. “This could hurt my career, and I haven’t even really started it yet.”
At least I get some kind of reaction: It’s his turn to flinch, something complicated passing through his expression before he schools it back into professionalism.
“I know. I—I don’t know what to do here. I don’t want to be in a position where I have to decide your grades with last night living in the back of my mind. If anyone ever found out…”
He pauses for a second, like he’s waiting for me to reply and say I totally understand where he’s coming from. Like he’s waiting for me to relent.
“It wouldn’t be fair. To you or the other students,” he adds eventually.
“Fair,” I echo. A bitter laugh boils up from my chest. “Nothing about this is fair to me.”
I learned a long time ago that there is nothing I hate more than people who are obsessed with their own moral virtue. Particularly when it comes at the expense of, you know, having a fucking life.
“So what are you trying to say?” I press on.
He looks distressed, which is fucking rich because I’m the one who ought to be distressed in this situation. He realized he slept with a student—so what? He’s the one in power here. He gets to decide what happens moving forward.
“Are you telling me I need to drop out?” I ask.
Years. Years of my life, dedicated to rebuilding a sense of myself as an actual person and not just a collection of impulses and fraying nerves—years learning how to exist outside the scaffolding of the world I was raised in and then relearning that world without drugs. Years, all of them leading here, to this, to my first shot at making it outside LA, and now Wyatt is going to yank it out from under me over a stupid fucking one-night stand?
Wyatt sighs, pressing the heels of both palms to his eyes for a moment. “No. No, of course not. I wouldn’t do that to you. But you’ll need to drop my class.”
Somehow, that’s even worse. I only cry when I’m angry, which is embarrassing and probably comes across as manipulative, but unfortunately my tear ducts are not responsive to the threat of social humiliation. I scrub a hand quickly across my cheek and hope the gesture looks brusque, efficient—that Wyatt doesn’t think I’m trying to get away with anything by having a breakdown in front of him.
“You’re the reason I came here, Wyatt. You’re—literally, you are literally Wyatt fucking Cole. This was my chance to actually— I need this. I can’t just…”
Although if he does change his mind because I cried, that’d be okay too.
“You know, I didn’t go out and sleep with Wyatt Cole specifically, on purpose. I don’t think I deserve to get punished for the universe’s idea of a dumb joke.”
This is literally TV-drama behavior, without the benefits. I’m pretty sure this is the plot of the first episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Only McDreamy didn’t kick Meredith Grey out of her surgical internship afterward—we got multiple seasons of yearning stares and steamy scenes in surgical supply closets.
“I could make sure you get into Ava Zhu’s class instead,” he says. “She has a waiting list a mile long, but I can pull some strings. That’s trading up, really.”
Ava Zhu is a legend. A titan of digital photography. One of my friends from back in LA has a coffee-table book of her work. Working with her would be a dream come true, obviously. But that’s not the point.
“She isn’t mixed media. I came here to study with you.”
Wyatt is gazing at me with these big brown cow eyes like he’s begging me to give him a break and take the damn bone. That look probably works for him most of the time. But I’ve seen that same look from plenty of addicts desperate for a loan, and it doesn’t do a goddamn thing to me.
“Don’t you get it?” I say. “No matter what happens in this situation, you’re still the one with power. You can keep me in your class, and like you said, maybe one day someone finds out and it ruins my career. Not yours, not really. You’d be embarrassed for a few months, maybe. But you’re still Wyatt Cole. You still keep getting the good shows, get good reviews, and get covered in Vanity Fair or whatever. But what happens to me?”
I can tell I’m affecting him. He looks like I just punched him in the chest. The part of me that hates confrontation swells up, and I have to swallow the urge to immediately apologize. I swipe a fresh wave of tears with the heel of my hand. Fuck him for looking so torn up over this. Fuck him for having the luxury of wallowing in his own conscience.
“I only ever thought of you as a one-night stand anyway,” I make myself say, even though I’m already shaky, with that drowned-fish feeling of my throat closing up. “You’re a professional. So you ought to be able to be a professional and let this whole thing go. It’s not like we’re exes who had a bad breakup. I don’t know why we can’t behave as colleagues.”
He swallows, throat bobbing visibly. For a second I almost think I’ve got him. That he’ll relent, acknowledge he’s being stupid and arbitrary, and take me back into his class. But then:
“I can’t grade you,” he says.
“Wyatt—”
“I can’t,” he goes on doggedly, “but I can still teach you. Just not in the regular class. All right? I’ll help you with your portfolio, one-on-one. Informally.” He makes a face, like he isn’t 100 percent certain on whether that is morally acceptable. “And you can do your capstone project with me, if…if you’re still interested in working with me, that is.”
I hate how pitiful he looks right now. How yearning. Like he’s the one afraid of me saying no.
This entire situation makes me want to tear my (and his) face off.
“All right,” I say at last. My throat feels swollen, like I’ve swallowed something that scraped the inside raw. “Okay. Fine. Sure. I guess I don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”
Which only makes the kicked-dog expression on his face worse. “Thanks…. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what you’re apologizing for.” My hands are sweaty as I clench them into fists at my sides, then flex my fingers again. This whole conversation just got way more awkward than I bargained for. “I’m gonna go, then.”
He clears his throat and nods. “I’ll take care of it with the registrar. And with Ava.”
He’s still standing so close, as near as he did at the club last night when I could smell the heady mix of sweat and deodorant on his skin. Today he’s more pulled together, professional. He’s even got a collared shirt on.
Not that I can’t very easily imagine him with the shirt off.
“And you’ll email me about setting a time to look at my portfolio and discuss my capstone,” I remind him. If I’m not mistaken, that color is back in his cheeks.
“Right.”
“Great. I’ll see you, then.” I’m halfway to the door, portfolio tucked under my arm, when I pause and look back. He’s watching me, still blushing like a teenage boy, as I throw out one last barb: “Last night was amazing, by the way.”
The choked sound he makes in response to that is worth all the drama. I leave before he can say anything that would ruin my tiny victory.
■
The rest of my classes feel like they speed by in a haze. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation; maybe it’s just Wyatt fucking Cole. Either way, my brain isn’t exactly present for Brianna Earnshaw’s Art Criticism syllabus review or even Héctor Pérez-Wahid’s demonstration of platinum printing. Michal is a familiar face in a few of my courses, although I don’t see her at lunch—which maybe makes sense if she has to go off campus to find something kosher to eat.
It’s still blazing hot out by the time classes are over, right in time for the rush-hour commute. I find myself crammed into a hot box on the N train, some man’s elbow in my stomach and my face shoved against a girl’s fuzzy pink backpack. Half the people empty out at Queensboro Plaza, but at that point there aren’t that many stops left before mine, so it’s small consolation.
Ophelia and Diego are both home already when I get there. Diego’s fussing around in the kitchen with something that smells like onions, and he catches me before I can even sit down—one arm flung out, finger pointing, declaring, “Ely Cohen, you didn’t come home last night!”
“Hi yourself,” I tell him.
Ophelia is on the sofa drinking out of the most ornate teacup I’ve ever seen. “The prodigal daughter returns,” she says. “So I’m guessing you had a good time.”
I kind of love that this is the way the two of them are. We’ve only known each other for, like, twenty-four hours, but already it feels like we’ve been best friends for ages. Not that I’d know much about best friends: Ever since Chaya, I’ve erased all my friendships the second they start to get too close.
But Ophelia and Diego aren’t afraid of things like that. They’re brash and open and wear their hearts slathered across their sleeves.
I wish I were a little more like that.
Right now, if I can judge from how hot my face feels, my cheeks have gotta be bright red. “Sorry. Maybe I should have waited for you guys…?”
“We’re your roommates, not your prison wardens,” Diego says, punctuating his words with a rap of his wooden spoon against his skillet. “Hell no. Tell me who it was, you saucy minx.”
Is it too late to pretend I forgot something on campus and leave? Ophelia’s watching me over the rim of her teacup with a devious grin curling around her lips as if she already knows what I’m going to say, which of course she can’t possibly. Hardly anyone knows what Wyatt Cole looks like and certainly not outside photography circles. Which is precisely how I ended up in his bed last night.
I could always lie, of course. But lying reminds me of addiction, and I won’t do that. Not ever again.
“Was it that hot guy I saw you dancing with?” Ophelia asks. “The one who looked like he’d play the rugged but charming Scottish laird in a historical romance?”
“Probably,” I say. “Yes. I mean…yes. Which was fine. But.”
“But?” Diego prods, and he’s even tilting forward slightly, spoon in hand, like I’ve left him on tenterhooks.
Please kill me. “But today I went to class, and it turns out the rugged Scottish laird is my professor.”
I swear it’s like I just told them I found a million dollars lying on the street. Diego crows out loud, and Ophelia puts down the teacup a little too hard before clapping her hands together. I don’t know how they can be so delighted about me ruining my life, but they really, definitely are.
“You absolute fuckup!” Diego cries, and I collapse onto the sofa facedown—which is what I should have done as soon as I walked in the door.
“Please stop talking and let me die,” I mumble against the cushions.
“Wait, like your actual professor?” Ophelia says. “Not just a professor in your program but, like, the one that is teaching your course?”
“Yep. Well. Sort of.” I lift my head and blow a wad of hair away from my mouth, where it had gotten stuck to my lipstick. “He kicked me out of his class.”
“He what?” Diego sounds scandalized but the kind of scandalized you get while watching Love Is Blind. He’s enjoying this.
But it’s still validating to see someone else as pissed off about Wyatt as I am. “I know. It’s bullshit. He says he doesn’t want to be in charge of grading me or whatever. Which I guess is fine; that’s his decision. It’s just that he’s the whole reason I came here, so…”
Ophelia leans forward, offering me her teacup—which makes sense until I realize it’s full not of tea but red wine. I shake my head and offer her a thin, grateful smile so I don’t seem too weird.
“That really sucks,” she says. “I mean, he’s right that he probably shouldn’t be in that position. But it’s not like you slept with him on purpose.”
“Exactly.” I exhale heavy. It’s the kind of exhale that feels like collapsing into a pile on the floor. “At least he said he would help me with my portfolio separately. So I still get to, like, benefit from his genius. Just not as his actual student.”
And now that I’m explaining it to the two of them, I wonder how serious Wyatt is about the offer. It’s easy to say he’ll help me with my capstone, but I want more than that. I came here for a whole summer of learning from him and hearing his feedback on my work. What’s he gonna give me instead—a quick glance through some of my photos and a hearty clap on the back?
“That’s still shitty,” says Ophelia, and I could hug her; I really could. But I’m pretty sure we aren’t there yet friendship-wise.
“Agreed. Like, is this dude that certain he can’t keep it in his pants? We’re all grown here,” Diego says.
I finally push myself up to sit properly, toeing off my shoes so I can cross my legs on the couch. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. I have to take what he’s willing to give me.”
Even if I hate it.
Even if it feels a little bit like he’s punishing me.
I don’t get a choice in any of this, after all.