“I bet I’m going to love this,” she replies with heavy sarcasm.

“Read the proposal. Consider taking on the student.”

Fletcher gives a dark laugh that has a bitter edge before taking a sip of her beer. “You think you’re going to feel like any less of a shitbag by getting me to take her on?”

“No. This is purely from an academic standpoint. I know it wasn’t professional of me to not look at her work thoroughly when I should have. But when I did… I’m not kidding when I said it’s good. It’s exceptional. And I hate the thought of her turning to someone like Dr. Wells instead. If she’s with you, she’ll get the support she needs.”

Fletch gives me a long, flat stare, her nails tapping metronomically against the glass. She huffs an irritated sigh. “Fine. Send it to me. If I like what I see, I’ll take her. But you’ll owe me. Like, for real. A tangible owing, not a fake, meaningless owing.”

My eyes narrow as hers seem to sparkle with devious plans. The server drops off our mains and still we regard one another with suspicion and evil intent. “Owe you what, exactly? An organ?”

“Pfft no. Yours are too steeped in alcohol. Something reasonable of my choosing.”

I snort a laugh, waving my fork in Fletcher’s direction before cutting into my steak. “You? Reasonable?”

“That’s right, my friend. And when I come collecting, you shall pay. As long as her work is as good as you say it is.”

“It is,” I say with a tinge of resignation coloring the flavor of meat on my tongue. “It’s better.”

Fletcher and I move to other topics, but I still feel the hooks of this day embedded beneath my skin. I didn’t just let my eagerness for a break from academia get the better of me. I wasn’t just unprofessional, leaving an eager and capable student without the time, focus, and attention they deserved. Fletch is right. I self-sabotaged, and I can’t help feeling like I’ve hurt someone deeply in the process. And that person isn’t me.

When the meal is done and we’re both sufficiently buzzed, we Uber to our respective homes, Fletch to a wife who’s as brilliant and forthright as she is, and me to a dog and a dark house. That’s never bothered me before. Duke is great company, and when I need more, I find it. Preferably from far away. Definitely not on the campus. Even if it feels like I’m closing my eyes to the aurora borealis, or burying gems beneath the sand. I’ve never felt like this before, particularly not from a brief encounter in a coffee shop or an abysmal meeting that I totally fucked up.

I pour myself a glass of bourbon and sit in my office, starting up my laptop. I send Bria Brooks’ proposal to Fletcher and then spend some time hunting Ms. Brooks on the internet. Dean’s list student here at Berkshire for her bachelor’s degree. Contributions to several papers while completing her masters degree in New York. No social media accounts. Only a grainy photo from a conference where she presented a poster, her eyes locked to something to her left, her expression stoic. There’s nothing that tells me about who Bria Brooks really is aside from being a dedicated student.

I’m about to shut my computer down about an hour and two drinks later when an email comes through from Fletcher.

Kap:

Holy shit. This is promising. Set it up ASAP before Wells gets hold of it. I want to talk to her.

-Fletch

PS You’re an idiot, but I still love you anyway.

PPS Pull your head out of your ass and ask her on a date.

PPPS YOU OWE ME.

I respond and file the email, and then I shut the laptop down, finishing the dregs of my drink. When I finally make it into bed, I stare at the ceiling for what seems like hours, rolling those final moments with Bria through my mind like driftwood caught in a relentless tide.

The next day passes in a bit of a blur. I head to Deja Brew, trying to convince myself I’m not hoping to see Bria there again. That would be a lie, of course. I wonder more than once if I should have gone to Uncommon Grounds or Grindstone, but I push those thoughts down as fast as they bubble up. While in the coffee shop, I send Bria an email, apologizing for my lack of professionalism during our meeting and noting that Fletch would like to meet her. By the end of an agonizingly long day, there is still no response.

The following day, I wake with a feeling akin to dread infusing my veins. Dread that Bria will turn to Dr. Wells, or even that she’ll find a way to transfer universities, somehow vanishing as quickly as she did two days ago. That thought lodges a block of ice in my guts, and when there’s still no reply from Bria in my inbox, I decide to hunt her down and do what I should have done yesterday. Speak to her in person.

I find her in her office, a space on the fourth floor that she shares with two other new students, their names listed on sliding placards next to the door.

Tida Ng.

David Campbell. 

Sombria Brooks. 

The door is ajar. Bria is facing away from me, writing on a notepad. Her attention flits between her screen and her pen. Further in the room is another student, her back also to me, her dark hair piled high on her head and the ball of curls stuffed beneath the band of her headphones. Her head nods to a beat I can’t hear.

I knock on the door. Neither woman moves.

I step into the room and say Bria’s name. She still doesn’t respond.

“Ms. Brooks,” I repeat, and my fingertips graze her shoulder blade.

Bria erupts from the chair as though electrocuted.

I take a long step back as Bria spins, knocking over the chair with a shocking crash of sound. Her arm follows her motion, her palm flat, her finger pressed tight together like she’s about to drive the heel of her hand into my nose. She seems to register it’s me and her hand relaxes just a little, the other coming up to join it as though imploring me to stay back. Her expression is blank except for her eyes. The look she gives me is nothing short of lethal.

“What the hell,” the other woman, presumably Tida, hisses from across the room as she wrenches her headphones down. Her gaze bounces between Bria and me and she stands, walking over to join Bria’s side. She’s a full foot shorter than Bria but pins me with a fierce, combative glare.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say, holding my palms open toward them both, my gesture mirroring Bria’s. I lower my hands and Bria pulls out her AirPods, her brows drawing together as she assesses me with a scrutinous sweep of her eyes.

My chest constricts when I really take her in.

Bria is still stunning, with her faint freckles dusting her nose. Those dark eyes are still sharp, her plump lips still beckoning me for a taste. But she looks exhausted. Her sun-kissed skin has lost its radiance and the dark circles inhabit the flesh beneath her thick lashes.

This is your fault, you dickhead.

Judging by the murderous gleam in her eyes, I’m willing to guess that thought doesn’t just rattle in my head, but Bria’s as well.

I bend to pick up the wayward chair before extending a hand to Tida. “I’m Dr. Kaplan.”

The small woman’s glare softens but doesn’t dissolve. “Tida Ng.”

“Pleased to meet you, Tida.” I offer a weak smile and then turn the full force of my attention to Bria. “Do you have a moment?”

It looks as though the word “no” climbs up her throat, but she swallows and it comes out as “yes.”

The two women glance at one another, Tida looking at Bria in a silent question. Bria smiles and that seems to be enough to satisfy Tida, though she still squeezes Bria’s arm and shoots me a final, wary look before returning to her desk and settling her headphones over her ears. When I turn my attention back to Ms. Brooks, she darts her eyes toward a free chair and I pull it closer to her desk.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”