Mr. Knight/A Jordan Knight Fanfic ✔️

17

17. denouement

I stare at the stained glass windows high above the altar in Stanford Memorial Church. The pews behind us are packed with students, faculty, and staff of the university. At the lectern, the dean speaks of my father's time at Stanford. I hear words like honor and kindness and loved and my fingernails dig half-moons in my palms.

"Darcy, baby, are you sure you want to be here?"

I don't reply to the worried whisper, because the only answer I can give would require me running down the central aisle screaming at the top of my lungs.

My poor mom probably thinks I'm overcome by grief. Either that or seconds from the psychiatric ward. I've barely spoken to her since flying down Monday after hastily informing my professors that I would, in fact, be taking a week's bereavement. Phillip and my sister Victoria have likewise welcomed me with open arms. Like Allison, they insist on worming their way into my heart through unfailing acceptance and sympathy.

It's not their fault I can't muster the decency to return their affection. The problem is my brokenness, which no amount of kindness can fix.

Since Saturday, I haven't felt... right. Like everything decent, hopeful, and good in me switched off when I read that first post-it note. This is the first time I've left the family's palatial Palo Alto home since arriving; I've spent most of the week holed up in a guest bedroom. When I'm not sleeping, I'm writing, and when I can't sleep or write, I numb my brain with television.

Not until this morning, when I saw the brochure for the public memorial at Stanford, had I considered accompanying my mom. The actual funeral isn't until tomorrow, and truly, I'd rather be swimming with sharks at the moment, but there'd been a name listed under the contributors to the service.

Jordan Knight.

The knowledge that he changed his plane ticket, arriving a day early in order to speak on my father's behalf, had so incensed me that I'd told my mother to wait for me as I dressed.

At the lectern, the dean wraps up his speech with, "Please welcome internationally acclaimed author, Stanford alum, and a close friend of Dr. Davis', Mr. Jordan Knight."

As Jordan takes the dean's place at the lectern, there's a wave of murmuring from the back of the church where the bulk of the students sit. Like my father, Jordan is a legend here.

In a tailored black suit and crimson university tie, his dark hair only marginally tamed, he looks exactly like the forbidden fantasy of coeds. Alluring and a little wild. Deviant and brilliant.

I fucking hate him.

And I still want him. So badly that even now, arousal stirs low in my belly.

Damnit.

"I first met Dr. Davis as a freshman..."

My mom leans close to whisper, "Isn't he—"

"Yes," I hiss. "My professor."

She sits back, a thoughtful look on her face as Jordan tells the congregation several anecdotes that trigger laughter. His answering wry smiles twist the knife in my heart to unbearable levels; I stare down at my clenched hands.

"...many of you know, Richard was a complex man." More knowing laughter. "When he was working on a poem, he was temperamental, contentious, and often unreasonable. Especially when a student asked for an extension." More laughter.

His voice softens, becoming solemn. "And yet, there was little in the world he loved more than teaching. Poetry itself, perhaps. But his greatest love of all was his family, who we're honored to have with us today."