Enemies with Benefits

Chapter Thirty-One

"There will be a test next class, guys! Make sure you do the homework, please!"

A wave of groans and grunts sounded from the seats before me.

"Or," I started, "I can always omit the test next class and just surprise you all with it whenever the hell I want to and make it twice as hard?"

"No!" a few students shouted, the rest shaking their heads with deer-in-headlight looks.

"That's what I thought. Check your emails tonight! I may or may not send out a very specific study guide on what could possibly be on the test next class. Cool?"

Almost in unison, heads began bobbing with heightened enthusiasm. I laughed. "Good. Now get out of here. I need lunch before I go on a rampage."

To be fair, I was hungry. But it was more anxious eating than anything. It was all I'd done the last day and a half. I hadn't heard from Caleb, and my mind began to wander around and harp on the fear that maybe I wouldn't again.

He'd opened up. He'd told me everything. And while I knew reliving it for the first time in nine years had crushed him like that night all over again, I hadn't realized how much of a toll it would take until I watched him fight to stay together until he just couldn't anymore.

I'd kept busy—or as busy as I could. But every vibration of my phone, every time Hailey called and texted, I'd drop the rag I'd anxiously scrubbed the walls with or the dish I'd just dried off and bolt for the device. I'd shattered two plates yesterday in the fury and panic to find the damned thing and see if it had been a notification from him.

None of them were.

I lost focus in my vision, the papers scattered over my desk and textbook that Caleb had given me years ago becoming a blurred mess in my eyes.

"Professor Hall?" A student's voice pulled me from my overwhelming thoughts, and I shrieked.

My hand flew to my chest. "Jesus fu—Connor!" I cleared my throat. "What's up?"

He blinked back at me like I was a lunatic. I frowned, having a feeling he was right.

"I was just wondering if there were any assignments I could do for some extra credit?"

The remaining shock fell from my face. In fact, all of my features fell entirely into a fit of confusion.

"You already have over one hundred percent in the class."

He shrugged, lifting a hand to pick at the hairs of his near-depleted eyebrow. "My dad wants me to do more, so I—"

His mouth began to twitch and his face creased in what looked like rage, though I had a feeling it had been a trait memorized from others and not one he had learned himself.

He blinked himself back to the moment. "I need to do more. I have to do better."

I almost shivered at his tone of voice. It didn't even sound like his, and I realized I was right. The words, the expression—they weren't his. They were someone else's, and I had an uneasy feeling that they were also the reason the poor kid's anxiety was tugging him in all directions. Including the hair from his face.

I sighed, turning my body towards him and propping a hip against my desk. Crossing one foot over the other and my arms across my chest, I cocked my chin.

"How do you feel about statistics?" He shrugged, looking a little confused but hopeful, nonetheless. "Alright, get a pen and paper."

He did so with frantic fervor.

"Take the population of the world. Seven point eight? Seven point nine billion?" He nodded, scribbling it down.

"A little over fifty percent—you can look up the exact number—are male. From there, I want you to look up the percentage of men with depression or traumatic experiences, and then I want you to find out how many go to therapy from there. What percentage am I looking at for that? Can you do that for me?"