Wicked Love | √

Three

"READ chapters fifteen through twenty tonight," Professor Hilbert instructs as she finishes her lecture for the day. She steps back to her desk as she dismisses us from her class.

I fall back in my chair with a small defeated thud and look at the mess of notes in front of me with a touch of unwelcome uncertainty. I understand what my professor is speaking about. I can state the facts and definitions and the cases by heart. But applying them to the real-world discussions is where my brain begins to short-circuit.

The last couple quizzes we've taken I've ended up doing decent on considering how I started out, but what I truly struggle with is real world application. My mind is having trouble meshing together the two sides of the written law and an actual case. Because while the law is stone cold facts, it also changes and morphs every single day as new cases get tried and new defenses are put into use.

I gather my notes and organize them before I place them in a folder and put them in my backpack. I linger back behind the rest of the class until it's mostly emptied out. I don't want them to know I'm asking for help. I don't want them to think I'm weak and not cut out for this class or career.

"Professor Hilbert?" I question as I step forward towards her mahogany desk. Her wildly curly red hair sticks up in different directions and she has on a pink tinted lipstick today. She looks eccentric, but she's tough as nails and knows more about the law than most average undergrad professors. She was the New York assistant district attorney for a few years, and she worked in corporate law as well as defense. She's seen every side of the law in use and this class doesn't exist at most schools for a reason, and she's that reason. Binsfeld University is the best, which means we have the best.

Her eyes remain focused on her desk as she gathers her materials for the day and places them in her expensive leather messenger bag. "Yes, Jameson?" she questions casually.

I shift on my feet trying to work up the courage to ask her for help. To let my guard down and expose the small piece of myself I've trained to keep up for so many years. It's not something I ever do even if it means bettering myself. But I can't let my inner demons hold myself back from succeeding so I rip the Band-Aid and step up. "I was wondering if you had any studying tips or knew of a good tutor?" I ask though my words come out a bit hurried and awkward.

She lifts her gaze so her hazel eyes are locked on me. "You aren't doing bad in my class Ms. Davenport," she tells me with a touch of confusion clouding her expression.

I tongue the inside of my cheek to hold back the discomfort that flows through my veins. I'm not good at asking for help. "I'm not doing great either," I counter.

Her mouth purses as she ponders over her my words. "Okay," she sighs shocking me at how quickly she agreed. "I may know of a student who took this class last year, she is also currently enrolled, and has excelled in this course. I can reach out to her," she proposes with a tilt of her head.

Surprise floods my chest at how willing she is to help and I bite back the bright smile that wants to take over my face. "Thank you so much," I gush appreciatively.

My professor points a finger at me. "But no promises. She's a senior and very busy," she tells me.

I nod rapidly. "Of course," I agree. "Thank you," I repeat once again beyond grateful.

A touch of a smile grazes her lips. "Don't go telling students I do this all the time now," she says with a raised brow as she slings the leather bag over her shoulder.

"I won't," I agree with a faint chuckle.

She pauses and leans a hip against the side of her dark wooden desk. "I won't lie Jameson I see a lot of myself in you," she comments openly.