My Professor's Secret

30|

thirty

When morning arrives the next day, after a quick stop at the lounge in pursuit of breakfast, I trudge through the cold toward Christian's dorm.

After what Taylor told me about Trevor and Meghan, there's no way I can sit on it. Not with Chris already spiraling. Whether he knows or not, he deserves to hear it from me—not from whispers in a hallway.

Chris answers the door wrapped in his robe, which earns him a look he tries to shrug off. According to his schedule, his first lecture starts in twenty minutes. The only reason I came now was that it lined up with my walk to Hinkhouse.

"Why aren't you dressed?" I ask, lifting the bag in my hand. "I picked up breakfast burritos so we could walk together."

His eyes light up at that—only to dull again when I pull the bag back before he can grab it.

"Not until you're ready," I add. "It's a fifteen-minute walk. Let's go."

He doesn't respond. Instead, he turns and walks back to his bed, dropping onto it face-first. I stand there for a second, watching him, trying to reconcile this version of him with the one I know.

Chris doesn't do this.

He doesn't wallow or let things eat at him. If something's wrong, he works it out—literally. He takes it to the gym, burns through it, then makes a decision. Stay or leave. Fix it or end it. He doesn't avoid. He doesn't shut down. And he definitely doesn't skip class to lie around like this. Something about this is different.

"I'm not going," he says finally, voice muffled against the mattress. Then he rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "I'll be damned if I sit in another class where everyone's whispering about whether a teacher is fucking my girlfriend."

The words hit harder out loud than they did in my head. There's a lot I could say—a lot I almost do. But none of it feels right because, for as much as I don't like Meghan—for as much as I never thought she was right for him—this isn't just about that. She matters to him. That part is obvious.

Whatever's going on between them... It's already gotten to him in a way I haven't seen since we were kids. Back when we didn't know how to deal with Mom getting worse, so we just... didn't.

We used to shut down. Stayed quiet. Let it sit until it turns into something heavier than it should've been. It took us both too long to get somewhat past that. I'm not letting that happen again.

"Maybe this is a sign," I say carefully, stepping further into the room. "That you two should go your separate ways."

He doesn't react.

"All she brings is drama," I continue. "It's not like we haven't seen that firsthand."

It's not an attack. Not really. Just something to make him think about it without pushing him too far.

"Did her sister tell you anything?" he asks suddenly, sitting up.

There it is. I shift the bag in my hand.

"I'll tell you," I say. "If you're ready and outside in five minutes."

I don't wait for an answer. I turn and head back out into the cold, hoping he follows. He's outside in two.

Eager, like the promise of food outweighs everything else for a second. He yanks the bag from my hand and tears into it before we've even made it past the building. I watch him for a moment, waiting for something—anything—to break through. It doesn't.

He finishes half the burrito before finally glancing over.

"Well?"

This was why I came here, but suddenly, I don't want to answer it because of what it means. Saying it out loud makes it real, and I'm not ready for that, not for Chris or for me. I focus on the ground as we walk, careful with my footing more than I need to be after breaking a few fingers.