Can't Have Him: A Student Teacher Romance Page 2

  “Fuck,” I grumble, and dig a hand down under the sheets. I grip my cock and start moving my hand, making quick, unrelenting strokes to get the job done. As I get close to finishing, I let out a low grunt, and then the feeling of sweet relief washes over me.

  Afterward, I stare up at the ceiling, feeling simultaneously amazing and awful. And I keep lying there like that, motionless, until the alarm on my phone goes off. I turn off the alarm and then hop into the shower, turning the water as hot as I can stand it.

  At least I won’t have to face Olivia in class anymore.

  Chapter Three

  Olivia

  “How can I help you today?” my adviser asks.

  “I need to drop one of my classes,” I say.

  The adviser nods and pulls up my file on her computer. “Which class are we looking at?”

  “Ancient Egyptian Art and Archaeology.” I drum my fingers on my thigh. It’s the second day of the school year—I wasn’t able to make it in to see my adviser yesterday. “I want to replace it with a different Art History class.”

  She nods but doesn’t take her eyes away from the screen. “Did you have another specific class in mind?”

  “There’s a Greek Art and Archaeology class offered this semester, right?”

  “There is,” she says. “But it wouldn’t work with the rest of your schedule.”

  “Oh. Well…what classes would?”

  “Unfortunately,” she says, frowning, “it doesn’t look like any other 300-level Art History courses would work.”

  My lungs suddenly feel constricted. “Really? There’s nothing?”

  “I’m sorry. No.”

  “But there has to be something.”

  My adviser shoots me a strange look. “There’s not. And while I’m sure we’d be able to find a course outside of Art History that works with your schedule, I’m sure you’re aware that you need to fulfill the credit requirements of your major.”

  I nod, saying nothing.

  My adviser sits back in her chair and offers a gentle smile. “Can I ask why you were looking to drop the class that you’re enrolled in?”

  For a split second, I wonder how she’ll react if I tell her it’s because the professor and I are lusting after each other.

  “I’m just not interested in it,” I say. Which, of course, is a lie. But it’s the only reason I can come up with in that moment.

  “I see,” says the adviser. “Well, considering the lack of other options, how do you feel about sticking it out for a while longer? You may find that you’re more interested in the subject matter than you realize.”

  I open my mouth to protest. But there’s nothing else I can say. It’s over. The professor and I are stuck together.

  “I guess I don’t have any other choice,” I say.

  “I have high hopes that you’ll come around,” my adviser says cheerfully.

  The next day, I get up earlier than usual and show up to class before anyone else arrives. James is surprised to see me—surprised in a bad way.

  “Olivia?” he says as I walk into the otherwise empty classroom. “What are you doing here?”

  “I can’t drop the class,” I say, trying to ignore how handsome he looks today. I mean, every time I’ve seen him so far, he’s handsome, but today…oh God.

  He squints his eyes at me. Shit. That makes him even hotter. “What do you mean, you can’t drop the class?”

  “There aren’t any other classes that will work. Not any other Art History classes, I mean. I have to take this one. If I don’t, I won’t graduate in the spring.”

  “Oh.” James rubs his temple, and I can’t help myself—I admire how strong his hands are. And then I wonder how good he is with those strong hands.

  “Well,” he says, sighing and dropping his hand to his side. “I guess we’ll just have to deal with it.”

  I swallow. “I guess so.”

  He studies me for a second, and heat ripples up my spine. Then his eyes shift toward the doorway and he clears his throat. Without even having to look, I know that my classmates are starting to show up, and that this conversation with James is over.

  “Thanks, Professor,” I say, realizing as soon as I say it that it’s probably more suspicious to say anything rather than nothing. Well, whatever. I quickly turn away and head up to the same spot I sat in on the first day of class—as far away from James as possible.

  I don’t have any direct interactions with James in the few weeks that follow. Actually, I go out of my way to avoid him as much as it’s humanely possible to avoid your own professor. I make a point of showing up to class at the same time as the bulk of my classmates show up so that I can blend into the crowd. I always sit in the back row. And when class is over, I slip out the back exit so that I don’t have to walk by James on my way out.

  During lectures, I train myself to focus only on the artwork that’s up on the projection screen. I try to think of his voice as just a voice. I can tell that he’s given these lectures many times over, and his tone of recitation helps me think of his voice as a detached thing.

  Sometimes, though…when he’s answering a question that someone has, and his talking becomes more animated, I have a really hard time not focusing on him. He’s so knowledgable about all of this stuff—from the Old Kingdom to the New Kingdom and seemingly every little detail about those times—and, well, it’s a turn-on. I know he doesn’t know everything about everything, but in those moments, I feel like I could raise my hand and ask him any question in the world and he would be able to dazzle me with his knowledge.

  Another few weeks pass, and we continue to make it through class without incident. The tension is still there, though. Every time I walk into his classroom, I get that butterfly feeling in my stomach.

  And I can sense that he’s struggling with this just as much as I am.

  Midterms approach, and I spend three days with my head buried in my textbooks, studying until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. In the days that follow, I rock the midterms in all my other classes.

  Then Friday comes, and it’s time for my last test—in James’s class. I’m ready, though. I’ve done all the reading. I’ve studied hard. Nothing’s going to trip me up.

  When I walk into his classroom that morning, though, I’m faced with the one thing that could actually trip me up. My usual seat up in the back row is occupied by someone else. In fact, there’s nowhere to sit anywhere in the back of the room.

  The only empty seat I see is front and center in the first row.

  With dread creeping up into my chest, I slowly walk over to the empty seat. Before I sit down, I take one more glance around, hoping that I missed an open seat—but of course I didn’t. Of course this is my only option.

  Shit. I sink down into my seat, the dread growing more intense. Why didn’t I show up earlier? Why didn’t I—

  “Good morning, class,” says James, bursting into the room. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here until now. There was a problem with the—”

  His words catch when he sees me sitting in the front row. He blinks, then sets his jaw.

  “—copier,” he finishes, sliding his eyes away from me. “I’m going to pass out the exams now.”

  James walks up the steps on the side of the classroom, handing stacks of tests to the people sitting on the end of the rows. As soon as my neighbor hands me the thinning stack, I grab one, pass on the stack, and lower my eyes to the test.

  All the words swim together on the page.

  I close my eyes. I take a slow, deep breath in, then let it out. I can do this. All I need to do is focus on the test. And not look up. I just need to pretend that James isn’t there.

  Opening my eyes, I look at the front page of the exam again and sigh with relief. The words aren’t swimming any longer. I read the first essay question, and immediately, I know what points I need to cover.

  I press my pen to the page and start to write.

  On Monday, though, when we get our graded exams back, I’
m shocked at the number scrawled at the top of the page. Furiously, I flip through the exam pages, adding up the red numbers by each essay answer. To my dismay, they add up correctly.

  I can’t believe I got a fucking C+ on the exam.

  As everyone looks over their exam results, James reminds everyone about his office hours, requesting that if any of us want to discuss our grade, to please show up then instead of approaching him after class. His words barely register in my ears, though. I’m so irritated right now. I shove my exam into my backpack and rush out of there. And I spend the rest of the day still pissed off about it. I’ve never gotten a grade like that on an exam.

  Later that afternoon, when I walk into my apartment, I’m greeted with Emma’s cheerful hello. I grumble a hello back and throw my backpack on our couch.

  “What’s up, missy?” Emma says, poking her head out of her bedroom.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Come on. Tell me what happened.”

  I dig my exam out of my bag and shove it at her. She looks at the grade, then frowns at me. “That sucks. Sorry. You studied so much, too.”

  “I know,” I say. I shake my head. “It’s fucking ridiculous.”

  “Do you think he graded you harder because…you know…he didn’t want you, or anyone else, to think that he’s favoring you?”

  I snort. But when I think about it more, maybe Emma’s onto something.

  “Huh,” I say. “You could be right.”

  “You should confront him about it.”

  “No. I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “You have to, Olivia. It’s really unfair for him to do that.” She smiles. “I’ll go with you if you want. For moral support, of course.”

  I roll my eyes. “You just want to see how hot he is.”

  “So what if I do?”

  “Okay. Fine. We’ll go to his office hours. But you’re not coming in with me.”

  “As long as I get a peek,” says Emma, grinning, “I’ll be satisfied.”

  Chapter Four

  James

  “Thanks for coming in, Sarah,” I say, standing up to open my office door. The student smiles and thanks me for my time and walks out of my office. I glance at the clock and see that there’s only five minutes left of my office hours. The last few hours have gone by in a flash.

  I step out into the hallway to see if anyone else is waiting. And I’m greeted by two faces. One I don’t recognize—but when she sees me, a smile immediately spreads across her lips.

  The other girl waiting is Olivia, who doesn’t smile in the slightest when she sees me.

  “Olivia,” I say stiffly. “Come in.”

  Silently, she follows me into my office. She takes a seat in the chair beside my desk and I close the office door. It feels dangerous, closing it. And as soon as I do, my office suddenly feels warmer—and suddenly feels too small.

  “How can I help you?” I ask, taking a seat.

  “I’m here to talk about the grade you gave me on the midterm,” she says. She thrusts the exam toward me, but I don’t even look down at it.

  “What’s the problem?” I say.

  “I deserve a higher grade than this.”

  “You do, huh?” I lean back in my chair. “Tell me why.”

  “No. You tell me why you graded me so low.”

  “I took off points where I saw problems with your essay answers. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Oh, cut it out,” she says, disgusted. “You were harder on me, weren’t you?”

  Harder on me. The words ignite the lust I have for her that I’ve put so much energy into repressing.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say gruffly. “I graded your paper exactly how I graded every other student’s paper. Did you even look at the notes I left all over your exam? I pointed out every problematic area. I was even forgiving with a few of your answers.”

  “Of course I read your comments. But they don’t—okay. For instance.” She holds up her exam. “Here you say that I need to provide more examples. But I clearly provided multiple examples…” She takes a moment to scan her essay answer. But as she reads what she wrote, the indignation fades from her face. “Shit.”

  “I was very fair in grading,” I say.

  Olivia sighs, defeated. “I guess my answers weren’t as good as I thought.”

  “It happens,” I say. “Look, don’t worry too much about it. There will be opportunities for extra credit.”

  She looks at me with appalled eyes.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say quickly. “I would never do that with a student. I want to be extremely clear about that.”

  “I would never do something like that, either,” she says.

  But now I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to fuck her right now on my desk.

  “Olivia,” I say, my voice low, almost in a growl. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Do you know how hard it is to see you walk into my classroom every day? Even when you sit all the way in the back…even when I avoid looking at you…you’re still there.”

  Olivia presses her lips together and nods. Quietly, almost in a whisper, she says, “I know.”

  “We need to do something about this. I need to not feel so attracted to you.” Desperately, I try to think of a way out. “You need to tell me something that will make me want you less.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But there’s gotta be something.”

  The two of us sit in silence for a few moments. The only noise in the room is the second hand ticking on the clock on the wall.

  Finally, shifting in her seat, Olivia says, “I mean…I guess I have a habit of blaming other people for things. And I’m bad with money. And I can be selfish. Do you want me to keep going?”

  “No.”

  “Do you really think this is going to work?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But it’s worth a shot.”

  “Okay. Well? Tell me yours.”

  I hesitate. I could list off negative traits in the same way that she just did. But another idea comes to me. I don’t want to do it, but it feels necessary in order to dissolve this sexual tension between us.

  “That night we met in the bar,” I say, “when you told me about how your ex made you feel like you’d just wasted the last three years of your life, and I told you that I’d been there, too?”

  She looks at me questioningly.

  “Well…in my case, I was the one who broke it off. But before I broke it off…I cheated on her. For several months.”

  Olivia’s face wrinkles. “Are you serious?”

  “I wanted to know if it was just something I had to get out of my system.”

  “Jesus.” She stands up. “Well, good news. It worked. I’m not attracted to you anymore.”

  My hands start to shake. I squeeze them into fists to make them stop.

  “Wait, Olivia—”

  But she’s already thrown open my office door. I get up and go after her, but when I step out of my office, she has the other girl by the arm and the two of them are hurrying down the hall.

  “Olivia!” I call out.

  “Leave her alone, asshole,” her friend shouts back.

  Despondently, I retreat into my office, closing the door behind me. My mouth feels bitter from the lie I just told. But it had to be done.

  Chapter Five

  Olivia

  I spend the next six weeks laser-focused on school. Because as it turns out, it’s not just my Art History grade that’s been slipping. Somehow I hadn’t realized it, but the distraction of James has been affecting my other grades, too.

  So even though I’m absolutely appalled by what he admitted to me, I’m glad that he told me.

  It’s the wake-up call I need.

  For this second half of the semester, I also decide to mix up my studying routine. It’s like giving myself a fresh start, you know? So instead of doing schoolw
ork at the apartment, I start experimenting with different places on campus.

  The first place I try out is one of the libraries closest to the edge of campus—one of the most popular spots for students to study. And though it’s pretty quiet, there’s constant activity around me, and I just can’t ever get fully submerged into the reading I have to do. I try a few other places after that, too, but none of them are quite right, either.

  “You sound like Goldilocks,” says Emma when I tell her about it, and I laugh, realizing she’s right.

  And finally, after a little more trial and error, I find my perfect place: a small, old science library that’s reliably empty and quiet. It’s so cozy there that even after hours of studying, I don’t want to leave.

  But leave I must: I have meals to eat, showers to take, hours to sleep, classes to go to. And so, every evening, I reluctantly pack up my things and head out.

  I’m heading home from the library one night, cutting across campus, when I see Liam. He’s easy to spot because he’s wearing that bright red sweatshirt that’s easily his favorite piece of clothing. Sometimes, when we were together, I would put it on and just soak up his smell.

  Now, of course, you couldn’t pay me to wear the stupid thing.

  Liam is standing outside of one of the lecture halls with a few other guys. They’re laughing about something. One of them slaps Liam on the back.

  Then Liam takes a step to the side, and I realize that there’s a girl standing beside him. And then—as if this moment is meant just for me—she leans over and kisses his cheek, and he looks over at her and kisses her on the mouth while the other guys hoot in encouragement.

  I’m not jealous of the girl. I’m really not. But I also can’t witness that and not be affected by it. Bitterly, I wonder whether Liam had this girl already in mind when he broke things off with me. Or whether she’s just one of a bunch of poor girls he’s gone through since he decided he “wanted to see what else is out there.”