The door shuts, and the silence between us thickens. I let it stretch on for nearly half a minute, thinking about all the things I wish I could say to him. That I know Pierce is a lying sack of shit. That I know how difficult it is to be a queer person in this town. That I know how it feels to be outed. That if he needs someone to talk to, I’m here for him.
Even if I could say any of that, I can’t let go of my suspicions so easily.
“Do you have anything you’d like to add, Mr. Ellis?”
He shakes his head again, still not looking up. The tension continues rolling off him in waves, sharp enough to cut through the air.
“No, sir.”
Good. That at least makes this a little easier.
Because right now, everything in me wants to ask the questions I shouldn’t.
Who sent you?
What do you really want from me?
Instead, I do the only thing that will keep me safe.
“Very well. May I see your student ID?”
Without a word, he pulls a wallet out of his back pocket, takes out his ID, and steps forward to hand it to me.
Retrieving my phone out of my bag, I open my email app and type up a short message to the head of the disciplinary committee, including Jackson’s name, his student ID, and a brief explanation of the incident.
My finger hovers above the send button.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be reporting them both or neither at all.
What the hell is Jackson going to think of me now?
Probably the truth. That I’m a selfish asshole.
Finally, I force myself to send the email before handing his ID back and dropping my phone on top of my bag.
“Is that all?” he asks, his voice tight.
I stare at him a few moments longer while he still refuses to make eye contact with me, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. I hate the thought of just sending him on his way after making his bad week even worse.
“I understand you’ve had a rough few days, Jackson, but…”
My words fade the moment he finally looks up, his jaw set and his nostrils flared. His gaze is hard, anger and betrayal swirling around in their green depths, stopping me cold.
“With all due respect,” he starts, not sounding like he means that one bit, “you don’t understand shit. You’re just like the rest of them.”
With that, he leaves my office, and all I can do is watch him go. When the door clicks shut behind him, the sound echoes around the empty room. I don’t move, staring at the spot where he was.
You’re just like the rest of them.
His claim hits harder than I want to admit. Harder than it should.
Because he’s right. At least partly.
I tell myself I’m different, that I’m better. That I see what happens around here for what it really is. But when it came down to it, I didn’t protect him. I protected myself.
I sink into my chair and drag a hand through my short beard, feeling the weight of what I’ve done settle on my shoulders. Maybe I thought I could stay neutral, keep my hands clean. However, that’s the kind of lie you tell yourself when you don’t want to face the truth.
The truth is, silence isn’t neutral.
