“Dexter, my boy. Such a pleasure to see you again!”
Before I can tear my gaze away from her, Alis’s face freezes. Tension coils throughout her body, fingers digging into my biceps like a vice grip. It feels like minutes, but I know only a second passes before the voice continues, “And Alis Gilmore! What has it been, eight? Ten years?”
They know each other?
TWENTY-EIGHT
Alis
That voice.That man. It should have at least crossed my mind that Jonathan Ryan would be worth wooing for a special, collaborative teaching opportunity at MPU. That Dexter would know him, would aspire to work with him. I’m suddenly all too aware of the extent to which my blinders have shielded me from dealing with my past.
But nothing happened.
Seriously. Nothing. It was a misunderstanding. A fluke. An insecure, neurotic woman spreading lies and gossip because hurting other people was preferable to dealing with her own issues.
But he didn’t protect me. Defend me. Support me. Nothing. I trusted him; he was my mentor, my professor. Five years I studied under him, two of which I worked as his teaching assistant.
He never even reached out to check on me after what happened. Never emailed. Never called. Nothing. My entire world came crashing down around me, punctuated by the fact that his wife — his infuriating bitch of a wife — accused me of trying toseducehim.
This is not happening.
Oh, but it is.
I tear my gaze from Dexter and plaster on the best smile I canmuster at present. I know Dexter can feel the anxiety radiating off me, and I can sense his obvious confusion at my prior acquaintance with Dr. Ryan.
“Jonathan,” I offer — I’m not a twenty-one-year-old girl any longer, asshole — and extend my hand to him. He grasps it and pulls me in for a quick hug, stepping back with his hand still grasping my arm as he gives me a once over and says, “It has been way, way too long, my dear.”
My dear?I don’t know what to say, how to respond, so I nod in acknowledgment, fake smile still plastered to my face.
“You two know each other?” Dexter inquires, looking between the two of us, possessive arm still resting against my back.
“Of course! She didn’t tell you?” Dr. Ryan looks at me, baffled. As if he cannot fathom why I wouldn’t shout from the rooftops that I was one under his tutelage.
“Must have slipped my mind,” I offer. Wanting to run away but knowing I cannot. This is the partnership Dexter has been so excited about. This is the opportunity he’s been waiting for. I cannot ruin this moment for him because of something thatdidn’thappen nine years ago.
“So modest, this one,” Dr. Ryan jests. “Alis was my protege. My star student. I always knew you were destined for great things. It was too bad I had to lose you after your sister’s passing. How is your family? Are your parents still living in Moraine?”
Does he honestly not remember why I left? Was theincidentthatdidn’thappen so minor to him that he brushed it off as nothing? Impossible.
“So happy to see you found your way back into the fold, and on the arm of a rising star. She’s always had a knack for making these types of important and strategic connections.”
Aaaaaaand I’ve had enough.
I tear my gaze away from the asshole spewing bullshit all over the place, looking instead toward a still very confused Dexter. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find the washroom.” Detaching myself from Dexter, I use every last bit of my self-control to walk, not sprint,from the room. From that man. From his distorted, revisionist history and backhanded compliments.
I find the bathroom, washing my hands —I can’t believe he had the audacity to touch me— and then press my clean, cold palms to my cheeks.
Calm down, Alis. Nothing happened. The rumors were just that — rumors. You never touched the man. He never touched you. You left. You didn’t even have to suffer through the gawking and staring around campus. He probably didn’t mean it as it sounded. It was a compliment. You are a strategic thinker. You do make great connections. You’re a go-getter, a goal-chaser. You are not a whore. I repeat, you are not a whore.
Self-control adequately, if shakily, reestablished, I smooth out my dress, check my hair and makeup, and return to the party. At least, that was my plan, until the only other person who could possibly transform this party from a dumpster fire to a nuclear explosion turns the corner at the same moment I step foot into the living room. We collide, and red wine spills down the front of my dress, my legs, and into my shoes. Abigail’s silver and white — yes,white— abstract area rug now resembles a bloody Jackson Pollock, and just as I think I’ve hit rock bottom I hear it.
“You!”
Somebody, please. Just kill me. Kill me now.
Dexter
Considering this dinner party started no more than thirty minutes ago, the rollercoaster of emotions I have both felt and witnessed from Alis in that short amount of time is astounding.
