It buzzes again a few minutes later.
Then again.
I don't look. I can't look. Because if I look, if I read whatever he's saying, I'll respond. And if I respond, I'll be pulled back into his orbit, back into that dangerous space where I forget who I'm supposed to be.
I lie awake until dawn, trying to convince myself that what happened was a mistake. That I can go back to my normal life. That I can marry Thad and forget about Romeo, and everything will be fine.
But I know I'm lying to myself.
Because my body remembers, and my traitorous, foolish heart remembers too.
—
The next fewdays are torture. Romeo keeps trying to reach me—texts, calls, even an email about our project that's clearly just an excuse to make contact. Each attempt makes my resolve weaken a little more.
I want to hear from him. That's the problem. I want to see his name on my phone. I want to know what he's thinking, what he's feeling, whether he's as consumed by this as I am.
But I can't. I have to stay strong. I have to figure this out on my own.
Thad, meanwhile, seems to sense that something has shifted. He calls more frequently, texts constantly, wants to know where I am and what I'm doing at all times.
Thad:Where are you?
Thad:Who are you with?
Thad:When will you be home?
Thad:Send me a picture of what you're wearing.
That last one comes on Tuesday morning as I'm getting dressed for class. I stare at it, feeling something cold settle in my stomach.Why?I text back.
Thad:Because I want to see you. Is that a crime?
I take a selfie in my jeans and a sweater and send it without comment.
His response is immediate.Is that what you're wearing to class?
Savannah:Yes. Why?
Thad:It's very casual. Don't you have anything more professional? You're representing the Beauregard name now.
I look down at my outfit. It's perfectly appropriate for a graduate seminar—comfortable, practical, nothing revealing or inappropriate.
Savannah:It's fine, Thad.
Thad:If you say so. Just remember that people are always watching. You never know who might see you and form an opinion about our family.
I don't respond. I just grab my bag and head to campus, feeling like I'm suffocating.
The pattern continues throughout the week. Thad calls during my study sessions, interrupting my work to ask trivial questions. He texts during class, expecting immediateresponses. He makes plans for us without consulting me, then gets irritated when I mention I might have other commitments.
"I thought we could have dinner on Friday," he says during one of his calls. "I've made reservations at that place you like. I’ll be in town."
He didn’t bother telling me he was going to be in town until right this second, which irritates me even more. "I have the department gala Friday night," I remind him. "I told you about it last week."
"Oh, right. Then I'll come to that instead. It'll be good for networking anyway. Edgar mentioned some potential donors might be there."
"Thad, it's an academic event. It's not really about business?—"
