It’s nice.
For the first time in… God, weeks? Months? Maybe longer, I focus on Professor Levine and the way he practically prowls around the room during his discussion, and I feel myself drift.
Which is why it’s almost like a bucket of cold water being dumped over my head when the sound of chairs scraping knocks me out of the near lull he’d dragged me into. I didn’t even hear him dismiss the class, but obviously he did, because they’re all filing out of the room.
And I’m still here.
At Professor Levine’s desk.
The sudden anxiety that zips through my chest is strange. The last time I was in a classroom alone with a professor, it was Professor Hilman. Vague memories of his mouth feeling entirely too warm as he tried to kiss me, his hands stinging where they grabbed too tight, flash through my mind. By the time Professor Levine turns around to look at me, I’ve half worked myself into a panic.
It’s probably the reason I haven’t gotten up and filed out of the room with the rest of the students, even though that would be counterproductive to me figuring out exactly what he needs from me.
“Mr. Archer?” His voice holds that same rumbling sound that lulled me into that weird sense of serenity, and I have to digmy nails into the top of my thighs to keep myself from doing something ridiculous. Like squeaking out an answer.
“I…” Words. I really, really need to figure out how to use words right now. I’m at the top of my classes. I’m going to grad school. I can make complete sentences in the face of a really, really attractive man. “I was just wondering if you had a list of things you need from me… sir?”
I can’t quite understand the way his expression morphs. Curious to dark, amused… professional. He’s an ocean with a riptide, the myriad of thoughts that I can’t discern threatening to pull me under.
“I have a list,” he finally says. “A lot of it is organization and planning out my calendar and meetings. I don’t really need you grading papers, since this is more of a practical application class. We’ll be moving to the auditorium soon so the students can work on the stage. Do you want me to email you?”
I stare at him mutely for another span of time that makes me wonder if he’s going to regret letting me be his TA at all.
“I… yes. Yes, I have an email address.” God, that’s not what he asked. “If you send me the list and let me know your office hours, I can work in there?”
I force myself to stand from my seat, though it doesn’t help with the way I have to crane my neck to look him in the eyes.
He’s sotall. And bulky.
My fingers clasp together, twisting nervously.
“That sounds perfect.” And then he leans in, laying one broad hand gently on my shoulder. “Don’t be so nervous, Mr. Archer. I’m sure you’re going to do good.”
Good. The word strikes me in the center of the chest and makes my mouth go dry.
“I definitely want to be good for you…” My face goes crimson the instant the words come out of my mouth, and I nearly choke on my own spit inhaling to correct myself. “I mean… do good. Doa good job for you, Professor Levine. I want to do a good job. For you.”
That somehow doesn’t sound any better, and I’m not sure if the warmth in his eyes is because he’s trying not to laugh at me, or if he’s mad… or…
“I’m sure you will.”
Oh… oh no. My entire body is tingling from his words, from his proximity, from that wordgoodracing over my nerve endings and painting them red. It’s ridiculous and inappropriate, and I can’t be in this classroom anymore, because I know I’m not going to be able to control myself.
“Thank you, sir. If you send me that email, I’ll get to work on it right away.” I turn, giving him my back so I can get my things packed up and hopefully save myself from absolute embarrassment.
I’d probably manage a little better if I couldn’t still feel him standing behind me like a white-hot line that’s slowly burning through my skin.
When I turn around, he’s still there… and I’m almost powerless as I look up at him… waiting…
Waiting for…
“You can go now. Mr. Archer,” he says, and all the tension leaves my body as I turn.
I catch the curious expression on his face as I murmur a quick, “Thank you, sir,” and run for it.
Since when have I needed permission tomove?
As I flee the classroom with my heart racing, I’m convinced now more than ever that Ihaveto go to the club. I can’t spend the rest of my life confused every time I run into an attractive person, and I definitely can’t do it with the professor I’m supposed to be working with this semester.
