The Protégé, page 17
I punch my number into her contacts and hand it back. “Text me. We’ll continue this conversation some other time.”
“Whatever you say.” She slips her phone back into her pocket and gives me a mock salute.
I nod goodbye to Tim/Todd, lace my fingers with Cam’s, and lead him toward the door.
* * *
Hannah
“This is unbelievable.” I gape at the view, twirling slowly to see it from every angle.
His voice is gleeful. “Isn’t it?”
“How did you know about this place?”
“President Foley brought me here when I interviewed.”
I spin to glare at him, irked. “Why didn’t they bring me here?”
He shrugs. “I guess they wanted me pretty badly.”
“Ouch.” I join Lynch at the stone wall. We’re in the most ridiculous rooftop turret you can imagine. It’s the westernmost building on campus, a gothic tower clinging to the cliff face. It’s called Mad River Tower. It’s made of stone, a circular, three-story, fairy-tale castle with a rooftop turret flanked by four spires. The sea spreads out on three sides. Right now the bay is painted in colors fading from rich indigo to juicy peach. The sun sinks with great dignity into the sea, like a legendary actress making a grand exit. Fiery yellow spreads around her as she descends. Seagulls swoop, cawing in delight. The air is so clean and fresh, I keep breathing it in, greedy lungfuls of salty cold.
I’ve been to Mad River Tower before now, but only the bottom floor. Everything else is off limits—or so I thought. Mick has the keys to the stairwell, knows how to work the latch on the crazy oak trapdoor that releases you into the parapet. I’m only kind of kidding about feeling stung. I thought I was respected around here. Why would Lynch have access to something kept secret from the likes of me?
It’s a little like stumbling on a fabulous party you weren’t invited to.
“I’m sure they wanted you too.” He leans his elbows on the stone parapet. “Who wouldn’t?”
“Not badly enough to bring me here, apparently.”
A smile spreads across his face. “Good. So you haven’t seen it? I was worried.”
“I’m not part of the hip crowd,” I grouse.
He grabs the stone rail with his big hands, leaning into it. “You’re very hip.”
“Not really.” I tell myself to stop pouting, but the more I think about this, the more it bothers me. It taps into childhood scars—the girl not invited to parties because she had no social filters. Years of this can wear you down.
“Don’t be mad.” His eyes study my face, trying to detect my mood.
I meet his gaze. It’s stupid to get worked up over this. Lynch’s blue eyes hold mine, streaks of gold catching the light.
“You’re the most accomplished woman I’ve ever known.” He smiles at me, his eyes dancing. “You have to know that.”
“It’s not the same as being liked.” It’s out of my mouth before I know I’m going to say it.
His smile is soaked in tenderness. “Being liked is for the mundane. You’re worshipped.”
“Not this week.” I stare out at the setting sun. The clouds have caught fire now, burning with tangerine light. “I’ve been a laughingstock lately.”
“You’re being undermined.” He toys with a strand of my hair. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
For a terrible moment, I can feel tears burning behind my eyes. I stare at the water again, my heart hammering—with what emotion I’m not sure. Fear? Excitement? Absolution? The balm of his words is undeniable. I hadn’t realized, but I’ve been carrying around a secret shame. I know I didn’t cause these humiliating events, but unconsciously I’ve been blaming myself. I’m not accustomed to feeling inept. My normal mode is total control over my environment. I can’t help but assume, deep down, that any slip from perfection must be my fault.
Lynch reaches out and pulls me into his arms. For a long moment, I curl into him, feeling safe and warm for the first time in ages. He smells good—woodsy, clean. A little citrusy, with hints of eucalyptus. His chest is broad and strong. The bulk of his pectoralis major flexes under my fingers. I feel like a child. It’s not the most empowering pose, but for a few moments I relish my own smallness. After so many years of being strong, this tiny slice of protection feels luxurious. I don’t ever want to leave.
Eventually, though, I pull away, embarrassed.
He crooks a finger under my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “We’re going to figure out who’s doing this. Motherfucker’s going to pay.”
I can’t help but smile. “Damn straight.”
“That’s the spirit.” He nods approvingly. “Nobody puts baby in a corner.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I say, laughing. “You sound like my friend Amy.”
“Why?”
“She said the exact same thing.”
“The same Dirty Dancing reference?”
I nod. “Though I have no idea what that is. She had to explain it to me.”
“You’ve never seen Dirty Dancing?”
“I’ve seen a couple dozen movies my whole life,” I admit. “That doesn’t happen to be one of them.”
“Oh, wow. You’re joking, right?”
I shake my head. “Amy says I’m pop-culture illiterate.”
His fingers find my face again, this time tracing the line of my jaw with his knuckles. “Let me guess. You were raised by hyper-intellectuals who allowed no TV and had you reading Latin texts before you could crawl.”
“Not at all.” I close my eyes, savoring the feel of his fingers on my skin. “My dad and brothers had a TV. I preferred to sit down by the creek with a book.”
“Down by the creek with a book,” he echoes, like this is something wondrous. “You’re one of those drop-dead smart girls.”
“Drop-dead smart?” I repeat.
His hands move down to my waist, encircling me with his strong, oversized phalanges. Once again, I feel small compared to him. Considering he’s one of my suspects, this should alarm me. Instead, it sends sunbeams of heat radiating through me.
I try to retain my composure, though inside I’m melting like chocolate in the sun. “As opposed to drop-dead gorgeous?”
“The two are not mutually exclusive. You should know that, Dr. Bryers. You happen to be both.” He presses me against the stone wall and kisses me.
His mouth is heat and cinnamon. I close my eyes, wrapping my hands around his neck. His fingers slip under the hem of my shirt, making contact with my bare skin. The sensation makes me moan against his mouth. It’s so unlike me, I pull away, embarrassed. My head’s spinning.
Lynch studies me. “You okay?”
“I don’t want to be your bad pancake,” I blurt.
“My bad pancake?” He looks mystified.
I nod. “It’s a term my friend Amy uses.”
“Go on.” His expression never loses its note of amused wonder, like I might be a genius or a lunatic, he hasn’t decided which.
I put my hands on his chest, feeling the muscles there but trying not to get distracted. “The first relationship after a major breakup. It’s like the first pancake in a batch.”
“How so?”
“It’s either undercooked or burnt; you haven’t got the settings dialed in yet, so it’s destined to be discarded as inferior.” She explained it better. I don’t know why I’m talking about this. It’s so unlike me. My brain feels staticky, like a radio station that’s lost its signal.
In spite of my mangled explanation, a look of understanding lights his eyes. “Like a rebound thing.”
“Yes. Your wife just left you. You’re not thinking clearly. I’m a useful distraction from the pain, but once I’ve served my purpose …” I trail off, unsure of how to finish this sentence.
He steps away, giving me space. One hand goes to his face, rubbing at his forehead. I miss those hands on me already. In spite of this, I continue to babble.
“And we work together. Work is my haven. If I am your bad pancake, we’ll both have to be reminded of it day after day. It could be awkward.”
Lynch’s elbows rest on the parapet, his attention turning to the water, the setting sun. His face is gilded in apricot light. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful. For reasons unknown to me, I’m pushing him away—this man I’m more attracted to than anyone I’ve ever met. At least I can admit this to myself. Is my resistance really about his recent breakup, or is something more basic to blame? The desire spiraling through me is so intense. Maybe I’m going on about bad pancakes because I’ve never felt so out of control in my life.
I stand beside him, both of us staring at the sunset. The sun is just a rim of gold now, a melting lozenge of light. The sea is tangerine.
After a long moment, he says, “I see your point.”
“So I am your bad pancake?”
“No.” He looks at me sharply. “You’re not. You can’t be. You’re too important.”
“But …?” I prompt.
“I understand if you want to give it some time.” He flicks another look at me. “It’s sudden. I must look like damaged goods. I get that. I’m coming on too strong.”
I want to correct him, tell him he’s perfect, how kissing him is the peak experience in a life filled with adventure. I want to order him to put his strong, warm hands on me again, to devour me, and so what if I moan with raw, naked longing? Who cares? I’m ready to fling myself into that abyss, no matter the cost.
Instead, I stand beside him and stare as the last remnants of sunlight slip into the darkening sea.
CHAPTER
17
Hannah
FIVE DAYS LATER, on the spring equinox, I’m standing in the lab, watching my undergrads. There are twenty of them, working in pairs, each of them huddled around their beakers. Their white lab coats and safety goggles lend them a professional air, but I’m not fooled. I know which ones are clumsy, which ones are sloppy, which ones are reckless. Notebooks are spread across the work surfaces as they scribble down the chemical reactions. It’s a basic experiment, one I’ve overseen a thousand times, so the temptation to slip into autopilot is acute, but I resist. Though my saboteur hasn’t struck for a full week now, I’ve been on guard. My nerves are taut as piano wires, singing with tension. I want to believe the trouble has passed, but I know better. Something in my gut remains clenched tight, braced for the next disaster.
“We’re working with several peroxidizable chemicals here. What’s the rule with these?” I pace between their stations.
“Always check the dates.” Kim Matheson, the daughter of one of my colleagues in the engineering department, speaks up. She’s got the best grade in the class.
“Exactly. And why is that?”
Her lab partner, José Llamas, answers. “PECs might explode if they’re subjected to heat, light, friction, or mechanical shock.”
“Exactly.” I nod. “And PEC stands for?”
“Potentially explosive chemicals,” Kim answers, squinting as she studies the dates on her canister of chloroprene.
“Excellent.” I notice someone watching me through the window in the lab door. It’s Lynch. Without my consent, a goofy smile takes hold of my face. With a distracted air, I say to the class, “Any questions?”
Nobody raises their hand. They’re mostly ignoring me by now anyway, intent on their work. I sidle as casually as possible to the door. I haven’t seen Lynch since our complicated encounter last Friday. I’ve tried not to obsess. It’s hard, though. I’ve been dreaming about him—long, complicated dreams full of lust and longing. It’s impossible to know if the silence between us indicates he’s giving me space or fleeing after my ridiculous bad pancake analogy.
“I’ll be right back,” I mumble to nobody in particular. I open the door and slip out.
In the hush of the hallway, I gaze up at him. Seeing Lynch in the flesh, after spending hours with him in my dreams, feels surreal. “Hey.”
“Look at you, shaping young minds. How’s it going?” His gaze drinks me in, searching every inch of my face like he plans to memorize it. He’s wearing a blue shirt that sets off his eyes.
To my great annoyance, I feel a flutter in my belly like there’s a fish trapped there. The memory of curling into his arms makes me long to do it again—step into the warm envelope of his body heat, feel him wrapping around me, keeping me safe. I can’t decide if this is weakness or a new kind of strength.
I shrug. “I’m fine.”
We both start to speak at the same time, then stop.
“You go,” he says.
“No, you.” I laugh. “I don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I need to see you.” Lynch looks down at his shoes, then back up again. There’s a vulnerability in his expression that makes him appear ten years younger. “I didn’t want to crowd you, but I can’t stay away.”
I can’t keep the smile off my face. “That’s good.”
“Good that I didn’t want to crowd you, or good that I can’t stay away?”
“I want to see you too.” Keep it simple, Bryers. Jesus, this man. Is it possible I’m falling in love for the first time at forty? I thought I understood love before this, that I’d experienced it, but this is something else entirely. Maybe I’m undergoing a hormonal shift, some kind of perimenopausal shake-up that’s flooding my system with the last of my declining estrogen.
“Good.” He huffs out a relieved breath. “How about tonight?”
A sudden explosion rattles the windows of the lab. I hear a scream and spin around. Kim Matheson is clutching her neck, blood spurting through her fingers. Heart pounding, I yank open the door and rush to her.
In the confusion, it takes me a moment to understand what’s happened. The students are all standing like statues, frozen, eyes wide under their safety goggles. José’s lab coat is splattered with blood, but aside from a small cut on his forehead, he appears unharmed. Kim and José’s beaker must have exploded, sending shards of glass flying.
As I rush toward Kim, she falls to the floor, still clutching at her neck. Her dark eyes dart around the room in a panic. I kneel beside her and pull her hands away. A shard of glass about the size and sharpness of a razor blade is lodged in her throat. It seems to have missed the carotid artery, from what I can see—thank God. If it severed that, she would bleed out in a matter of minutes. Though the amount of blood is alarming, I think the glass must have nicked the anterior jugular. It’s bad, but not as bad as it could be.
“Somebody call 911!” I shout, trying for calm and authoritative but landing much closer to hysterical. José scrambles for his phone, punching in the numbers, his fingers shaking.
I help Kim lie all the way back on the floor. Breathing steadily to calm my nerves, I yank my lab coat off. Then I realize it’s polyester, not ideal for soaking up blood.
Lynch is there, kneeling on the other side of Kim.
“Give me your shirt,” I order.
He looks shocked for a moment, but doesn’t hesitate. He yanks it over his head. Meanwhile, I concentrate on Kim’s injury. The glass is sticking out of her throat at an angle. I recall from my first-aid training that impaled objects shouldn’t be removed, since they can do more damage to nerves and blood vessels on the way out. I grab Lynch’s cotton T-shirt with one hand and wrap it around the wound, trying to keep her blood loss minimal. Vaguely, I’m aware of gasps and cries of alarm from the students all around me. I press Lynch’s shirt to the wound, applying pressure, mindful not to compress the carotid arteries.
José, still holding his phone, says, “They’re on their way.”
“Is anybody else injured?” I glance at Lynch. Shirtless, he looks like a lifeguard—toned and brown.
“I’ll check.” He stands, surveying the room. Lynch puts on his booming professorial voice. “Okay, everyone, let’s stay calm. Is anybody else hurt?”
“I’m bleeding,” José says, indicating his forehead wound. “It’s not bad, though.”
Lynch investigates the cut.
“There’s a washing station and a first aid kit over there,” I say. “Anyone else with minor abrasions, line up and wash them out. There could be chemicals in the cuts, so you need to get them sterilized right away.”
Lynch leads them over to the station and helps them clean up. Three of the students have minor cuts—luckily nothing serious.
I turn my attention back to Kim. Her eyes are glassy. She’s staring up at the ceiling with a faraway expression.
“Stay with me, Kim. You’re going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine—just hang in there.” I can hear the sirens, thank God. Salt Gulch is a small town. Please. Let them get here in time, I think. She’s lost so much blood already.
“Professor Bryers?” Kim’s voice is small, like a little girl’s, tentative and dreamy.
“Don’t talk, sweetheart.” I never call anyone sweetheart, least of all my students. It just seems like the right thing to say.
The paramedics bustle in then, and I step back, so grateful for their arrival I could kiss them. They load Kim onto a stretcher and whisk her away. I look around, dazed. After a brief conversation with José about the explosion, followed by an even briefer examination of my students, I decide that getting to the hospital is the top priority. I dismiss the shaken class and turn to see Lynch staring down at me, still shirtless.
“I’ll grab a shirt from my office,” he says. “Meet you at the hospital?”
I nod, grateful that he’s read my mind, and rush outside to my car.
* * *
Winter
I run into Bryers in the parking lot. She’s white-faced, her skin glazed with sweat. There’s blood splatter on her forehead and all over her pale green blouse. She looks like an actress in a horror film.
Though we’ve never hugged before, I open my arms on instinct, and she falls into them. We stand there under the cloudy sky, the air thick with coming rain. She’s like a child in my embrace, her body small and trembling.
When Bryers pulls away, she looks at me, her brow furrowed. “You heard?”
“No. What is it? What’s happened?”
“Whatever you say.” She slips her phone back into her pocket and gives me a mock salute.
I nod goodbye to Tim/Todd, lace my fingers with Cam’s, and lead him toward the door.
* * *
Hannah
“This is unbelievable.” I gape at the view, twirling slowly to see it from every angle.
His voice is gleeful. “Isn’t it?”
“How did you know about this place?”
“President Foley brought me here when I interviewed.”
I spin to glare at him, irked. “Why didn’t they bring me here?”
He shrugs. “I guess they wanted me pretty badly.”
“Ouch.” I join Lynch at the stone wall. We’re in the most ridiculous rooftop turret you can imagine. It’s the westernmost building on campus, a gothic tower clinging to the cliff face. It’s called Mad River Tower. It’s made of stone, a circular, three-story, fairy-tale castle with a rooftop turret flanked by four spires. The sea spreads out on three sides. Right now the bay is painted in colors fading from rich indigo to juicy peach. The sun sinks with great dignity into the sea, like a legendary actress making a grand exit. Fiery yellow spreads around her as she descends. Seagulls swoop, cawing in delight. The air is so clean and fresh, I keep breathing it in, greedy lungfuls of salty cold.
I’ve been to Mad River Tower before now, but only the bottom floor. Everything else is off limits—or so I thought. Mick has the keys to the stairwell, knows how to work the latch on the crazy oak trapdoor that releases you into the parapet. I’m only kind of kidding about feeling stung. I thought I was respected around here. Why would Lynch have access to something kept secret from the likes of me?
It’s a little like stumbling on a fabulous party you weren’t invited to.
“I’m sure they wanted you too.” He leans his elbows on the stone parapet. “Who wouldn’t?”
“Not badly enough to bring me here, apparently.”
A smile spreads across his face. “Good. So you haven’t seen it? I was worried.”
“I’m not part of the hip crowd,” I grouse.
He grabs the stone rail with his big hands, leaning into it. “You’re very hip.”
“Not really.” I tell myself to stop pouting, but the more I think about this, the more it bothers me. It taps into childhood scars—the girl not invited to parties because she had no social filters. Years of this can wear you down.
“Don’t be mad.” His eyes study my face, trying to detect my mood.
I meet his gaze. It’s stupid to get worked up over this. Lynch’s blue eyes hold mine, streaks of gold catching the light.
“You’re the most accomplished woman I’ve ever known.” He smiles at me, his eyes dancing. “You have to know that.”
“It’s not the same as being liked.” It’s out of my mouth before I know I’m going to say it.
His smile is soaked in tenderness. “Being liked is for the mundane. You’re worshipped.”
“Not this week.” I stare out at the setting sun. The clouds have caught fire now, burning with tangerine light. “I’ve been a laughingstock lately.”
“You’re being undermined.” He toys with a strand of my hair. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
For a terrible moment, I can feel tears burning behind my eyes. I stare at the water again, my heart hammering—with what emotion I’m not sure. Fear? Excitement? Absolution? The balm of his words is undeniable. I hadn’t realized, but I’ve been carrying around a secret shame. I know I didn’t cause these humiliating events, but unconsciously I’ve been blaming myself. I’m not accustomed to feeling inept. My normal mode is total control over my environment. I can’t help but assume, deep down, that any slip from perfection must be my fault.
Lynch reaches out and pulls me into his arms. For a long moment, I curl into him, feeling safe and warm for the first time in ages. He smells good—woodsy, clean. A little citrusy, with hints of eucalyptus. His chest is broad and strong. The bulk of his pectoralis major flexes under my fingers. I feel like a child. It’s not the most empowering pose, but for a few moments I relish my own smallness. After so many years of being strong, this tiny slice of protection feels luxurious. I don’t ever want to leave.
Eventually, though, I pull away, embarrassed.
He crooks a finger under my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “We’re going to figure out who’s doing this. Motherfucker’s going to pay.”
I can’t help but smile. “Damn straight.”
“That’s the spirit.” He nods approvingly. “Nobody puts baby in a corner.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I say, laughing. “You sound like my friend Amy.”
“Why?”
“She said the exact same thing.”
“The same Dirty Dancing reference?”
I nod. “Though I have no idea what that is. She had to explain it to me.”
“You’ve never seen Dirty Dancing?”
“I’ve seen a couple dozen movies my whole life,” I admit. “That doesn’t happen to be one of them.”
“Oh, wow. You’re joking, right?”
I shake my head. “Amy says I’m pop-culture illiterate.”
His fingers find my face again, this time tracing the line of my jaw with his knuckles. “Let me guess. You were raised by hyper-intellectuals who allowed no TV and had you reading Latin texts before you could crawl.”
“Not at all.” I close my eyes, savoring the feel of his fingers on my skin. “My dad and brothers had a TV. I preferred to sit down by the creek with a book.”
“Down by the creek with a book,” he echoes, like this is something wondrous. “You’re one of those drop-dead smart girls.”
“Drop-dead smart?” I repeat.
His hands move down to my waist, encircling me with his strong, oversized phalanges. Once again, I feel small compared to him. Considering he’s one of my suspects, this should alarm me. Instead, it sends sunbeams of heat radiating through me.
I try to retain my composure, though inside I’m melting like chocolate in the sun. “As opposed to drop-dead gorgeous?”
“The two are not mutually exclusive. You should know that, Dr. Bryers. You happen to be both.” He presses me against the stone wall and kisses me.
His mouth is heat and cinnamon. I close my eyes, wrapping my hands around his neck. His fingers slip under the hem of my shirt, making contact with my bare skin. The sensation makes me moan against his mouth. It’s so unlike me, I pull away, embarrassed. My head’s spinning.
Lynch studies me. “You okay?”
“I don’t want to be your bad pancake,” I blurt.
“My bad pancake?” He looks mystified.
I nod. “It’s a term my friend Amy uses.”
“Go on.” His expression never loses its note of amused wonder, like I might be a genius or a lunatic, he hasn’t decided which.
I put my hands on his chest, feeling the muscles there but trying not to get distracted. “The first relationship after a major breakup. It’s like the first pancake in a batch.”
“How so?”
“It’s either undercooked or burnt; you haven’t got the settings dialed in yet, so it’s destined to be discarded as inferior.” She explained it better. I don’t know why I’m talking about this. It’s so unlike me. My brain feels staticky, like a radio station that’s lost its signal.
In spite of my mangled explanation, a look of understanding lights his eyes. “Like a rebound thing.”
“Yes. Your wife just left you. You’re not thinking clearly. I’m a useful distraction from the pain, but once I’ve served my purpose …” I trail off, unsure of how to finish this sentence.
He steps away, giving me space. One hand goes to his face, rubbing at his forehead. I miss those hands on me already. In spite of this, I continue to babble.
“And we work together. Work is my haven. If I am your bad pancake, we’ll both have to be reminded of it day after day. It could be awkward.”
Lynch’s elbows rest on the parapet, his attention turning to the water, the setting sun. His face is gilded in apricot light. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful. For reasons unknown to me, I’m pushing him away—this man I’m more attracted to than anyone I’ve ever met. At least I can admit this to myself. Is my resistance really about his recent breakup, or is something more basic to blame? The desire spiraling through me is so intense. Maybe I’m going on about bad pancakes because I’ve never felt so out of control in my life.
I stand beside him, both of us staring at the sunset. The sun is just a rim of gold now, a melting lozenge of light. The sea is tangerine.
After a long moment, he says, “I see your point.”
“So I am your bad pancake?”
“No.” He looks at me sharply. “You’re not. You can’t be. You’re too important.”
“But …?” I prompt.
“I understand if you want to give it some time.” He flicks another look at me. “It’s sudden. I must look like damaged goods. I get that. I’m coming on too strong.”
I want to correct him, tell him he’s perfect, how kissing him is the peak experience in a life filled with adventure. I want to order him to put his strong, warm hands on me again, to devour me, and so what if I moan with raw, naked longing? Who cares? I’m ready to fling myself into that abyss, no matter the cost.
Instead, I stand beside him and stare as the last remnants of sunlight slip into the darkening sea.
CHAPTER
17
Hannah
FIVE DAYS LATER, on the spring equinox, I’m standing in the lab, watching my undergrads. There are twenty of them, working in pairs, each of them huddled around their beakers. Their white lab coats and safety goggles lend them a professional air, but I’m not fooled. I know which ones are clumsy, which ones are sloppy, which ones are reckless. Notebooks are spread across the work surfaces as they scribble down the chemical reactions. It’s a basic experiment, one I’ve overseen a thousand times, so the temptation to slip into autopilot is acute, but I resist. Though my saboteur hasn’t struck for a full week now, I’ve been on guard. My nerves are taut as piano wires, singing with tension. I want to believe the trouble has passed, but I know better. Something in my gut remains clenched tight, braced for the next disaster.
“We’re working with several peroxidizable chemicals here. What’s the rule with these?” I pace between their stations.
“Always check the dates.” Kim Matheson, the daughter of one of my colleagues in the engineering department, speaks up. She’s got the best grade in the class.
“Exactly. And why is that?”
Her lab partner, José Llamas, answers. “PECs might explode if they’re subjected to heat, light, friction, or mechanical shock.”
“Exactly.” I nod. “And PEC stands for?”
“Potentially explosive chemicals,” Kim answers, squinting as she studies the dates on her canister of chloroprene.
“Excellent.” I notice someone watching me through the window in the lab door. It’s Lynch. Without my consent, a goofy smile takes hold of my face. With a distracted air, I say to the class, “Any questions?”
Nobody raises their hand. They’re mostly ignoring me by now anyway, intent on their work. I sidle as casually as possible to the door. I haven’t seen Lynch since our complicated encounter last Friday. I’ve tried not to obsess. It’s hard, though. I’ve been dreaming about him—long, complicated dreams full of lust and longing. It’s impossible to know if the silence between us indicates he’s giving me space or fleeing after my ridiculous bad pancake analogy.
“I’ll be right back,” I mumble to nobody in particular. I open the door and slip out.
In the hush of the hallway, I gaze up at him. Seeing Lynch in the flesh, after spending hours with him in my dreams, feels surreal. “Hey.”
“Look at you, shaping young minds. How’s it going?” His gaze drinks me in, searching every inch of my face like he plans to memorize it. He’s wearing a blue shirt that sets off his eyes.
To my great annoyance, I feel a flutter in my belly like there’s a fish trapped there. The memory of curling into his arms makes me long to do it again—step into the warm envelope of his body heat, feel him wrapping around me, keeping me safe. I can’t decide if this is weakness or a new kind of strength.
I shrug. “I’m fine.”
We both start to speak at the same time, then stop.
“You go,” he says.
“No, you.” I laugh. “I don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I need to see you.” Lynch looks down at his shoes, then back up again. There’s a vulnerability in his expression that makes him appear ten years younger. “I didn’t want to crowd you, but I can’t stay away.”
I can’t keep the smile off my face. “That’s good.”
“Good that I didn’t want to crowd you, or good that I can’t stay away?”
“I want to see you too.” Keep it simple, Bryers. Jesus, this man. Is it possible I’m falling in love for the first time at forty? I thought I understood love before this, that I’d experienced it, but this is something else entirely. Maybe I’m undergoing a hormonal shift, some kind of perimenopausal shake-up that’s flooding my system with the last of my declining estrogen.
“Good.” He huffs out a relieved breath. “How about tonight?”
A sudden explosion rattles the windows of the lab. I hear a scream and spin around. Kim Matheson is clutching her neck, blood spurting through her fingers. Heart pounding, I yank open the door and rush to her.
In the confusion, it takes me a moment to understand what’s happened. The students are all standing like statues, frozen, eyes wide under their safety goggles. José’s lab coat is splattered with blood, but aside from a small cut on his forehead, he appears unharmed. Kim and José’s beaker must have exploded, sending shards of glass flying.
As I rush toward Kim, she falls to the floor, still clutching at her neck. Her dark eyes dart around the room in a panic. I kneel beside her and pull her hands away. A shard of glass about the size and sharpness of a razor blade is lodged in her throat. It seems to have missed the carotid artery, from what I can see—thank God. If it severed that, she would bleed out in a matter of minutes. Though the amount of blood is alarming, I think the glass must have nicked the anterior jugular. It’s bad, but not as bad as it could be.
“Somebody call 911!” I shout, trying for calm and authoritative but landing much closer to hysterical. José scrambles for his phone, punching in the numbers, his fingers shaking.
I help Kim lie all the way back on the floor. Breathing steadily to calm my nerves, I yank my lab coat off. Then I realize it’s polyester, not ideal for soaking up blood.
Lynch is there, kneeling on the other side of Kim.
“Give me your shirt,” I order.
He looks shocked for a moment, but doesn’t hesitate. He yanks it over his head. Meanwhile, I concentrate on Kim’s injury. The glass is sticking out of her throat at an angle. I recall from my first-aid training that impaled objects shouldn’t be removed, since they can do more damage to nerves and blood vessels on the way out. I grab Lynch’s cotton T-shirt with one hand and wrap it around the wound, trying to keep her blood loss minimal. Vaguely, I’m aware of gasps and cries of alarm from the students all around me. I press Lynch’s shirt to the wound, applying pressure, mindful not to compress the carotid arteries.
José, still holding his phone, says, “They’re on their way.”
“Is anybody else injured?” I glance at Lynch. Shirtless, he looks like a lifeguard—toned and brown.
“I’ll check.” He stands, surveying the room. Lynch puts on his booming professorial voice. “Okay, everyone, let’s stay calm. Is anybody else hurt?”
“I’m bleeding,” José says, indicating his forehead wound. “It’s not bad, though.”
Lynch investigates the cut.
“There’s a washing station and a first aid kit over there,” I say. “Anyone else with minor abrasions, line up and wash them out. There could be chemicals in the cuts, so you need to get them sterilized right away.”
Lynch leads them over to the station and helps them clean up. Three of the students have minor cuts—luckily nothing serious.
I turn my attention back to Kim. Her eyes are glassy. She’s staring up at the ceiling with a faraway expression.
“Stay with me, Kim. You’re going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine—just hang in there.” I can hear the sirens, thank God. Salt Gulch is a small town. Please. Let them get here in time, I think. She’s lost so much blood already.
“Professor Bryers?” Kim’s voice is small, like a little girl’s, tentative and dreamy.
“Don’t talk, sweetheart.” I never call anyone sweetheart, least of all my students. It just seems like the right thing to say.
The paramedics bustle in then, and I step back, so grateful for their arrival I could kiss them. They load Kim onto a stretcher and whisk her away. I look around, dazed. After a brief conversation with José about the explosion, followed by an even briefer examination of my students, I decide that getting to the hospital is the top priority. I dismiss the shaken class and turn to see Lynch staring down at me, still shirtless.
“I’ll grab a shirt from my office,” he says. “Meet you at the hospital?”
I nod, grateful that he’s read my mind, and rush outside to my car.
* * *
Winter
I run into Bryers in the parking lot. She’s white-faced, her skin glazed with sweat. There’s blood splatter on her forehead and all over her pale green blouse. She looks like an actress in a horror film.
Though we’ve never hugged before, I open my arms on instinct, and she falls into them. We stand there under the cloudy sky, the air thick with coming rain. She’s like a child in my embrace, her body small and trembling.
When Bryers pulls away, she looks at me, her brow furrowed. “You heard?”
“No. What is it? What’s happened?”
