Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Diego

I'VE AVOIDED THE university often since that night at the drag show. Someone is going to notice all the time I don't spend on campus sooner or later, so I've forced myself into the library today, but I'm as jumpy as a skittish cat backed into a corner. I choose the table that sits farthest from everything, a nook in a back corner, then settle in with a stack of textbooks from the paltry bit of the history section that actually focuses on queer history.

The work is calming. I do a bit of prep for that Queer and Trans History class (trying very hard not to think about Avery the entire time) then move on to work for my own studies. I don't have a ton to work with based on what's available in the university library, however. And that's not a dig at C U of M itself. Their selection is actually pretty decent, but this is a vastly under-studied field. There isn't enough research on it, or enough people doing the research. That's why the field is so important. That's why people like Avery need to be mentored and guided.

But not by me.

Definitely not by me.

I'm no fit mentor for anyone. After what happened at the drag show, I should probably resign my position, pack my things and drive home. I don't deserve to be here after letting myself do that with a student. What was I even thinking?

My body answers before my mind can stop it, heat stirring in my gut, the same heat that sparked on that dark dance floor. When Avery took my hands and danced, I lost myself. I lost control. I let the music and the dark and Avery's touch lull me into believing we were far enough away from our real lives that I could violate every bit of ethics I know. If we were strangers on that dance floor, fine. But we weren't. We knew. We knew the entire time what we were doing. And we did it anyway.

I swallow hard. A book sits open before me, but I haven't read a single word in minutes. A cursor blinks condescendingly at me from a blank word document on my laptop. Even here in the library, I can do nothing but think about them. It doesn't matter whether I'm on campus or off, my mind inevitably loops back to those moments in the dark .

I force myself to focus, and even manage to take some notes and begin an outline of yet another paper I should be writing. The assignments never end, and the stress certainly isn't helping with my … other predicament.

I'm still begging myself to focus when someone joins me at my table. They sit right next to me, in fact. The library must have filled up while I was busy thinking about things I shouldn't be thinking about. I ignore the other person, who's likely a student intent on ignoring me too, and finally turn to the textbooks and that outline taking shape on my dying laptop.

"I don't have cooties, you know."

I freeze when Avery speaks beside me. I was trying so hard not to look at the person next to me that it never crossed my mind that it could be them. Now, I turn my head just enough to sneak a glance at them. They're relaxed beside me, cheek perched against a fist as they smirk at me.

"What are you doing?" I say under my breath.

"Studying," they say. "Like you, I assume. We both have classes at this university, if you haven't noticed."

"Why are you studying here ?" I say.

Maybe that's rude, but I don't care. My heart is beating way too fast. My shoulders are hunched like I can disappear into them like a turtle retreating into his shell. I'm barely looking at them, and even that is enough to coat my hands in sweat.

It's only partially fear. I wish it was more than partially fear .

The patter in my chest is undeniable, as tangible as the heat pooling in my belly. My brain might be screaming red alert, but my body has a very different opinion of being this close to Avery again.

"I'm studying here," Avery says coolly, "because you have half the books I need."

I blink at the books scattered across the table. A lot of them are relevant to my graduate studies … which means they're probably relevant to Avery's undergraduate studies. I was just bemoaning how small that section of this library is, so it shouldn't be a surprise that Avery is looking for a lot of the same things I am. That doesn't make me like it any better, though.

"You could use other books," I say. "Or the internet or something."

"I could, but I want those books," Avery says.

They infuse extra meaning into every word, speaking in that silky, lilting way of theirs, that way that suggests so much more than whatever their words mean on the surface. I can't not hear it, not with the way they smile at me as they speak.

"Avery, please," I say.

"Relax," they say. "I'm here to work. Same as you. It's not like I knew you'd be here. How would I?"

"Then switch to another table and use other books."

"I can't. I really do need some of these."

"Avery, come on. There must be other books. "

"I'm not sure if you noticed, but the ‘incredibly gay history' section isn't exactly overflowing."

I have noticed, but that doesn't stop me from dislodging my glasses to pinch the bridge of my nose as I huff out a sigh. My body wars between assailing me with a headache and flushing head to toe. Closing my eyes barely holds off either reaction, but it's like sandbags trying to hold back a hurricane. The defenses will crumble eventually.

I'm desperate to prevent that from happening. I can't keep giving into this. It doesn't matter if things would be different in different circumstances. These are our circumstances. I'm their TA; they're my student. We don't have the luxury of any other circumstances.

"We could work together," Avery says.

"I'm working on my graduate degree. You're still an undergrad."

"That's true. And yet…"

They don't have to finish the thought. Some piece of me knows they're right. In a field this small, there's ample overlap.

They sigh, exhausted with my reasonable refusals, and reach past me for one of the textbooks. They skim it swiftly, flipping back and forth between a few pages.

"I was using that," I protest.

"I saved your page. Relax."

They find a section near the back and stick a sticky tab on the page, then flip back to where I was reading .

"There," Avery says. "See? Right back to your spot. But when you're done, I need that later section."

I concede, and Avery seems satisfied at last. We both go back to our own tasks, and within a few minutes some of the tension melts out of my shoulders. I fall back into my work without realizing it, and my outline swells into something usable. I have a separate document full of quotes and citations. All I have to do now is weave it all together by writing the paper itself. I close the textbook, then remember that tab Avery placed in it.

"Oh. Right."

I slide the book over to Avery. Is it an accident that their hand brushes mine when they accept it, or did they orchestrate that flutter of fingers? They're so clever, so intelligent, so determined. If they wanted to touch me, even in the middle of the library, they would find a way.

They take the book without anything more than that light, potentially accidental touch, opening up to their tab without comment. I'm giving them too much credit. I'm trying to blame this on them when I'm the one entirely at fault here. They're a student; they're not the one responsible for shutting this down.

For some reason, I don't leap up from my seat after that. I stay there beside Avery and start working on my paper for as long as my battery will last. I have my charger with me, but I don't plug it in just in case I need an excuse to flee .

Within minutes, I forget about the charger. I forget about fleeing. The silence that falls over our corner of the library is as comfortable as a blanket laid over our laps. We're both typing between flipping through one of the books in front of us, and soon it almost feels like we're working on the same paper rather than separate assignments.

They reach for one of the books and start flipping through it. My eyes are watery from staring at words on a bright screen for so long. I close my laptop when I notice the textbook Avery grabbed.

"You can find a better source than that," I say.

They raise an eyebrow at me. "Oh? What's wrong with this?"

"Nothing, but there are better sources if you're looking for first-hand accounts."

"Like what?"

There's no artifice this time. I don't know how I know, but I'm certain of it. So I lean a bit closer, edging into their space, and point at the page they were looking at.

"A lot of these kinds of reports ended up online. It was the early ‘90s, but some of the accounts survived. I know I'm supposed to tell you to use better sources, but you can find reliable sources if you dig around a little. Is your laptop connected to the library Wi-Fi?"

Avery turns their laptop toward me. We start searching around. I even reach over and type in a couple things when I'm not sure how to explain it. I love these old accounts. A lot of them come from the queer bar and club scene from the ‘80s and ‘90s. A lot happened there away from the prying eyes of the rest of society.

"Wow," Avery says. Their eyes are flickering around the screen like they can't possibly read all of it quickly enough. "This is amazing. I need to read all of this."

"I doubt you need all of it for your paper."

"Not for my paper. Just for myself."

My chest does some kind of alarming lurching thing at the thought of Avery sitting around reading these documents just for personal interest. Because it's exactly the kind of thing I used to do.

Suddenly, they turn their wide eyes and huge grin on me, and it's like getting hit with a stage light. I swallow, finally realizing how close I got so I could type on their computer. I'm leaning so far toward them that I can see every crease of their lips, and that conjures up a vivid memory of how soft those lips felt against mine.

I reel back, almost knocking myself out of my chair in my haste to retreat. Some of the light in Avery's face fades.

"Sorry," I say. "I forgot. I need to…"

The excuse withers. I know they don't believe me. I don't believe me. Those words are the flimsiest of barriers between us, and I scramble to run before the bulwark can break.

"Diego, wait," Avery says. "It's okay. "

It's not. It's not okay. Every time I'm around them, I either cross the line or almost cross the line. I'll take this "almost" as a victory, but it's only going to stay an "almost" if I leave right now.

I sweep my laptop and the couple books that are mine into my bag, then jerk up out of my chair.

"You can use the rest," I say.

It's all I offer to Avery as a goodbye.