Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

Avery

THE MOMENT THOSE words left my mouth, I knew I fucked up.

I haven't repeated them. Neither of us have brought it up again. That night, we cleaned up, watched another movie and fell asleep cuddled up. In the morning, it was like none of it had even happened.

I meant what I said, but I'm not going to push it. Diego either doesn't feel the same or isn't ready, and while both answers are crushing, I can't force someone to love me. Maybe I'm too young. Maybe it's that I'm still in college. Maybe it's the fear that's chased him this entire time. Maybe I'm simply not the type of person he could love.

Ouch. Okay, let's not think about that last one .

I swear I miss half his class while I'm trying not to focus on what he said, and didn't say, the other night. I startle when an essay flops onto the desk in front of me. Diego moves on before I can react, distributing the rest of the class's essays.

I flip through it, mostly because everyone else is. They're all eager to see their grades, and why shouldn't they be? I'm the only one who couldn't possibly care any less about what's written on this paper.

But when I get to the back, I find a handwritten note.

Please see me during my office hours.

My heart thuds. Is this a TA-Diego note or an at-home-in-private-Diego note? It's impossible to tell, but I know which one I want it to be. The essay otherwise has very few corrections. The notes in the margins are mostly praise such as "good source!" and "excellent job tying these two concepts together." I thought teachers made you go to office hours because you were failing, so is Diego just trying to get me alone?

It doesn't make sense, not after the other night and how awkward things have been since then, but I go the next day anyway, hugging my backpack against my chest to help with the crackle in my nerves as I enter the liberal arts building and climb to the second story. I was so much more excited about this the first time I visited Diego during his office hours. That was only a month or so ago, but it feels like a whole different lifetime. Back then, I simply wanted to flirt with my hot TA and see how he'd respond. So much has changed, however, that I genuinely don't know if I'm marching to this office for a breakup or an academic advisory or something else entirely.

I tap at the door and Diego calls for me to come in. I do, but with way less enthusiasm than the first time.

Diego's sitting behind his desk working on something on his laptop. Probably a paper for one of his classes. He has a ton of coursework of his own. He's one of the few people on this campus as completely overloaded with responsibilities as I am, yet we've managed to find time for each other. We've found time to grow, to make something of this thing between us. Can't he see that that means it's real?

I settle across from him. He keeps typing for a few seconds, and I hug my backpack tighter and tighter, like it's a teddy bear and I'm a kid who woke up from a bad dream. Maybe I'm in the midst of the bad dream right now.

Diego finishes whatever he's typing and finally regards me. He looks like he's fighting not to flinch. I don't say anything, leaving it to him to set the tone. Are we going to pretend we're not fucking, even while sitting in his office with the door closed?

"Avery," he says, and the way his mouth forms the shape of my name is more than professionally friendly. I relax just a little. "Sorry for making you come out here. I know you're always really busy. "

"I don't mind," I say. Was that too fast, too eager? Is it obvious I'm desperate for him to give me any scrap of how he feels after the other night?

"I wanted to talk to you about your academic career," he says.

"My … what?" Of all the things he could have said, that was perhaps the one I expected the least.

"Do you have the paper I returned yesterday?"

"Yeah, um, it's somewhere in here." I set my backpack on the floor so I can root around in it and extract the slightly crumpled essay with Diego's note to meet him. I smooth it on the desk between us.

Diego doesn't flip through it. He simply sets his hand on it, like it's a soap bubble and he doesn't want to pop it.

"Avery, this paper is excellent," he says. "Really excellent."

"Thanks." The praise is nice and all, but I gotta admit — I don't care all that much what he thinks of an essay at the moment. Do you love me or not?

"Avery." Diego lowers his voice, as though there's anyone in this room but the two of us. He leans forward at his desk. "I'm serious. You're far beyond any of your classmates. It's … a bit ridiculous."

Okay, cool. Again, appreciate it, but come on, man. This can't be the reason you asked me to see you a couple days after what happened on my couch.

Except … it could be. This is Deigo. He could ha ve called me here for this reason and nothing else. It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest. I simply don't want this to be the reason. Is he really going to ignore what we did, what I said? Has he forgotten about it that quickly? Did he sweep it aside the moment it happened? Despite all the nice things he's saying, I somehow only feel worse and worse.

"Are you listening?" Diego says.

And I don't know. Something about his tone, his teacher-y, detached tone — it snaps something inside me. He's really going to spend this whole meeting talking about a God damn essay.

"What?" I say, sharp and hard. "What do you want me to say? It's an essay, Diego. I'm glad you like it, but I don't really give a shit right now."

That breaks him from this professional distance thing he's doing.

"We're in my office," he says in the same tone as "eat your vegetables."

I wave at the shut door behind me. "Yeah, we are. With the door shut. With the halls empty. No one is around. So stop talking to me like I'm a stranger."

"I'm not speaking to you like a stranger. I'm trying to keep this professional. I'm trying to be your TA talking to you about an essay."

I shoot to my feet before I can stop myself and snatch up the essay so I can fling it to the floor. "Fuck your essay, Diego. I don't care about the essay. If all you have to say to me is ‘nice essay' then I have better things to do."

He remains sitting, jaw and throat working as he apparently selects and discards whole paragraphs. Before I can unload any of the paragraphs waiting behind my own clenched teeth, I grab my backpack and start heading for the door.

"Wait," Diego says. His chair clatters from how abruptly he stands.

Stupidly, I turn back. He's standing, his hands planted on the desk.

"I didn't just want to compliment your essay," he says. "I wanted to talk to you about your plans for the future."

My eyebrows try to knot themselves together. "The future?"

"Yes. After this. After you graduate. I've asked you before but you didn't have an answer."

I remember that conversation. I'd laughed and told him I would probably go get a job. That answer hasn't changed.

Diego slides around his desk and approaches, slowly, like I'm a bird who might take flight if startled.

"I know you intend to graduate and get a job, but what if you didn't?" Diego says.

"What?"

"Listen, the semester is ending soon. Then you'll only have three semesters left here, a year and a half. Do you really intend to simply get your degree and move on?"

"Why wouldn't I?" I say. It's not like a major in History of Race, Power and Gender is good for much other than a desk job or teaching.

Diego inches closer, perhaps without even realizing he's doing it. "Because you can do so much more than that. And that essay—" He jabs a finger at the paper on the floor. "—is the proof. You could keep going, keep researching, keep contributing to the field. You're brilliant, Avery. You don't need to end up in some cubicle wasting eight hours on your phone and waiting to clock out each day. You could make a real difference to this field, and I'd be a terrible TA if I didn't tell you so."

My anger cools in a gust of surprise. This is what he wanted? He's mentioned it before, but never with such passion. He reaches for me, taking my hands in his and squeezing.

"Avery, you can do this. You can do so much. You're way smarter than I ever was. And I know you love this. I know you're passionate about it. I could help you look at programs and fill out applications. There are places all over the country, all over the world , and I'm sure several of them would be thrilled to have you."

My heart sinks. All over the country. All over the world. Is this just a chance for him to send me away? We haven't even gotten an opportunity to do this for real, and he's already giving up. If I got accepted to some graduate program far away, it would solve all his problems, though, wouldn't it? I'd be on the other side of the country or something, and he'd have nothing to worry about. Why bother saying "I love you" to someone you physically can't reach?

I yank my hands away, and confusion closes Diego's face.

"Is this just a really academic way of dumping me?" I say.

"What? No."

"Then why are you saying this? Why are you trying to send me away? Is it because of what I said the other night?"

Diego winces. "I'm not sending you away. I'm telling you this because I think you could do more in life than sit behind a desk. I think you should do more. Please, at least consider it."

My head hears what he's saying, but my heart screams that it's a lie, a pretense for getting rid of me. The wound I've been ignoring ever since the other night aches, a chasm in my chest. I want to sink to the floor and close myself up around it, but I can't. Not here.

I need to get out of this office.

"I'll think about it," I say, but it rings hollow even in my own ears.

Diego watches me, concern creasing his brow. "Avery, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that—"

"I know," I cut in. "I know. You're just doing your job."

"I'm not merely doing my job. I care about you. I want you to succeed."

"I know." Why can't he see that success is more than a job to me? It's more than making money or having your name on a paper. What's the point of those things if you're a hollow shell? "I'll think about it. Thanks."

I head for the door. Diego calls out for me, but he doesn't stop me when I open the door and slip out into the hallway. He's said all he wants to say, evidently. I don't need to hear any more.