8. Silence is Golden

CHAPTER EIGHT

Silence is Golden

A s I step out of the library, the cool night air does nothing to clear the fog of lust that still clouds my judgment. My body hums with the remnants of pleasure Stratford's skilled fingers coaxed from me, but I shake my head, trying to dispel the haze.

I'm determined to prove to him, and more importantly, to myself, that I am immune to his charm. That I won't be another notch on his academic belt, a student seduced by her professor's intellect and allure. I square my shoulders and start the brisk walk back to the bar near campus where a lot of people hang out, each step a silent affirmation of my resolve.

Do I like pool and beer?

No, but I'm going to pretend like hell.

As I head down the street, my determined stride falters. There, leaning casually outside the bar, is Brandon. His blond hair catches the moonlight.

He's the epitome of a college heartthrob, with his striking blond hair and a casual ease that seems to draw people in. His brown eyes, paler than his father's, and far less intense, hold a spark of harmless mischief.

He's not handsome the way his father is… But he's cute.

And more importantly, not overwhelming. I'd never lose myself in him. He's young, carefree, and at this moment, what I want to be.

"Hey, Anne," he calls out, pushing off the wall and approaching me. "How was Christmas break? You get any good presents?"

We haven't done presents in our family for a long time. "Sure."

"How's Daisy?"

The genuine concern in his voice surprises me. It's sweet, really, that he's asking about her, though I'm not even sure how she's doing. "She's…coping."

He nods, his brown eyes studying me a moment too long. "That's good. You want to hang out for a bit? It's been a while since we talked."

Since we broke up, he means.

Though somehow my rancor is gone.

We were good together once, even if it was shallow and meaningless and going nowhere. Isn't that what college boyfriends are supposed to be? Even after he cheated, even after I slept with his father, I can't deny the casual comfort his familiar presence brings. It was why I went out with him in the first place.

"Sure, why not," I find myself saying. "I could drink a beer."

He grins, the same charming smile that's a water imitation of his father's. I allow myself to bask in the simplicity of his company. Maybe spending time with him is exactly what I need to remind myself that I'm a 19-year-old college student, not a clandestine lover in a forbidden affair.

I can't help but wonder if Professor Stratford will find out about this.

And if I'm being honest, part of me wants him to.

The Brickside Tavern teems with students. The scent of stale beer welcomes us. Balls click together in rapid succession from the pool tables. He finds us an open one near the back, the green felt worn from countless games. Soon enough we both have beers and sticks, all the accoutrements that should be normal to me. Instead, they feel foreign .

The clack of balls colliding, the whoops of victory, and the indistinct murmur of conversation… It's all strange. I don't usually like this, but it feels so much safer after what Stratford and I did in that library.

Brandon lines up and then breaks the rack. The balls go spinning crazily, two of them landing in the pockets, one of each, which means I get to choose.

"Stripes or solids?" he asks.

"Umm, stripes." I've played pool before. In fact, he's the one who taught me how. Though I'm terrible at it, especially compared to him and his experienced friends. Which is proven when I shoot and the cue ball barely glances off the fifteen.

He hands over one of the little cubes of chalk, which I assume means I should use it on the tip. "How have you been?" he asks.

I've gotten fingered by your father. Twice. "Pretty good. You?"

"I finally transferred to the business department."

"Oh, that's great." I know from when we were dating that he has wanted this for a while. Since before he came to college, actually. "Your mom's cool with it now? "

"No, she still hates it, but my dad actually supports me."

My cheeks burn. "He does?"

"Yeah, we've gotten closer since he started teaching here. He always backed whatever she said, but this time he didn't. Said it was my life, I should get to choose."

I tell him that's great. And it is, because he's never cared about literature, especially the more obscure, unreadable versions of it. He was a year ahead of me. "I never understood why your mother wanted you to study Shakespeare. Sometimes I would envy you."

He snorts. "She wants me to be just like my dad. Which is fucking ironic, because they can't stand each other. They sat on opposite sides of the school auditorium for my high school graduation. Been like that for as long as I can remember."

I shouldn't be pleased that Professor Stratford isn't close to his ex, that he hasn't been for a long time. It shouldn't matter at all, so I ignore the spark of possessiveness.

As the night progresses, Brandon's friends trickle in, a boisterous group that seems to fill the entire bar with their laughter and antics. They're a blur of college stereotypes—baseball caps, fraternity letters, and easy smiles. I watch them, amused by their camaraderie, wincing at some of the immature jokes and the huge bets they place. I'm pressed against the wall, letting others play.

Even when I'm in the middle of the action, I'm outside.

Always on the outside, looking in.

I came here for refuge, but I don't belong here.

The sad truth is that I belong in the library, even if it means being Stratford's lover. Even if it means losing myself in the stacks.

As I watch him, so carefree and unburdened, I can't help but feel a pang of longing for another time. Another life. I was never that way, not even in childhood.

There were no presents wrapped by Santa, only harsh parents who demanded that I love them, love them, love them, until I was a husk of a child. Until I cleaned the house and did the chores and made the money. Until a lifetime spent in fictional plays from the sixteenth century felt more like home.

Brandon catches my eye and grins. He excuses himself from the group and saunters over, a confident swagger in his step. I can't help but smile back, his cheerful tipsiness endearing. "Having fun?"

"Yeah," I say, trying to prove the point by taking a sip of beer. And wincing.

He laughs. "You never liked that stuff."

I shrug. "It's not my favorite."

Brandon tilts his head, considering me. "What is your favorite?"

Expensive whiskey, as long as it's your father who buys it and teaches me how to drink and watches me as it slides down my throat.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing against mine. I stiffen, surprised by the touch, and pull away slightly. Brandon's smile falters, but he doesn't move his hand. "I know I hurt you. I can't take back what I did, but I miss you."

I bite my lip, my heart pounding in my chest. "I don't know."

He nods, his expression serious. "I understand. But I want you to know that I'm sorry. That if there's any way I could make it up to you, I would."

He leans in, his eyes searching mine, and I know what's coming. I don't move, frozen in place. Part of me wants to try it, to see if maybe, just maybe, kisses like that run in the family. That maybe I could feel that way I did an hour ago against the bookshelf with someone my age.

The other part of me feels, bizarrely, like I'd be cheating .

Professor Stratford has no promises to me. I have none to him. We're not a couple. We're not anything at all, but my skin buzzes with a feeling of not right.

His lips meet mine, gentle and hesitant. I close my eyes, my mind filled with the taste of his beer-tinged breath and the sound of the music from the bar. He deepens the kiss, and I try to lose myself, to forget about William and the twisted game we've been playing. It's impossible.

Instead, I find myself comparing Brandon to William, the impatience and clumsiness of his touch to the skilled, dominating caress of William's fingers.

I pull away, breathless. "I can't," I say, the words burning in my throat.

He looks at me, his eyes full of hurt and confusion. "I really fucked this up, didn't I? I was too stupid to know how special you were. I'm sorry."

It's not about his cheating, not really.

It's about realizing that I'm someone else, trying to make myself fit into the mold of a regular college girlfriend, as if he could make me normal.

I'm not sure where I'm going, but I know I need to leave. I turn, my heart pounding, and push past the crowds of students, heading towards the exit.

The campus is a wildfire blur in the setting sun as I weave my way back to my dorm. The elevator car smells so intensely like wet dog that I look around the small space, as if maybe I'm not seeing one. Maybe I just miss Rusty. He was the only good part of home. I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss the looming figure of Lorelei, our ever-vigilant RA. She's telling someone that they have to clean up their shit or they're going to lose shower privileges.

Which feels like a punishment that will hurt all of us.

I manage to step inside without her spotting me.

Something was slipped under my door, a black envelope.

A shiver of apprehension down my spine. The seal of the Shakespeare Society is embossed at the top, a mocking reminder of the privilege that comes with their recognition.

Esteemed scholars,

You are cordially invited to join us for an event that will bring new meaning to the bard's words. This is not a party. It's a test of intellect, an underground crucible, a gauntlet where wit and cunning reign supreme.

Remember, silence is golden, and the tongue is a double-edged sword. Reveal not the contents of this invitation, lest you slice yourself open.

Jesus Christ. They're inviting me after nearly costing Daisy her life. My blood boils. How dare they? After what they did to her, how could they think I'd want anything to do with them?

I suppose, technically, I passed their initiation.

They disgust me.

Stratford disgusts me. Or at least, he should.

It ends with a skull-shaped QR code that I assume has information on where to go and when. Maybe another few hoops to jump through to keep it secret. Regardless of the threat at the end, people talk.

The Society thrives on power and manipulation.

Professor Stratford does, too. They can have each other. With trembling hands, I crumple the invitation and toss it into the trash bin. I can't believe I let him touch me. In that magic bubble of Shakespeare, I somehow let my guard down. I let myself forget that he's the enemy—and that he's ruthless.