2. Theron

2

THERON

TOO SWEET - HOZIER

Five a.m. sharp.

The birds haven't even started twittering yet when my alarm blares. I turn it off with a swat of my hand and then reach blindly for my glasses.

Eyesight restored, I'm up to start my day.

It begins the same as always. Ten minutes in the shower. Five minutes in front of the sink trimming my facial hair and brushing my teeth. A quick change into some gym shorts, and then it's off to the kitchen to get the coffee started and take out Atticus.

He wags his fluffy tail as he dashes out the kitchen door to go do his business.

The rest of the neighborhood is dead silent, a neat row of equally perfect family homes that scream Americana. Part of the charm of living in a suburb outside of Castlebury.

Many years ago, I bought this house with the intention of starting a family.

Many years ago, I was hopeful, if not bordering on delusional .

These days, spying the manicured lawns and painted shutters fills me with nothing more than hot irritation.

Atticus races back into the kitchen just as my coffee machine stops tinkling. He's ready to chow down on his breakfast while I'm more preoccupied with grabbing the newspaper off the front step.

Some would say it's archaic that I still have the daily paper delivered.

This isn't the twentieth century anymore. In today's era of instant gratification, I could have the news at my fingertips. A quick internet search away.

Most people are too self-involved to truly appreciate the printed word. They're addicted to their electronic devices like junkies hooked on crack cocaine. I see it day in, day out on campus.

Students glued to the glowing screens in their hands, pupils dilated.

I prefer tradition. The silken feel of the freshly printed paper and the potent smell of the black ink. The crinkling sound you make when you turn to the next page in between sips of hot coffee. Quality writing instead of mind-numbing internet jargon.

I've never seen an article in the Castlebury Tribune reference anyone's ‘rizz' nor do I give a damn to learn what the latest ‘bop' is.

But before I can turn back inside my house to indulge in my morning ritual, I stop short. My gaze lands on my BMW XI parked in the driveway and the giant scratch mark keyed into the side.

Veronica.

I go from priding myself for not touching my phone in over twelve hours to desperately fumbling for it, fuming enough to shake. My breaths come out of me in ragged puffs as I dial her number by memory.

Once, she'd been saved as a contact. My most frequent contact.

That was before we started hating each other…

She answers with a sleepy yawn. "Hello?"

"My BMW," I snarl. "It's been keyed!"

She yawns again. "Theron?"

"You know who it is!"

"Why're you calling so early? It's barely even?—"

"Answer me!" I bellow. "Did you key my car?"

"I've been sleeping."

"It's a simple yes or no question. Just when I think you couldn't stoop any lower."

Her drowsy tone disappears. Scorn takes its place. "I've stooped low? You're one to talk."

"I never keyed your car!"

"So what? You wasted how many years of my life?"

"I wasn't aware that's a crime!"

"You make yourself a victim every time," she says. "I don't think I've ever met another person with zero self-awareness like you. Ever think this is karma paying you back?"

"Veronica, if I find out you keyed my fucking car?—"

"Goodbye, Theron. Don't call me again. We're done, remember? Your words."

The line goes dead.

When I try to redial her number, I'm sent straight to voicemail. My knuckles whiten from how tightly I'm gripping the phone, waiting for the beep.

"You fucking bitch," I rage the second the recording starts. "You really think you'll get away with this? You think I'm not about to hold you accountable? Just wait and see. "

The recording cuts me off before I can finish the rest of my rant.

I howl in anger and hurl my phone across the room. Not the most rational decision considering it smashes into the antique brass scales of justice perched on my wall shelf. An heirloom that's been in my family for decades. The scales tumble to the ground with a violent clang.

My rage only intensifies. I release a second howl like some feral beast.

A rarity for me. But the explosion is warranted.

Veronica knows exactly what she's doing.

She knows I'll never go to the police. She's aware this will have to be handled between the two of us.

That's exactly what she wants.

Instead of a clean, amicable break up, she wants to prolong the toxicity.

I force calming breaths through my lungs and remind myself I won't give it to her.

Her passion and unpredictability are what kept me coming back for more in the past. From the time we were in college, we were back and forth, on again and then off again.

We'd even gotten engaged .

I collect my phone off the floor and call the only real friend I have—my sister, Theo.

The one person I can trust in this world.

Theo is the type of loyal that would have her showing up at three a.m. to bury a body. No questions asked.

"Calling me before business hours? You must be in trouble, bro."

I grit my teeth. "Veronica keyed my car."

" Again ? Didn't she key your last car? The Mercedes? "

"That was the broken window in the living room. But she swears to this day it wasn't her."

"Mhm," Theo hums from her end of the line. "And I'm Mother Theresa."

"Not exactly helping."

"What do you want me to say, asshole?" she snipes with a laugh. "You have just about the worst taste in women? Didn't I warn you about her a gazillion times already?"

This is true.

…but far from what I want to hear.

"Why do I even call you?" I ask, voicing my rhetorical question aloud. I've walked down the stairs to slide on my running shoes so I can begin my morning workout. "You're supposed to be on my side."

"I am on your side. It's not my fault you're attracted to crazy like most men."

"And you're not crazy?"

"But I'm a lesbian. So I'm kinda off the table for your entire gender. Anyway, I've got to go. As you know, it's the first day of the semester, which means I've got plenty of college kids nagging my ass about their housing problems."

"I'm still astonished they've entrusted you with an entire building."

"Whatever, asshole. Dad's rec certainly helped get me in good with the building owner, the father of that nutty ex of yours. But let me know if Fatal Attraction comes around again. You know I'd love to smack a bitch. Even if I lose my job."

Theo hangs up like only she can, without a real goodbye, cracking a crude joke.

It's enough to set me straight. Remind me that Veronica isn't worth the trouble .

Her tantrums are just that. A hissy fit worthy of a toddler.

On that note, I finish my morning ritual, ready to start the new school year.

"She gives good dome, bro," guffaws Lucas Cummings, his freckled face lit up. "She came over after that pool party Driscoll threw. Took me fifteen minutes to get her to suck my dick."

His grin spreads as he recounts the crass story in line for a coffee at the student union. He doesn't care that he's loud and others overhear. As he and his friend Samson Wicker take up more space than they should, he feels invincible. They twirl their rugby ball and wear their letterman jackets and stand wide and immovably, blocking passage for others.

Including myself.

"Doesn't surprise me," Wicker replies, laughing too. "The chubby ones are always easy."

"Dude, that's your sister!"

"So what? Doesn't mean she's not a slut. Katie's always been a doormat. I don't care if you mess with her."

"What about you and Oliver?" he asks. "She cave yet?"

"Working on it. Any day now."

"Don't bother with the prissy bitches. Once you turn them out, it's boring."

I clear my throat, forcing their attention. They both glance over their shoulders, surprised anyone in the student union has the audacity to interrupt them.

I remain nonplussed.

Stoic and unreadable .

Though on the inside, irritation simmers to a boil.

I've had my fill of listening to idiotic jock banter about which college girls they have and have not screwed.

"Gentleman," I say in a tone that's calm yet underscored by authority. "How about you step aside if you're more preoccupied with your very colorful conversation than ordering a coffee? Some of us would like to carry on with our mornings."

Cummings's brow furrows in primitive anger until Wicker slaps a meaty hand to his shoulder, recognizing who I am at a glance. The blond does the opposite of his slow-witted friend—he cracks a smile at me and then steps aside.

"Yeah… of course, Professor. Right on."

I pass through them sensing the opposite energies. Cummings's offense and Wicker's oaf-like sense of humor.

But neither matter.

I wasn't concerned with stupid meathead types like them many years ago when I attended this same college.

I'm certainly not today as a professor.

The barista hands me my coffee looking grateful I've broken up the mini frat party. Though something tells me the second I'm out of earshot, two douchebags as big as Samson Wicker and Lucas Cummings will pick up right where they left off.

Armed with my peppermint mocha, I head toward Harper Hall for the year one law orientation. I'm mere footsteps outside the hall when Dean Rothenberg appears in his latest tailored suit jacket and pocket watch combo.

The gold chain practically glints in the pale autumn sunlight as he grins broadly at me, and a gust of wind blows through his thinning, peppered hair. He drips arrogance with every step he takes; he's from such an affluent family that his position as dean is more for optics than anything. Handed down to him from his father, the dean before him.

He holds out his hand for me to shake. "Theron, how was your summer?"

"Uneventful," I answer, begrudgingly accepting his handshake. "I did manage to get plenty of reading done."

He chuckles, the lone fastened button on his jacket straining against the paunch of his belly. "That's about what I'd expect of you. It must run in the family. I vacationed on Montbec Island for the summer. Notice the tan?"

"Yes," I grit out. "You are redder than usual."

"You're always welcome to join," he says, ignoring my slight. "Me and the other bachelors on the trip met some very attractive—very young , might I add—women at the beach. We had the time of our lives. Maybe next year you'll live a little. Get out more and have an eventful summer."

He strolls off whistling a tune.

I'm fuming on the inside for the third time today and it's not even ten a.m. yet. I'm not normally a hot-tempered man—and find those who are reductive—but today's an exception.

After checking the time, I don't bother heading to my office. Orientation for the first years starts in twenty minutes.

"Theron, there you are. Since you're already up, will you make sure no one else is lost in the hall?" calls our faculty head, Pamela Williamson, the second I walk into the room where the orientation is being held. She's up at the front of the room barking orders at the other professors that'll be briefing the group.

The rows of chairs have slowly filled up as our year ones trickle in uncertainly and then nab a seat. A deep breath leaves me as I don't bother challenging her. The more time I spend out of the room, the better.

Orientation has never been a part of the semester that I've enjoyed.

Williamson insists all the year one professors attend to put faces to the names and to ease the students' anxiety about their upcoming classes. I sip from my peppermint mocha heading out into the hall, glancing around for any stragglers.

It's as I turn the corner that I collide with one of them.

She's bustling down the hall, clutching her books and leather bag, hardly paying mind to where she's going. The books she's carrying fly out of her arms. My cup of coffee tumbles out of my hand and splashes along the front of my tweed jacket.

The drink's still warm, quickly staining.

A second passes where she freezes and her eyes double in size. I've gone still too, for different reasons.

The same pulse of anger I've felt all morning long returns in yet another scowl.

If there was one word to describe her, it would be mortified. Her lips have parted, drawing attention to how glossy and plump they are. She has a beauty mark on the apple of her cheek and long lashes that frame brown eyes that change shades in the light—with the sun pouring in through the arched windows, they've turned almost gold.

Her hair's full and curly, neatly smoothed back into a thick ponytail. The rosy strip of fabric matches the cropped cardigan she wears. As she quickly digs around for a towelette in her bookbag, the hem of her cardigan rises and reveals a sliver of bare skin.

An inch of her flat, taut stomach exposed.

It draws attention to how the pleated skirt she wears sits enticingly at her rounded hips.

She's not very tall. More than a head shorter, as she comes to her senses and then steps back from me.

It seems to occur to her that she shouldn't be standing so close, rubbing coffee off a professor the way she is.

"I… I'm so… sorry," she stammers out.

My jaw clenches tighter. "What's your name?"

"Oliver. Nyssa Oliver. I'm… I was… the year one law student orientation…"

If possible, I regard her more harshly. No forgiveness can be found in my expression. Just irritation and judgment.

She should've been paying attention to where she was going. She should've been on time instead of rushing in last minute.

"Clean this right now," I snap. "Then hurry up to the orientation. You're late."

I don't wait for a response before stalking off. I've had enough of today, and Nyssa Oliver just so happens to be the breaking point.