Page 50 of Flare

Jack rolled his eyes in that patient way that let me know he saw straight through me. “Yeah, he’s a year older but he’s kinda cool. His home life’s apparently shitty, but he doesn’t talk about it much.”

Since that was apparently all I was going to get, I leaned on the counter and studied him as I sipped on my coffee. “What would you think about seeing your mother tomorrow? The week’s up today.”

His shoulders tensed and he didn’t look up, but he nodded. “Yeah, okay. But can you stick around this time? I don’t wanna talk to her alone.”

“Sure.” I kept my voice even. “She’ll understand.”

He glanced at the clock. “Can I grab a lift?”

I nodded. “Meet you outside.” I gathered my bag and coat and headed for the garage, feeling lighter than I had in months. Maybe we’d be okay, after all.

No small thanks to Rhys and Kip and Flare.

So I needed to stop acting chickenshit, put a plan in place, and just talk to the man. That is, if I survived my colleagues and Friday classes who’d also never seen my chin.

* * *

It started with scaring the daylights out of our office manager who spilt her tea down the front of her shirt when I’d poked my head through the doorway to say good morning.

Next was Brian Fielding, the department head, a buttoned-up career academic I’d never warmed to. He almost swallowed his tongue, which would’ve saved me the trouble of wanting to ram it down his throat ten minutes later when he refused to budge on the doctoral student issue, and the fact that I was apparently required to at least be available to help with the summer programme, even if I wasn’t running it per se.

It was a total stitch-up because it meant I’d have to stay local in Auckland and not get Jack away for a holiday, something I really wanted to help cement our relationship. On that note, I refused to even consider it. Brian wasn’t happy, and I guessed it wouldn’t be the last I heard on the subject. But Jack needed the break. I needed it. And we both needed time together, away from everything else. But I was skating on thin ice and we both knew it.

Fuck.

After the tense meeting with my boss, the new-look beard had miraculously rendered my gossipy doctoral students silent on our weekly zoom session—one cocky fellow having the audacity to ask if Armageddon was in fact imminent and he’d just missed the memo. Cheeky fucker.

“It’s like Boy George throwing an interview without his hat,” he’d said drily. “Or Jason Momoa with a crew cut. Nike ditching the swoosh. We need time to process, man. Who knows what’s next? It’s scary times.”

Which brought me to the door of the tutorial room wherein dwelt my graduate class. I’d never been so damn nervous. Not about what I was teaching—the influence of the American poets Walt Whitman and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, particular favourites of mine—but about facing a group of people who’d I spent almost four years encouraging to speak up and have an opinion. Opinions I suddenly wasn’t so keen on hearing anymore.

I put my hand on the classroom door, sucked in a breath, and pushed my way inside.

An hour later I left with a smile on my face and a moderated nine out of ten score for the new look. Had I mentioned opinionated?

“It would’ve been a ten,” Chad explained on behalf of the class. “But two, who shall remain nameless and gender anonymous, thought the mountain-man look you had going on was a lot sexier.”

There was nothing to say to that.

Rafe appeared at my office door at eleven with coffees in hand, took one look, apologised, and quickly closed the door only to open it again a few seconds later, his face white as a ghost.

“Holy fucking Christ on a cracker and witches in britches, itisyou. I’d dismissed the gossip goons as totally insane.”

“Yes!” I fist pumped the air. “I finally made the rumour mill? Another thing off my bucket list. People might believe I actually have a life.”

“Only those who don’t know you.” He grabbed my cheeks in his hand so he could get a good look. “Did it get caught in the waste disposal? Did you apply hair remover rather than shaving cream? Holy fuck.” He collapsed in his usual chair and stared. Then he gathered himself and pummelled me with questions until he’d pulled the whole pathetic story from my lips from start to finish.

“But he did say yes? And he did kiss you back?” Rafe sprawled, his hands steepled on his chest.

“Yes, but that’s not the point. He’d already clearly said he wasn’t ready, and I took advantage. I mean, he ran after, right? How clear can it be?”

Rafe blew a low whistle. “Well, that fucking sucks.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You think he was just playing with you? You want me to go fuck him up?” Rafe’s mouth quirked up in a smile.

I snorted. “No. It was my fault. I pushed.”

---