“You—”
“I wanted you to be safe,” Liv admits, her voice still thick. “It was… it was the only way I could think of to protect you from anything bad that might happen here. And to keep you away from my mother. I told you I don’t want her to poison my life any more than she already has, but more than anything I don’t want her to poison you.”
“She… she can’t hurt me.”
“She already has. You’ve always been angry with her for what she did to me, for what she didn’t do. I just… I knew if you went back to Italy, she couldn’t touch you. But because you are such a stubborn ass, I also knew you’d fight me tooth and nail if you thought my mother was the reason you had to leave again. I can handle her. But I don’t want you to have to.”
“Liv.” I picture her all curled up in my office chair, hugging her knees to her chest, her hair sliding over her shoulders. I’m about to break in half.
“I’m here,” she says.
“Okay.” I shut my eyes. “Okay. I love you.”
“I’m yours,” Liv whispers. “I’ll always be yours. You told me once that I became your world the minute you saw me. It was the same for me. I’ll never forget it, Dean, the instant I looked up and saw you. Something opened in me, something I didn’t even know existed. And then when you reached out to touch me… I couldn’t believe how I was reacting, this intense, hot pull, like I already knew I belonged to you.”
“Damn right you belong to me.” My voice roughens. “You belong with me. I’m not doing this anymore. I’m not staying away from you. I need you, dammit.”
“Oh, Dean.” Liv’s breath escapes on a rush. “Whatever you need from me, you know I’ll give it to you. I’ll do anything for you.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
“Then get ready for me. I’m coming home.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Olivia
April 28
y mother moves in with the owner of the auto repair shop after she takes her car in to be fixed. Our apartment seems lighter without her, and though she still comes to help at the café on occasion, we don’t speak much after our argument.
I try not to think about the fact that she is very likely still here because she’s feeling the loss of her own mother in ways she probably never comprehended. And all her futile attempts to convince me to come with her again are a sad way of easing the loss. I try not to think about the fact that I might even pity her.
The day before Dean is scheduled to return, I go to the university for my meeting with Ben Stafford of the Office of Judicial Affairs. He is a slender, bearded man with a long, narrow nose who reminds me a little of Inspector Clouseau. This is rather comforting, as I’d been having images of me sweating under hot interrogation lights.
“Can you please tell me when you first met Professor Dean West?” Mr. Stafford asks, after we’re seated in his office.
“When I was a student at the University of Wisconsin.”
“First year?”
“Yes, but it was my junior year. I was twenty-four. It was my first year as a transfer student.”
“Your major?”
“Library sciences and literature.”
“How did you meet Professor West?”
“I had some trouble with transfer credits and was at the registrar’s office trying to work it out. He was there and offered to help.”
Ben Stafford peers at me. “How did he offer to help?”
“He suggested I go to the professors directly and ask them to approve the credits. I did, and the problem was solved.”
“When did you begin dating?”
“A few weeks later, after he came into the coffeehouse where I was working.” I’m starting to get nervous, which seems silly since I’m just telling the truth. But I’ve never talked to anyone about how I met Dean, let alone our relationship, and it feels like I’m divulging our secrets.
I know there has always been a teaching dynamic to my relationship with Dean, mostly because of our different world experiences, not to mention his sexual confidence and history. But never has that dynamic been controlled by a sordid sense of power.
I take a drink of water and try to steady my shaking hands.
“Did you ever take a class with Professor West?” Stafford asks.
“No.”
“Did you ever enroll in one?”
“No.”
“Any Medieval Studies classes?”
“No.”
He nods and makes a note on his legal pad. “Do you remember your first date?”
Seriously? How could I ever forget?
“Yes,” I say. “Dean asked me to attend a lecture he was giving at a local museum. We had dinner afterward.”
“At the time he asked you to attend the lecture, did Professor West make any implications about your class schedule or grades?”
“No.”
“Did you discuss your academic work?”
“During the date, yes, but just casually. Like what classes I was taking, that sort of thing.”
“Did you find it odd that a professor would ask a student out on a date?”