Students craned their necks to see who this man was that had just thrown me off track so effectively. It was utterly silent in the hall, and that silence became so deafeningly obvious that students started to fidget and clear their throats.
“Please don’t call me that,” I managed to finally get out on a breath as it escaped my lungs.
He looked back at me calmly, a subtle smirk pulling up his lip.
I was panicking. I was also pulsing with warmth, and as the blush crept back into my cheeks again, I failed completely at tempering my reaction to it. My hand moved to my cheek, feeling the burn, and when I realized what I’d done, I dropped my hand so fast I could literally see multiple eyes bulging as they focused on me.
“Is it true Nietzsche caught syphilis from a prostitute and lost his mind?” he asked, holding his textbook in both hands now.
I just stared, failing to react in any way much less respond.
“Well, did he?” he asked again. He studied me seriously, but his lips still pulled up in a small smile.
I cleared my throat. “There’s some … debate … about—”
“Did he literally fuck himself insane and then die?” he asked more bluntly. When he bit into his lower lip, it was almost a sheepish expression, and his eyes flit to the floor for a moment before returning to me.
The reaction from the class was a combination of things. Men chuckled quietly if they had any sort of decorum, some laughed loudly, slapping their legs and buckling over with amusement. Some women, namely those who were mature enough to find such behavior appalling, gasped and covered their mouths. And then there were the younger women who giggled and blushed even as they batted their eyes at him. Why wouldn’t they bat their eyes? He was good looking. Always had been, and his mouth was filthy. There was nothing new about that either.
I finally coughed, glancing away for a moment as I regrouped. I grabbed the attendance sheet I’d just picked up from admissions shortly ago. “If you brought your book, show me when I call your name.” I called off names, noting the students who’d brought their books. When I was finally finished taking attendance, I crossed my arms. “If you failed to bring your textbook this week, I want a two-thousand word paper over Marcus Aurelius on my desk by next week,” I said. “You’ll find an entire section in chapter one related to him, and I expect you to find two additional sources of information as well—one of which must be considered scholarly. If you decide to show up unprepared, I’ll see to it you’re kept busy outside of my class.”
There was a communal groan as that registered with the slackers.
“Everyone is expected to have read the first two chapters by class next week as well. We’ll be discussing the human condition and empiricism. And yes, there will be a quiz. Class is dismissed,” I said abruptly.
The room erupted in chatter as students stood and moved down the rows of desks toward the exit. I was glared at multiple times—mainly by the students without textbooks. I was smiled at a few times too—by the students who were getting out exceptionally early without the added two thousand word paper. And the cocky boy who didn’t know how to purchase a textbook actually had the gall to wink at me. I stifled an eye roll as I forced my attention to move down to the desktop.
The room eventually quieted—all that is but the sound of lone footsteps on the hard concrete floor of the room. I didn’t need to look up to see who it was that had hung back.
“I see you’re going for the teacher of the year award,” he said. “You’re quite brutal.”
I looked up. “Kane.” I said his name and nothing more, but it was too breathy, too quiet.
“Hell.” He walked toward me slowly, his face sly and mischievous. He’d always had that countenance to him—as though nothing, not life, not nightmares, not boogiemen, nor monsters could rattle him. I’d loved that about him once. Of course it wasn’t true, and he was just as vulnerable to monsters as I was.
He’d changed in the eleven or so years since I’d last seen him. His eyes were as blue as ever, and his hair was the same sandy light brown color, but it was longer, pushed back and curling around the backs of his ears. He looked so much like the roguish carefree kid I knew before, though he was a little too rough around the edges to pull it off completely. He had facial hair now, and it was scruffy and thoughtless, but it made him look intimidating. His jeans were worn, but they fit impeccably—even if they looked aged to perfection. His work boots were just as broken in as his jeans, and the gray T-shirt he wore clung to chiseled muscles that had hardened over the years.
I took a deep breath, cramming my laptop and folders back into my briefcase. “Hell is not a name. It’s a place. A rather unpleasant place if I know my geography.”