Black Sheep

There’s no hiding anything from Kathryn Fletcher.

I can tell she wants to ask what’s bothering me the entire time we stop at my house. We let Duke out and Fletch plays with him as I get changed. Her need to pepper me with questions is palpable, the energy of it permeating my house like the scent of a cooking meal. But she has the good grace to leave it alone, at least until we Uber to The Monarch Restaurant and I have a drink in my hand.

“So are you gonna tell me about your shitty day, Kap? Or are you just going to keep shooting murderous looks at the food all night?” Fletch asks as she scrapes a piece of torn sourdough through the artichoke dip.

I groan, dragging my hand down my face, scratching the stubble on my cheek. My meeting with Bria has been gnawing at my guts like a trapped rat, and I’m anxious to let it out. “I did something dumb.”

Fletch snorts a laugh. “Shocker. The stupidest smart man I know did something stupid. This is about a woman, I presume?”

“Yes…”

“You met someone new?”

“Kind of.”

“And then you fucked it up.”

“Definitely.”

Fletch sighs, her eyebrows climbing before she focuses on tearing another strip of sourdough from the loaf. “You’ve always called me the most epic cockblocker on the planet, but it’s really you. You block your own cock. Any woman that has even the faintest whiff of relationship material and poof, you do something monumentally stupid to push her away so you can stick your dick into someone who is either the antithesis of permanent or downright fucking crazy.” Fletch gives her head a solemn shake and reaches across the table to pat my hand. “I’m afraid I have terrible news, Kap. You have ‘Self-Sabotaging Dick Disorder.’”

“Jesus Christ. Not pulling any punches today, are you?”

“Nope. Punching is the only viable treatment regimen with the severity of your disorder. Blake will back me up. She’s seen a few cases at the hospital. None as bad as yours, though. Maybe she can use you as a case study.”

A huff of a laugh passes my lips, but it does nothing to dispel the guilt and embarrassment and dismay that lie in a tangled knot at the center of my chest. I gulp down a long sip of beer and tear off a strip of sourdough, pushing it through the dip even though I’m suddenly not so hungry. “I might deserve a few punches. It was a multifaceted fuckup.”

“How so?”

“I went to Deja Brew to work on a few things before going to my office for a meeting with a prospective doctoral student. I’d read the summary of her proposal and it seemed like it would be solid work, but I’d been procrastinating from reading the whole thing due to the sabbatical. I guess partly I didn’t want to get too invested, you know?”

Fletcher shrugs. I can tell she doesn’t think it’s a good enough explanation, but she doesn’t call me out. “Okay. So did you read it?”

“No.” Fletcher sighs and opens her mouth to say something, but I keep going. “I was going to, but then this woman came in—”

“Fucking hell, Kaplan. What are you, twelve?”

“—and something about her was just captivating. I couldn’t focus. I was…highly unproductive.”

“Shocker.”

“When I decided to talk to her, she vanished.”

“She’s a magician?”

I groan and run my hand through my hair. “Well, she certainly reappeared in an unlikely place. My office.”

Fletch guffaws, her head tilting back with delight. “She was your appointment? The one whose proposal you didn’t read?”

“Yeah…” I trail off, looking down into the dip as though I can divine some spell from the wilted leaves of warm spinach to alleviate this terrible feeling. “It did not go well. She called me out.”

“As she should. I love her already. Did you ask her on a date?”

“Did you hear the words that just came out of my mouth, Fletcher? The part where I said it didn’t go well, that was not an exaggeration,” I say, then try to drown the rising guilt by draining the rest of my beer. It doesn’t work. “Besides, she’s a student.”NôvelDrama.Org holds text © rights.

“But not your student,” Fletcher says, her voice rich with amusement. She loves getting into an argument with me about women. She’s the pushy sister I never had, and she scents out my turmoil like a bloodhound.

“I am not hooking up with a student. Any student. I don’t care what department they’re in. And she’s in ours.”

“You won’t even be here in a few months.”

“It’s not like I’m leaving forever, Fletch. I’ll be back before she’s finished her program.”

Fletcher shakes her head and sits back, pushing the decimated artichoke dip to the edge of the table as our server whirls past in a flurry of motion, dropping another two pints of Bozeman Hopzone IPA in front of us before she drifts away with the plate. I raise the glass to my lips and double my efforts with the booze. The knot in my chest will dissolve eventually…right?

“If you’re worried about a nasty breakup resulting in the reputation of “Kinky Kaplan” spreading around campus, don’t be.”

Beer catches in my throat and shoots back up my nose. I hack a cough into a napkin as Fletcher cackles. “What the fuck?”

“What? It’s not that hard to figure out. There’s gotta be some reason you hardly ever date women in the same city as you, let alone the same campus,” Fletcher says with a shrug. Her eyes spark with delight as I continue to cough and sputter. “Plus I totally saw your bed last week when you got me to take Duke out for a walk.”

“Fletcher.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you for liking things a little spicy, Kap.”

“Jesus Christ this is not happening to me,” I moan, dropping my head into my hands as my cheeks burn. When I straighten, I gesture wildly between us. “This? This conversation right here? This is exactly why I follow my own rules.”

“You are so uptight about the most whack stuff, and so not uptight about other shit. How’s the street racing going by the way? Acquired any new bikes lately? I’ll warn Blake if so, for the inevitable day when someone scrapes you off the pavement and brings you in for her to put back together.”

“Don’t start with the bikes, for the love of God. And regarding Bria, it’s not just for my protection. It’s for hers, too.” This is where the full impact of my error and piss-poor judgment really punches me in the guts. “After she left, I read her full proposal. It’s good, Fletcher. It’s really fucking good. How would it look for her if she was dating some professor in her own department? The work wouldn’t stand on its own and you know it. But it should.”

Fletcher taps her finger on the edge of her glass, her gaze drifting across the room as she thinks about it. She knows this is true. Perception can derail an academic career as quickly as shitty data or substandard work.

“And now we arrive at that point in the evening where I ask for a favor,” I say. Fletcher’s eyes dart to mine. Her head tilts as she pins me with a glare.

“I bet I’m going to love this,” she replies with heavy sarcasm.

“Read the proposal. Consider taking on the student.”

Fletcher gives a dark laugh that has a bitter edge before taking a sip of her beer. “You think you’re going to feel like any less of a shitbag by getting me to take her on?”

“No. This is purely from an academic standpoint. I know it wasn’t professional of me to not look at her work thoroughly when I should have. But when I did… I’m not kidding when I said it’s good. It’s exceptional. And I hate the thought of her turning to someone like Dr. Wells instead. If she’s with you, she’ll get the support she needs.”

Fletch gives me a long, flat stare, her nails tapping metronomically against the glass. She huffs an irritated sigh. “Fine. Send it to me. If I like what I see, I’ll take her. But you’ll owe me. Like, for real. A tangible owing, not a fake, meaningless owing.”

My eyes narrow as hers seem to sparkle with devious plans. The server drops off our mains and still we regard one another with suspicion and evil intent. “Owe you what, exactly? An organ?”

“Pfft no. Yours are too steeped in alcohol. Something reasonable of my choosing.”

I snort a laugh, waving my fork in Fletcher’s direction before cutting into my steak. “You? Reasonable?”

“That’s right, my friend. And when I come collecting, you shall pay. As long as her work is as good as you say it is.”

“It is,” I say with a tinge of resignation coloring the flavor of meat on my tongue. “It’s better.”

Fletcher and I move to other topics, but I still feel the hooks of this day embedded beneath my skin. I didn’t just let my eagerness for a break from academia get the better of me. I wasn’t just unprofessional, leaving an eager and capable student without the time, focus, and attention they deserved. Fletch is right. I self-sabotaged, and I can’t help feeling like I’ve hurt someone deeply in the process. And that person isn’t me.

When the meal is done and we’re both sufficiently buzzed, we Uber to our respective homes, Fletch to a wife who’s as brilliant and forthright as she is, and me to a dog and a dark house. That’s never bothered me before. Duke is great company, and when I need more, I find it. Preferably from far away. Definitely not on the campus. Even if it feels like I’m closing my eyes to the aurora borealis, or burying gems beneath the sand. I’ve never felt like this before, particularly not from a brief encounter in a coffee shop or an abysmal meeting that I totally fucked up.

I pour myself a glass of bourbon and sit in my office, starting up my laptop. I send Bria Brooks’ proposal to Fletcher and then spend some time hunting Ms. Brooks on the internet. Dean’s list student here at Berkshire for her bachelor’s degree. Contributions to several papers while completing her masters degree in New York. No social media accounts. Only a grainy photo from a conference where she presented a poster, her eyes locked to something to her left, her expression stoic. There’s nothing that tells me about who Bria Brooks really is aside from being a dedicated student.

I’m about to shut my computer down about an hour and two drinks later when an email comes through from Fletcher.

Kap:

Holy shit. This is promising. Set it up ASAP before Wells gets hold of it. I want to talk to her. 

-Fletch

PS You’re an idiot, but I still love you anyway.

PPS Pull your head out of your ass and ask her on a date.

PPPS YOU OWE ME. 

I respond and file the email, and then I shut the laptop down, finishing the dregs of my drink. When I finally make it into bed, I stare at the ceiling for what seems like hours, rolling those final moments with Bria through my mind like driftwood caught in a relentless tide.

The next day passes in a bit of a blur. I head to Deja Brew, trying to convince myself I’m not hoping to see Bria there again. That would be a lie, of course. I wonder more than once if I should have gone to Uncommon Grounds or Grindstone, but I push those thoughts down as fast as they bubble up. While in the coffee shop, I send Bria an email, apologizing for my lack of professionalism during our meeting and noting that Fletch would like to meet her. By the end of an agonizingly long day, there is still no response.

The following day, I wake with a feeling akin to dread infusing my veins. Dread that Bria will turn to Dr. Wells, or even that she’ll find a way to transfer universities, somehow vanishing as quickly as she did two days ago. That thought lodges a block of ice in my guts, and when there’s still no reply from Bria in my inbox, I decide to hunt her down and do what I should have done yesterday. Speak to her in person.

I find her in her office, a space on the fourth floor that she shares with two other new students, their names listed on sliding placards next to the door.

Tida Ng.

David Campbell. 

Sombria Brooks. 

The door is ajar. Bria is facing away from me, writing on a notepad. Her attention flits between her screen and her pen. Further in the room is another student, her back also to me, her dark hair piled high on her head and the ball of curls stuffed beneath the band of her headphones. Her head nods to a beat I can’t hear.

I knock on the door. Neither woman moves.

I step into the room and say Bria’s name. She still doesn’t respond.

“Ms. Brooks,” I repeat, and my fingertips graze her shoulder blade.

Bria erupts from the chair as though electrocuted.

I take a long step back as Bria spins, knocking over the chair with a shocking crash of sound. Her arm follows her motion, her palm flat, her finger pressed tight together like she’s about to drive the heel of her hand into my nose. She seems to register it’s me and her hand relaxes just a little, the other coming up to join it as though imploring me to stay back. Her expression is blank except for her eyes. The look she gives me is nothing short of lethal.

“What the hell,” the other woman, presumably Tida, hisses from across the room as she wrenches her headphones down. Her gaze bounces between Bria and me and she stands, walking over to join Bria’s side. She’s a full foot shorter than Bria but pins me with a fierce, combative glare.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say, holding my palms open toward them both, my gesture mirroring Bria’s. I lower my hands and Bria pulls out her AirPods, her brows drawing together as she assesses me with a scrutinous sweep of her eyes.

My chest constricts when I really take her in.

Bria is still stunning, with her faint freckles dusting her nose. Those dark eyes are still sharp, her plump lips still beckoning me for a taste. But she looks exhausted. Her sun-kissed skin has lost its radiance and the dark circles inhabit the flesh beneath her thick lashes.

This is your fault, you dickhead.

Judging by the murderous gleam in her eyes, I’m willing to guess that thought doesn’t just rattle in my head, but Bria’s as well.

I bend to pick up the wayward chair before extending a hand to Tida. “I’m Dr. Kaplan.”

The small woman’s glare softens but doesn’t dissolve. “Tida Ng.”

“Pleased to meet you, Tida.” I offer a weak smile and then turn the full force of my attention to Bria. “Do you have a moment?”

It looks as though the word “no” climbs up her throat, but she swallows and it comes out as “yes.”

The two women glance at one another, Tida looking at Bria in a silent question. Bria smiles and that seems to be enough to satisfy Tida, though she still squeezes Bria’s arm and shoots me a final, wary look before returning to her desk and settling her headphones over her ears. When I turn my attention back to Ms. Brooks, she darts her eyes toward a free chair and I pull it closer to her desk.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Bria shifts in her seat as though my phantom touch lingers uncomfortably on her skin. She glances down, her expression troubled for just a fleeting blink, and then she’s focused on me once more.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Kaplan?” she asks, even though I’m quite sure she already knows what I’m going to say.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees, lacing my fingers together. My brows draw together as I take in her reserved stoicism. “First, I wanted to apologize in person for not reading your full proposal. I’m sorry for not being adequately prepared and for wasting your time the other day.”

I’m not sure what I expect her to say to this. I’ve already seen enough of her to know she won’t mince words. She’s not the type to give a spineless “that’s okay, professor. I understand.” Possibly there will be an “I accept your apology,” which at least acknowledges my wrongdoing.

But nothing comes.

The silent pause stretches on. I resist the urge to fill it. Bria doesn’t move, her expression doesn’t change. It takes me that long moment to realize that I didn’t actually respond to her statement, what can she do for me. Bria gives no shits about my apology, and she has no desire to waste words on it.

I actually find that…refreshing. She’s unlike anyone else. So unique. She must seem off-putting to many, when she wants it to be. Or maybe she makes the effort to put on a mask for most people, like Tida, who shoots the occasional worried glance at Bria over her shoulder. But I get the feeling she’s not hiding who she is from me. She’s not trying to disguise the force of dark magic by wrapping herself in pretty layers.

Bria is testing me. I think she wants to see if I will keep up. And she knows what she’s worth. What she’s owed from me.

“Did you receive my email?” I ask.

“Yes, I did,” she says. It looks like it’s a struggle to grit out the next two words. “Thank you.”

“Dr. Fletcher is new to the department. Her primary focus is in parasocial interaction and cultish behavior, but she has significant experience in memory as well, mostly related to the effect of digital media on memory recall. She’s read your proposal and can see many synergies with her recent work in patterns of criminality among charismatic authorities based on witness testimony. She has some free time to meet tomorrow afternoon. Are you available?”

Bria’s eyes narrow a fraction, the only minute change in her placid yet unsettling expression. Her head drops a few degrees to the right and she stares into me as though drilling right into my brain.

“I have a meeting with Dr. Wells tomorrow,” she says. My heart plummets into my guts. Dr. Wells would be the absolute worst choice for an advisor. He’s about three heartbeats away from either retirement or death, and he gives few shits about quality anymore. He’s a dinosaur in a modern world, clinging to research from thirty years ago and the height of his career. “Other doors are open, Dr. Kaplan.”

I swallow, my throat drying as though I’ve eaten ash. My eyes dart toward Tida before I lean a little closer to Bria. “Please, Bria,” I whisper. “Not Wells. Your work will never get anywhere if you go with him. Just meet with Dr. Fletcher. Let her convince you.”

And before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch her.

My fingertips graze her delicate wrist. This can’t be appropriate, not with the way the touch sets off a flurry of gooseflesh skittering up my arm, nor the way my cock hardens at the mere whisper of her skin beneath mine. I quickly withdraw my hand but Bria doesn’t move, her eyes following the motion before meeting mine again.

Bria’s eyes bore into mine, but this time she gives something away. I can see it in the flicker of movement in her brows and the way her hand folds into a fist. It’s not anger. It’s confusion. “All right,” she finally says. My heart pulls itself out of my intestines and starts beating again. “I will send her an email and schedule something for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Great. I’ll let her know you’ll be in touch.”

I keep hold of Bria’s gaze for a moment longer and then stand, and she does the same. Somehow it feels too close, yet not close enough. But it has to be. That one simple touch, my fingertips on her bare wrist, there can never be more than that.

I back away toward the door, our gazes still locked together until I reach the threshold and force my feet down the hall.

I need to keep my eyes on my horizon, a place where this woman will never fit, no matter how enigmatic or intriguing she is. And I need to focus on my work now, my future, satisfied with the knowledge that I’ve set a broken bone.