Requiem on Water
"If our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst, and desire, we might nearly be free." – Mary Shelley
Chapter 1
It wasn't until late evening that I finally had the chance to settle down after an excruciatingly long day. I say "settle down" like that's actually what I was getting a chance to do, but with the stack of papers waiting in my briefcase to be graded, I knew my night would be even longer than my day had been.
I had to hand it to myself, though – I had successfully survived my first month as Professor Cullen despite the fact that it was more draining than I had anticipated.
You'd think the most tiring thing about being a professor would be the actual work that goes into it: the years of schooling, the necessary and boring stint of being a teacher's assistant…then there's the lesson planning, the hours upon end of lecturing, the grading – oh, the grading.
This wasn't nearly the case for me now. No, I would have welcomed all of this like it was free lap dance in comparison with what I was actually dealing with.
Maybe it was my age – I had just made 30 this past summer – or maybe it was my disheveled brown hair, my crystal green eyes or my alluringly charming smile; possibly even a combination of them all. Whatever it was, there was no denying that I was the talk of the University of Washington this month, mainly amongst the female student population.
All I really wanted was to be taken seriously as their superior. I'd spent what felt like my entire life working my ass off to earn a Ph.D. in British Literature before most people even considered earning such a degree. My adoptive parents, Carlisle and Esme, took my sister Alice and I in when we were just toddlers after our birth parent's tragic death, and they did everything in their power to make us as educated and successful as possible.
It seemed now, though, that being taken seriously was going to be more of a difficult feat than I'd thought. I needed to be strict and firm, harsh and unyielding, cold and callus. Maybe then my female students would stop insisting on staying after class to discuss "extra credit assignments" with their tits in my face…
This really was going to be harder than I thought.
With a heavy sigh, I relaxed against the soft, cushy fabric of the chair I was occupying. I rarely did my work outside of my apartment, but for some reason, tonight felt like a good night to try something different, which is what landed me in the corner of a nearly deserted Starbuck's in the heart of campus.
I eyed my piping hot latte and contemplated prolonging my work further by nursing it slowly, but being the responsible man that I am, I reluctantly dug through my briefcase to retrieve my materials instead.
The assignment in question was the first big essay I'd issued my students. I was teaching a class called "British Writers: Studies in Major Authors". On the very first day of class, I'd assigned them to write a five-page essay on their favorite British writer and told them they had a month to do so. It would account for 20% of their final grade.
It may seem harsh, but the majority of my students were not only seniors on the verge of graduating, but also English majors. You wouldn't just take a class like this for the hell of it – its subject material is more for those who actually enjoy Literature.
The first paper staring up at me was titled "Byron as a Romantic Hero" – creative, I thought. I gave it a quick once over before peering at the name in the upper right-hand corner.
Isabella Swan.
It wasn't hard for me to put a name to the face. She was practically the only girl on campus that hadn't gone out of her way to make it known that she was interested in some sort of student/teacher affair. Not only that, but she was uniquely beautiful and one of the most intelligent students in her class.
I had to read the essay diligently and three more times before I marked her grade on the paper with a permanent red ink – if I could've given it a 150%, I would've.
Let's be clear: throughout my few years of being a teacher's assistant, I had never, not even once, given a student a perfect paper.
This was a perfect paper. This was good.
It was just then that I heard a small ding of the door opening. Out of sheer curiosity, I looked up.
I thought I was daydreaming at first – the cool, October breeze blew her dark chocolate tresses around her face in a way that was almost unnaturally appealing. Her ivory skin against it looked like smooth porcelain draped in an oversized, emerald sweater with black tights that displayed her long, slender legs underneath.
If it weren't for her voice ringing through my ears as she placed her drink order, I'd have continued thinking I was only seeing her because I had just graded her paper.
That voice – a low, smooth alto that wasn't very common in a woman's voice, but still strangely hypnotizing – snapped me out of it. I quickly realized that I was staring.
By that time, she was already walking toward me with her drink in hand. Wait, she was walking toward me? Had she seen me staring?
I played it off coolly by standing to my feet with as suave of a smile as I could manage. This seemed to have the right affect because she glanced down at her deep red boots with a shy smile of her own.
"Good evening, Miss Swan," I was the first to speak – I wanted to give her the idea that I'd intentionally been trying to catch her eye with my staring.
"Professor," she nodded simply, her smile doing all but fading.
I made a gesture toward the cushioned seat across from mine. "Would you like to sit?"
The look she gave me made me question whether or not my proposal was out of line. She seemed unsure, nervous.
"Err, sure," she finally responded, a polite smile returning to her lips. I could see her eyes avoiding the stack of papers on the table in front of us, but there was a small gleam in them that hinted at her recognizing her essay with the bold, red '100' at the top. "I'm sorry Professor, I don't mean to be nosey, but…" I could tell that she was desperately trying to hide her glee as she nodded toward her paper, "are you really giving me a 100?"
"It's a great paper," I responded with an affirming nod, sipping at my latte. After setting it down, I decided grading papers could wait, so I slipped the stack back into my briefcase. It was more than obvious that I wouldn't be able to focus on getting work done while in her company. "Actually, if I'm being honest – and I say this with the utmost modesty – I don't think I've read a paper this good since my own doctoral dissertation. In fact, yours is the first perfect paper of my teaching career, so," I lifted my nearly empty coffee in her direction, "congrats."
Her jaw went slack and it looked as if she may have not been breathing.
"Perfect paper? Professor, I…" her face had turned bright red at the compliment and I couldn't help but laugh to myself. "Considering your career thus far, I'd say that's a pretty…incredible compliment. Thank you."
Career thus far? Apparently she knew more about me than she let on in class.
I merely nodded and smiled in response. For some reason, the way the word incredible rolled off of her tongue made me feel suddenly warm. I slid my suit jacket off gracefully to hang it over the back of my chair, revealing my perfectly pressed navy blue button down and grey and black-striped skinny tie.
"So, Isabella-"
"Just Bella," she interjected quickly.
"Bella," I said her name slowly, smoothly, letting my mouth feel it out. She blushed slightly at my unintentional tone. "You're a senior, correct? How are you enjoying your last year of college so far?"
"I'm a little sad that it's coming to an end," she answered honestly, a response that somewhat surprised me. Most seniors are dying to get through their last year of school, not drag it out. "As lame as it sounds, this place has really become my home. I'm banking on the idea of coming back here for grad school – that is, if you want me."
I nearly choked on my coffee. Did she just say, "if I want her"?
"The University, I mean…" she recovered herself quickly. I must not have been the only one who thought it sounded a little off. I still couldn't help but laugh, even if she meant nothing sexual by it.
I tried to change the subject. "Enjoying my class so far?"
She was clearly still embarrassed because her response was even worse than the one prior.
"You- your class…I enjoy you- er, it," she winced at her words, turning bright red. She took a steadying breath with a small giggle. "Your class is great, Professor."
I realized I was laughing again. Honestly, you can't blame me.
"Well," I chuckled, "I'm glad to hear it. It's been a little…nerve-wracking trying to get accustomed to the position, so it's nice to know that my efforts aren't going completely unnoticed."
My eyes burned into hers as I spoke, and my smirk seemed impossible to wipe away. There was something about her that drew me in. I had no idea what it was, but she was…mesmerizing.
The obnoxious clamoring of the baristas prepping for their close quickly interrupted my thoughts. Upon further investigation, I noticed that one of them was standing just a few feet away from us with a broom in hand, sweeping the floor.
"Looks like we might be holding them up," I said while reluctantly gathering my things, pulling my jacket back on first.
This small exchange wasn't nearly enough for me. I needed to know why I felt so drawn to her. I'm a logical man, surely it wouldn't be hard for me to discover after a little more time with her.
I tossed the strap of my briefcase over my shoulder as I stood, deciding to do something rash.
"Would you mind if I walked you back to your dorm?" I asked her, towering over her and flashing her a convincing smile as I waited for a response. My hand was stretched out toward her to help her stand.
"Yes," she blurted out quickly. I raised an eyebrow at her, slightly confused. "Er, I mean no, I wouldn't mind at all."
She took my hand and stood there for a moment, holding it longer than necessary. She seemed lost in thought.
"Oh, umm," she rapidly released her grip to reach down for her coffee, "can't forget this."
I gave her a small nod, attempting to hide my smile as we made out way to the door.
She politely thanked the baristas, surely to make up for the fact that we had stayed past working hours, and smiled up at me as I held the door open for her.
"You know Professor, don't take this the wrong way, but you're kind of intimidating," she said, pausing in the doorway.
All I could do was shake my head and laugh. "Please," I responded, "call me Edward."
"Edward," she smiled, feeling out my name on her tongue just has I had done with hers.
She continued out into the cold night as I stood there in the doorway for barely a moment, my jaw hanging just slightly.
What have I gotten myself into?