Into the Fire
4 of 12
By S. Faith, © 2010
Words: 75,406 in total [recalculated due to an addition to this part], 6,110 this part.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 4.
"So how did I do?"
Approximately five minutes into the drive out of London, she asked this of him. He had absolutely no idea about what she was speaking. "What?"
"On the midterm," she asked. "Did I pass?"
She had indeed passed with a score above the median grade, but it did not seem proper to discuss her grade outside of the classroom. "I can't say anything."
"Oh God," she said sadly. "I didn't pass."
"I did not say you did or didn't pass," Mark reiterated. "I said I can't say. I meant until class."
"Oh." She sat back in her seat. "Not even a little hint?"
He laughed. "Don't press your luck." He shifted up into the next gear. "How did your interview go?"
"Very well," she said. "In fact, I got a job offer."
"Oh, that's great news. Congratulations."
"Thank you," she said. "I start a couple of weeks after the end of the term. Gives me time to get settled in London. I'll still have to crash for a while with Tom until I can find my own place… but I am so excited."
"How do you know Tom, anyhow?"
"It's a very long story," she said. "And no, there was never a time when Tom was confused about whether he wanted a boyfriend or a girlfriend." He looked over to see her grinning crookedly. "I had no delusions about our friendship, though God knows my mother does. 'He's just being lazy, darling.' That's what I get every time I mention him."
He chuckled. "What does he do? For a living, I mean."
"He's a performer," said Bridget.
"And that means…?"
She did not respond. He turned to see her giving him a sidelong look.
"He sings?" guessed Mark.
"Yes," she said, overcome with laughter. "That's it. He sings. Just… not in clubs you would go to."
"That's not very open-minded of you," he said in a mock-stern voice. "How do you know I wouldn't?"
Still giggling, she said, "Let's make a pact, then. When we're both in London again, I will take you to see Tom."
"Sounds like a deal."
She smiled, then looked out the window to watch the landscape fly by. "Okay then."
The plan was to stop in Birmingham, which was about midway, for lunch and a break. He popped the disc in that she had burned for him and allowed that to fill the silence instead of conversation. It was by no means a move to cover discomfort or awkwardness, but rather, served to underscore how far their friendship of sorts had progressed since that first shared car ride from Grafton Underwood to London on New Year's. After the last song on the disc had ended, he asked if she would press play again; after no response, he looked to her and realised she had drifted to sleep.
He wondered how late she'd stayed out last night. Since she had not been ready to go when he'd arrived, Mark had gone to the building's door and had rung the bell for the only flat with the first initial 'T' next to the bell. A bleary-eyed man had answered the door, a haggard, more unkempt version of the young man who had let her in before. Mark had introduced himself, had explained why he was there; Tom had huffed out a great breath, muttering something about Bridget's not having said anything about a ride showing up so early.
He hadn't thought it necessary to wait in the apartment, particularly after hearing her shriek at her appearance and curse at herself for oversleeping. When she'd come out thirty minutes later with a handful of chocolate chip biscuits in her grip and Tom carrying her bags with a cigarette dangling off of his lower lip, she'd been deeply apologetic; she explained that she'd absolutely had to shower, but at least she had been fully packed to go.
Now, leaning up against the window with her knit cap resting against the glass, she was sleeping, and it amazed him again how absolutely and deceptively angelic she looked whilst doing so. He leaned slowly to the side, not taking his eyes off the road except to glimpse for a moment to press play to start it again.
How quickly Birmingham seemed to be upon them; he mused to himself that driving long distances on his own would in future feel like an eternity. "Bridget?" he said to rouse her, not that he was at all confident it would wake her. "Bridget?" he asked again, to no avail. He reached over and used his knuckles to nudge against her jeaned knee, saying her name one more time.
She gasped and blinked a few times. "Yes, what?" she asked drowsily.
"We're almost there."
"Bangor?"
He chuckled. "No. Birmingham."
"Oh," she said, then laughed. "No, I don't suppose you'd've let me sleep through lunch. Sorry to be such poor company though. Tom and I were up sort of late."
"I never would have thought," he said wryly. "I'm not terribly familiar with the restaurants here, but I did have a good curry on my way up the first time through."
"Oh, that sounds nice," she said. "I love curry. New Year's notwithstanding."
At this he laughed. "Curry it is."
He took them to the same restaurant he had patronised in January. It was a quaint little local place run by an older Indian couple. Bridget seemed to love it, and particularly loved the food. To his surprise, at the end of the meal, she swiped up the ticket.
"I'm paying," she announced.
It wasn't an expensive ticket, but he knew that students didn't typically have a lot of money to spare. "No, really. I'll pay."
"No," she said. "You're driving the entire way, you wouldn't accept petrol money. It's the least I can do."
"It's no trouble," he said, reaching for his wallet.
"Mark, I insist."
At that moment he decided not to further insist on paying the bill out of respect for her independence. "It's really not necessary," he said, "but thank you. I appreciate it."
She narrowed her eyes, but smirked. "Are you embarrassed?"
"What? Why would I be embarrassed?"
"You've gone all pink."
"It was a spicy curry," he said dismissively.
She laughed. "Are you just not used to having a woman pay for your dinner?"
It occurred to him that he was not used to it, and said so. "But I'm not embarrassed by it."
"Is it because I'm so much younger than you are?"
He furrowed his brow. "You make me sound like a doddering old man, one foot in the grave, Grim Reaper in view."
She laughed. "True, true," she said. "I suppose you're not quite old enough to be my dad…" With a grin and a little wink, she added, "An uncle, perhaps."
He couldn't suppress a smile as she handed cash over to the waitress to pay their bill.
As they went back to the car, she asked, "Sure you wouldn't like me to drive?"
He had not had an ale, so he was not sure why she was asking. "I'm sure," he said.
"I mean, you must have arthritis or something that could flare up… maybe gout in your toe… perhaps pain in your shoulder…"
He laughed. "I'm perfectly fine."
"Well, you know, if you need, I do have a driving licence."
"Duly noted."
She chose another compact disc for the rest of the drive and excitedly talked about finishing the term so that she could start life in London. "Tom's going to start looking for flats for me, talking to his friends. I don't think I could afford a flat on my own, but knowing Tom he could find it for me."
"It's nice to have someone looking out for you like that."
"Yeah," she said. She dug into her bag. "I'm gonna read a little, if that's okay."
"Sure," he said. "What do you have there?"
She gave him a stern look as she pulled the book up. He laughed then looked back to the road. It was the book from which he had assigned reading over the break.
"Well at least there will be no question that you actually read it," he said drolly.
"Shush," she said. "Reading."
The music was not so intrusive as to be distracting to her reading, and it provided a lovely soundtrack for the balance of the drive back to Bangor. With every mile passing beneath them he wondered about this… well, friendship is what it was, there was no getting around that. Specifically, he thought about returning to school, resuming the teacher role to her student. He knew with certainty that he would to have to put some distance, metaphorically speaking, between himself and Bridget. He also knew with equal certainty that it was going to be difficult because he truly liked her.
She closed the book just a short distance from Bangor. "There," she said. "All finished. Very interesting."
"I'm glad you thought so," said Mark.
"I found it especially—"
"Ah," he interrupted. "Let's save the discussion for the classroom."
"But—"
"No," he said firmly.
"But it's barbaric," she said, pouting. "Treating those men like that. And women! Especially the women."
The assigned reading was pertaining to apartheid in South Africa. He was inclined to agree, but did not fall for her little trap. "I said no," he said. "You'll just have to wait for Monday morning. Eight a.m."
"Oh, trust me. I haven't forgotten how bloody early that class is." He could sense she was looking at him, but he refrained from turning to her. "I'm sorry I wasn't such good company for this ride."
"You're always good company," he said.
"Now you're just being nice."
"I am not," he said. "Besides, the alternative of riding alone and music-less was a far less attractive prospect."
He could hear her chuckle.
Upon arrival on campus he drove directly to her building. She dismissed needing assistance to her room; he tried not to laugh at the comical vision of her balancing all three of her bags on her own as he got out of the car. "Give me the biggest one. I'll carry it up."
She looked at him sheepishly, then handed the bag to him. "Thanks."
He stayed only a few minutes before departing, then went directly to his place to unpack and rest for a bit. After that, after a quick trip to the market to pick up some groceries to restock his refrigerator, he intended on reviewing his lecture for the upcoming week, including reviewing of midterms, as well as reviewing the plan for the remaining six or so weeks left of the semester.
Monday came all too quickly. It surprised him in a pleasant way that nearly all students were there; it did not surprise him that Bridget was the one student not present when eight o'clock came and went. He cleared his throat and began class, returning the exams and touching upon the questions and concepts that students had most failed to grasp as indicated by their scores.
At quarter past the hour, the door flew open. "Mark, I am so sorry I'm late."
He turned to look at her, disbelieving she had called him by his given name. The class had gone dead silent.
"Excuse me?" he said stonily.
"I said I'm sorry—"
"You will address me as Professor Darcy," he interrupted in that same stern tone, "and I have told you time and again not to be late to class."
She looked startled. "Um—"
"If you are late again," he continued, "you will not be welcome back. Am I clear?"
"Yes," she said quietly. She sank into her customary seat.
He carried on with the lecture, ignoring her raised hand, which was undoubtedly regarding things he had already covered. Her hand sank; she looked sullen. He had a hard time feeling bad when he was simmering with anger. He could only wonder what the other students thought of such impropriety and disrespect.
After class she timidly approached him with, "I'm sorry, Professor Darcy."
He looked up to her, not reining in his annoyance. Her eyes were very glossy, as if she might actually cry. He was not unaffected, but could not show it in front of the other students. "If you have questions about what you missed, see me during office hours."
"I have class during your office hours."
As he looked back to his papers, continuing to transcribe the thought she'd interrupted, he said, "Then see one of your classmates. Thank you." He could see in his peripheral vision that she was walking away. In that moment he realised he still had her midterm, and called, "Bridget?"
She turned, her eyes wide and hopeful. "Yes?"
"Your midterm results." He held it out to her. She looked crestfallen as she accepted it. "If you have any questions, you can see me before class on Wednesday."
"Okay," she said in a pitiful voice.
He returned his attention to his papers, not really seeing them, in order not to prolong the encounter. When he looked up again, she was gone, as were the other students. He sighed, then rose from his chair. He was aggravated that she would resort to such informality in the classroom. He knew she hadn't done it with malicious intent; she was merely too spontaneous and undisciplined to control herself. It was not his fault that he'd had to make up for that.
Inexplicably, though, he also felt bad for her. He felt terrible that he'd had to speak so harshly to her and treat her so callously when she had just begun to consider him a human being.
Wednesday's class was a little less tense. She did not show early to ask questions about her midterm, but neither was she late. The classroom relationship was more or less back to where it had been early on in the term. At the end of the class, she came up to him.
"Yes, Bridget?"
"I know you said to come to class early to ask about this, but it was hard enough just getting here on time," she said.
He fought his smile. "What did you want to ask me?"
To his surprise it was not about the questions she had gotten wrong on the test, but about the foundations of the British legal process, which she either did not know or had incorrectly learned from television. She was doing well enough in the class, but was hampered by the lack of training her classmates had, and it was only now that the subject matter was getting more detailed that he noticed. What she wanted to know was far more than he could explain in just a few minutes after class, and he said so.
"Maybe you could recommend a few books that could help… like, I don't know. British Law for Dummies."
At this he actually did smile. "I'll tell you what," he said. "I would be willing to help you outside of class."
"I already told you, I have class during your office hours."
"I mean outside of that, too. I don't mind. I think your having a better understanding of procedure will help you in the long run, and on the final."
She regarded him warily. "Are you sure?"
"Of course," he said. "We can begin next week."
She grinned crookedly. "Thanks."
It was nice to see that the storm had passed.
As he gathered his things up, as Bridget went to leave the classroom, he heard one of the other students speaking to her, a very intelligent but pompous boy called Alistair St James. As they conversed it became clear to Mark that the boy was asking her out for some point over the weekend.
"Oh, that's sweet of you," she said in a tender but firm voice that made it obvious even to Mark that she was refusing.
"Why not? Are you seeing someone?"
"It's none of your business."
"Then go out for drinks with me."
"No," she said sharply. At the boy's surprised expression, her features softened. "There's a party at Tina's on Saturday night, though… you could come to that. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."
"Sure," he said. "See you then." He slunk away. Mark could tell he was disappointed.
She slung her bag up onto her shoulder, then turned and said to Mark, "Goodbye."
"Goodbye," he said in return.
As he walked to his office, he wondered idly if she had in fact started seeing someone since they'd spoken on Easter about Tom not being her boyfriend. It wasn't the sort of thing they would have discussed in depth during their conversations, and she was certainly cute and bubbly enough to be attracting men. Then with a furrowed brow he wondered why he should even care. Her personal life was no business of his, either.
…
At the end of the following Monday's class they arranged to meet at four o'clock in his office for review of the basic tenets of the English legal system. "Thanks again for doing this," she said. "I think it'll help a lot."
"You're welcome," he said. "See you at four. Or shortly thereafter."
She chuckled.
As four o'clock came and passed, he did not interrupt what he was working on; he knew better than to expect punctuality. At ten past the hour, there was a rapping on his door. He got up to answer it.
"Hi." She stood there looking as she always did in her jacket and her bag slung over her shoulder, except in her hands were two covered paper drink cups. "I brought these."
"That was very thoughtful of you. Thanks." He took the one she handed towards him. "What is it?"
"Coffee."
"Is that a hint to your expectations?" he said in jest. "Need to keep awake?"
"Of course not," she said. "You could probably make the alphabet interesting."
"Thank you for the vote of confidence," he said.
He took a seat at his desk and she sat across from him, opening a notebook and taking pen in hand.
"So," he said, taking a sip from the coffee. It was black, and very rich and freshly brewed. He pondered how she'd known he liked it black. "Let's start by discussing what type of legal system England and Wales uses."
"Parliamentary," she said.
He smiled. "Well, no, that's the legislative body that amends and proposes law. I'm talking the system of law."
She screwed up her face. "I'm not sure I know."
He waited a beat to allow her time to guess. When it became obvious she wasn't going to, he said, "It's actually referred to as English law."
"You're teasing me," she said, pursing her lips.
"I'm not," he said. "It's widely used as the basis of common law, as opposed to civil or pluralist law."
"What's the difference?"
"Common law is… well, think of common sense. It's based on precedent as it applies to the facts before the judge. For example, did you know that there is no actual statute making murder illegal?"
Her mouth dropped open. "But people go to prison all the time for murder."
"And the reason they do is because it is a common law crime. Judgements are rendered per the authority of the courts' previous decisions."
"Wow," she said. "And civil law?"
"Is written into a collection of laws which is assembled into a codex. Judgements are made by referring to the codex, and not determined by judges. It's inspired by Roman law."
"Who uses civil law?"
"France, for example."
"Oh."
With that he went on to explain the framing of common law, the other major differences to civil law, the variants on and hybrids of both systems, and other points of importance as pertained to class discussion. Before he knew it an hour and a half had passed.
"My head's starting to hurt a little," she said as she wrote down the last of what he'd said.
"Well, that's a good sign," he said. "It means you're understanding it, at least a little."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, if it had gone straight over your head you'd be blissfully unaffected."
She laughed. "True." She set the pen down. "What's next?"
"How about we break for the day," he said, "and tomorrow we can meet and talk about court process and procedure in England."
"Break already?"
"Look at the time."
She glanced to her watch. "Wow," she said. "I hadn't realised… well, I was right. You do make this interesting."
He smiled and said, "I'm glad you think so."
She tucked her notebook and pen back into her bag. "Thanks again, Mark." As she said it, she realised her slipup at once, and looked mortified. "Oh, I mean, Professor Darcy."
"You're welcome," he said. After a moment of consideration, he added, "Do you understand why I must insist upon—?"
"Yes," she interrupted, "and I'm sorry. I didn't do it on purpose. I don't."
He nodded; it was as he thought. "As long as you understand I didn't shout for the sake of shouting."
"You didn't really shout," she said with a smirk. "It hurt my feelings a little, but I deserved it."
"Just be more mindful in future," he said.
She nodded. "See you tomorrow."
The next tutoring session went as smoothly and as quickly as the first, and with as much progress made if not more. She'd brought coffee and biscuits, and they did not break until after six. She brought the chair around so they could review side by side the legal tomes he had dragged out. By the end of it she was asking about certain courtroom situations she'd seen in television shows, all of which were ridiculous and explained her previous comments and point of view prior to the review.
"Granted," he said, "it's an American show, but I can guarantee you that court cases don't always conclude with a surprise witness and confession that proves the defendant was innocent, like they do on Perry Mason or Law and Order."
She laughed, tucking an unruly lock of hair behind her ear, with which she had been battling the entire time and losing. "'Don't always'? Does that mean they sometimes do?"
"Not in my experience," he said. "Not once."
"That's too bad," she said. "I'm sure things would be a lot more exciting sometimes if that were the case."
"I can think of a few sessions during which a courtroom outburst would have been a welcome distraction."
She chuckled again, then said in her best posh and stuffy voice, drawing her chin to her chest, hair falling forward again, "'Your Honour! We demand the witness take back the mean things he said about Man U!'"
At that he laughed.
She added in that same voice, "'Particularly when Arsenal is bollocks!'"
Laughing still, he said, pushing that lock behind her ear for her, "You're incorrigible."
At that moment a third voice sounded.
"Mark, you're still here? Want to go—"
It was Patrick entering the office, stopping short when he saw that Mark was not alone.
"Hi, Professor Baldwin," Bridget said brightly, stuffing her papers into her bag.
"Bridget," he said, looking from her to Mark. "Did I interrupt something?"
"No," said Mark. "I was just giving Bridget some tutoring in legal procedure."
"Ah."
"I have to go," said Bridget. "Thanks again, Professor Darcy. This is all going to help a lot."
As she left, Patrick levelled a very serious gaze at Mark, one that frankly startled him a little. "What's really going on?" he asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I overhear things that students talk about, Mark," he said, "and it would seem that most of them think Bridget's more than just a bit of a teacher's pet."
He furrowed his brows.
"Now, I know her, and I know you, and I'm sure nothing's going on—"
"What would possibly be going on?"
"Mark. You drive her home and back—"
"We come from the same town," Mark interrupted.
Patrick continued, "She calls you 'Mark' in class, tells other boys that it's none of their business if she's seeing someone… you being seen going up to her room… and now private tutoring sessions with you sitting very close to her and playing with her hair…."
Mark could not find the words to speak at first. "Patrick. She called me 'Mark' once in class, I was not playing with her hair, and there's nothing about any of those other things that's remotely improper. Are you suggesting otherwise?" he asked.
"I'm suggesting no such thing," he said. "When you take all of those things together, though… you have to understand how it might look to others. She's doing very well in your class, better than some of the law course students."
He knew what Patrick was suggesting. "I offered the lessons because she's at a disadvantage due to a lack of legal training."
"Mark, I know your intentions are good," said Patrick, "but it does have the appearance of preferential treatment. It does her no favours if everyone thinks she's getting good grades because you like her… or you're involved with her."
"What?" Mark exploded, even as he thought about what his colleagues had said in the pub so long ago. "That is ridiculous—she's just a kid."
"I'm just telling you what I hear, and what I know." After a pause, he added, "At the beginning of last term, after she chucked her last boyfriend, he very nastily spread rumours about how… easy she is. It took weeks for that to settle down, but people don't forget these things."
He was incensed at this unnamed ex-boyfriend for saying such horrible things about her, but quelled it for the time being. The incident in the pub with Alan and her refusal of Alistair's date suddenly took on a whole new dimension. He sighed in frustration.
"Look, Mark," Patrick went on. "I don't want this to hurt you, either. Even though you and I both know she has no ulterior motives in being nice to her professor… allegations of an affair with a student in your class would be very damaging for you, too."
He agreed, but did not care about himself because he knew he was not guilty of anything; Patrick clearly thought the same. He was really only concerned for her reputation.
"I appreciate you coming to me with this, and I'm glad that you know nothing wrong has happened," he said. "I will be extra aware in future."
"Good. So," Patrick said. "Let's go grab some dinner."
Mark offered a smile and nodded. Throughout dinner that night, though, he was distracted by thoughts of Patrick's observations and what he had said. Patrick seemed to sense this distraction, but did not press him to talk about it, for which he was grateful.
He made it through dinner and with a cheery goodnight he went home. There, the silence and solitude of his rented abode caused his thoughts to turn inward again, and brought him to a shocking conclusion:
Patrick was right. He did think of her as more than just a student. He liked spending time with her, he liked talking to her. He liked her, and more than he should or was proper given their relationship as teacher and student.
Her work, her grades, were all based on merit. He would hate to think that anyone thought otherwise, that she was aware of his fondness for her and was using it to her best advantage. He was resolute: he was going to have to stop it from continuing, both to protect her reputation and to protect himself from inappropriate feelings. He resolved to do this firmly and absolutely.
…
The following morning Bridget was not late for a change, though she clearly had stayed up too late the previous night, because she looked very tired and was obviously distracted. He barked her name, startling her bolt upright.
"Yes, sorry," she said.
Not more than a few minutes later, he asked her a question pertaining to his lecture on southeast Asia. She did not reply. He said her name again.
"What?"
"The answer to my question."
"Um," she said. "I think the answer you're looking for is South Africa."
A murmur of laughter rippled through the class, which infuriated him. "If you can't stay focused," he thundered, "please leave."
She furrowed her brow. "I said I was sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix your sleep deprivation and lack of attention," he said gruffly. "Go."
"Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed," she muttered.
"Go," he said, "and for inconveniencing this class and myself, a one-page essay due by this time tomorrow on the importance of a good night's sleep."
"That doesn't have anything to do with—"
"Two pages," he said.
He heard another round of suppressed laughter, which seemed to anger her even more. She gritted her teeth, packed her book bag and headed towards the door. "I'm not a child," she said, "and you're practically making me write lines."
"Three pages," he said.
Without another word, she glared at him, then left.
The rest of the class went off without a hitch. In fact, the other students seemed far more attentive than was the norm. As he returned to his office after the class, his thoughts were scattered. He told himself that if any other student were to have done what she'd done during his lecture, he would have done the same… but he was not so sure it was true.
Yes, I would have, he thought, reaffirming to himself that he had done the right thing. After all, one could simply not afford inattention during court proceedings.
In unguarded moments, though, he found himself reflecting on time spent in her company; how she had so frequently made him laugh; how she had so spontaneously comforted him when he revealed the pain caused by his ex-wife's infidelity; how much duller the class had been without her there that day. She was such a refreshing change of pace from the women he had known in his life in London—so different from his ex-wife—that he had, against his better judgment, let her get past his defences.
Like now.
He turned his head quickly away to focus on his work again, exhaling sharply. In this way lies madness, he thought, cursing Patrick for bringing this to his attention. But it was better to know to be able to take steps to counteract it, wasn't it?
He grabbed a sheet of A4 and scrawled a note apologising for not being available during office hours that day. He needed to take a walk to get his thoughts sorted out, and walk he did until he got to the Menai Strait and could go no further.
It was chilly, cold enough to see his breath. He gazed out and over to Anglesey, the water between them glittering in the late morning sun. The solitude, however, afforded not so much a sorting out of thoughts than an obsessing on them. Why was she so tired she was falling asleep in class? Had she succumbed to Alan's or even Alistair's advances? Why did he feel the need to know? Why should he even care? She was an adult and could sleep with whomever she liked.
The thought made him feel a little dizzy as he remembered all at once what it had been like, even for so short a time, to have had her in his embrace, her bright eyes shining up to him in her attempt to make him feel better; and that smile of hers on so many occasions, so easily coaxed and such a pleasure to see, her lips pink and smooth. He imagined how silky they would be against his own—
The very thought startled him so much that he gasped. This was wrong. He could not have these thoughts about her, so much younger than he, daughter of his parents' friends, a student in his class. He told himself that this attraction to her was nothing but a rebound, the wounded ego resulting from his failed marriage reacting to a beautiful younger woman giving him the slightest bit of attention…. What else could explain that he was suddenly fantasising about kissing her?
He shoved his hands into his pockets as the wind kicked up and rustled through his hair, causing him to shiver. He knew it was time to head back through campus, to his car and to his house. When he arrived home, although it was barely noon, he poured himself a glass of wine and drank it much too quickly.
He would just have to keep his resolve firmly in place. No special treatment, no undue attention. Most importantly, she could never know he had these feelings.
She was not there the following morning for the Thursday session, but sitting on the desk in the room in which he held his lectures was what appeared to be printed pages stapled in the top left corner. It was Bridget's required three-page essay on the importance of a good night's sleep, which consisted of the following sentence, one word to each page:
It's very important.
Technically it fit the requirements of the assignment, but rather than be amused by her efforts, he felt a sense of melancholy. It was so like her to have responded in this way, and it only served to highlight both why he liked her as much as he did, and why he should not.
Somehow he made it through the rest of the week and the weekend. When he spoke to his mother on Sunday, nothing at all about the conversation betrayed the turmoil he felt inside over Bridget. He was not looking forward to class on Monday at all, evidenced by the pit of fire in his gut.
On that dreaded Monday, Bridget was not late, was not sleeping at her desk, but also said nothing to him that did not relate to class. He did not know which he disliked more: her attention, or lack of it. After class she approached him, asking only, "I take it you got my three-page essay."
Looking at her with an unblinking gaze, he responded with only a curt, "Yes."
"And?" She was clearly trying to provoke a response.
"You clearly know the difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law."
She set her jaw firmly. "I suppose you'll make me rewrite it."
"No," he said. "Instead, I'd like you to write a one-thousand word essay on the letter versus the spirit of the law, since you seem to understand it so well."
She frowned at him.
He added, "Beginning of class tomorrow will suffice."
"Tomorrow? But I have a paper to finish for my literature class."
"Then you'd better get to work on it straightaway."
At this she actually looked a little upset, but did not say anything more.
As she turned to leave, he saw fit to add, knowing her propensity for creatively bending the parameters of an assignment, "Oh, and one-thousand is the minimum. You are not to suddenly stop mid-sentence once you've hit a thousand words."
She looked back and glared at him before heading out the door.
It gave him no pleasure to do these things, but he had to curtail the rampant liberties she had taken with his patience and good graces. Still, as that fire flared in her eyes, he could not help the flush of adrenalin that raced through him; how spirited she was, how attractive that was to him despite all of the rational reasons why it should not be.
He slept fitfully that night; he made his coffee the following morning that much stronger. He ensured he was early to the classroom in the hopes that he'd catch her if she turned up to drop it off again, but the paper was already present on the desk like it had been the week before; the only thing he could think was that she must have dropped it off late the previous night. It gave him the time to read through her essay before students arrived. The essay was extremely well organised, researched and written. He wondered if the legal community hadn't lost out when she'd chosen the English course. He put the papers into his briefcase just as the first students filtered in, thankful for the normalcy of the Tuesday-Thursday sessions.
He should have recognised it as a calm before the storm.
