Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“I had an accident,” I said, pointing to my cheek.
“You could’ve finished the paper yesterday or for the actual deadline on Friday.”
“I could have, but I didn’t. I understand if you want to take points off, but I have a legitimate medical excuse.”
He studied me for a moment.
“What kind of accident did you have?”
“I… I don’t want to talk about it.”
He nodded.
“If your accident had prevented you from making the original deadline, then we could discuss options. But your paper was already late.”
I wanted to scream because I’d opened my laptop to work on it before Randall attacked me. I had already done the research. “Please just read it. I wrote a damn good paper. You have no idea what kind of night I had.”
“I can imagine.”
“No, I don’t think you can.” I stood and hurried out of his office, slamming the door shut behind me. I was about to have a meltdown, and there was no way in hell I was going to let him see me cry.
Thank God no one I knew was out in the hall. I pushed my way into the closest bathroom, ran into a stall, and pressed my hands against my eyes, trying to hold back tears.
6
DANTE
Idropped my head into my hands. I’d really fucked that up. I didn’t have to be such an asshole to Alex, did I? The cut on his face had to hurt like hell.
But he could have finished the paper for the original deadline. Did he really think he could just fuck off and then come plead his case? What had happened to him? I was in the fucking mafia, and I rarely came in looking that bad. Had he hurt himself when he was drunk or high? Did he really have to party on a school night?
So now we’re Mr. Prude who doesn’t believe in partying or drinking?
Fuck, even my conscience thought I was an ass. I wasn’t typically so cold, not at this job, anyway, but Alex got under my skin. I was partly angry with him because I didn’t want him throwing his life away.
I picked up his paper and studied it. He deserved a zero. Those were the rules.
Is that what you’d give any other student?
I’d done it before.
When they brought you a paper copy with fresh stitches on their face?
Dammit. I started reading and got drawn in. Alex was an excellent writer. When I finished, I realized he had written the most coherent, well-organized, and properly researched essay in the class. He was fucking brilliant, and he was throwing it away. He needed better friends and better focus.
I gave him an eighty-five for lateness and tossed the paper into my basket. Then I looked up his number and sent him a text letting him know I’d reconsidered. It nearly killed me to break my own rules, but he’d looked truly hurt, emotionally, not just physically. When he turned around and left my office, there had been tears in his eyes. I never meant to be the kind of professor who made students cry. I hurt enough people in my other life.
I asked Alex to come back before my office hours ended. I even checked his schedule to make sure he didn’t have class. But when the time came for me to head to a meeting with the department chair, Alex still hadn’t shown up. I texted him again and sent him an email giving him the same information I had in the text. It was probably foolish of me to think someone his age was going to pay attention to a text from an unknown number, even if they were hoping not to get a fucking zero in my class.
Alex still hadn’t responded or shown up when I was ready to close everything down for the day and head home. I had a special bottle of wine at home and the ingredients to make pasta alla norma, my mother’s favorite dish. I’d been too little to really appreciate it when she’d passed away—how many twelve-year-old boys were thrilled to eat eggplant?—but now I absolutely loved it.
As I walked home, I kept thinking about Alex. My gut told me something was wrong. Alex would have come to office hours if he were all right.
I tried to ignore my instincts. Maybe he didn’t have his phone with him. No, that was absurd. Maybe he just wasn’t paying any attention to it. But he’d been devastated, and he would want to come back. If for no other reason than to savor the fact that he’d gotten me to break my own policy.
I pulled out my phone and texted him again. I’d like to set a meeting with you tomorrow since you didn’t show up today.
When I reached home and there was still no reply, the sense that something was wrong grew stronger. What was I supposed to do? Track him down at his frat house? How the hell was that going to look?