EIGHTEEN: Do You Think He Suspects Us?

One foot after the other. That's what I focus on, and the sound of my heels clicking against the sidewalk. My breath is still rapid, my heartbeat thudding in my chest so loud it rings in my ears. I don't know if it is because of what just happened, or because I'm practically power-walking to put as much distance between myself and Holdo Hall as possible.

That was close. Too close. Harlan doesn't strike me as a man who is easily shaken. Easily angered, sure, without a doubt.

But frightened? Never. But as I watched his eyes follow Vance out of the room, I saw it on his face.

It is like we two couldn’t stop ourselves. And it isn't just that we saw the opportunity of us being alone together and impulsively took it. It is even worse. I think back to before Vance knocked on the door. How I felt when I was kissing Harlan. Barely anything would have stopped me. The knowledge of the risk isn't enough to make me use my head and think about what I'm doing. I know it is wrong, too risky to do it in a classroom.

During class hours.

Again.

Only when a faculty member came knocking on the door was I able to pull myself off of him.

Harlan didn't peel his eyes away from the door when he told me to get out of there.

"Harlan–" I'd tried.

"Go," he had said quickly, turning to me for a moment, desperate eyes begging me to have faith in him. "Trust me. I'll call you. Just get out of here."

"Do you think he suspects us?"

He hissed my name, turning to me and grabbing onto my arms. "I promise I will call you and we will talk. But right now, you need to go."

In his eyes, I saw fear. Fear of losing his job, of losing everything he'd worked for. Of everything he has.

Well, at least I've finally seen the man rattled.

The two of us have two strikes under our belts. He'd told Jax that he could drive me home that night at the bar. That is bad move number one. And now this... Vance walking in on the two of us with the door locked. There is no way he isn't suspicious of something. And if he is, all he has to do is wait for the two of us to fuck up again.

Harlan doesn't call, but he does text.

Later that evening, while I'm taking a depression nap, or in this case, maybe a stress nap, the buzzing of my phone wakes me up. Squinting, I look at the text. He’s asking me to come over, but he doesn't want to risk sending his driver. He doesn't want me seen with anyone.

Moments later, he sends me money for an Uber.

I quickly type that I'll shower and eat and be right over.

He responds that I can forget it, and to come ASAP.

I throw my blanket and go to the bathroom for a quick refresh before heading out to catch my ride.

As I approach the luxurious Back Bay neighbourhood of Boston, I feel just as nervous as before. I fiddle with the hem of my sweatshirt sleeve. For all I know, the "talking" that Harlan has promised would actually be a breakup. I can hardly blame him. I can try, but it would be hard to hold it against him if he doesn't think I'm worth the risk of losing his job. Perhaps I should have been smarter about this whole thing in the beginning, and then I wouldn't have been nervous to the point of my stomach doing backflips in the back of the car as I approach his brownstone.

I give a sheepish thanks to the driver as I climb out of the backseat before walking up the steps to Harlan's front door and knocking with a trembling fist.