(no subject)
Title: Stopping the Tide
Rating: PG
Pairing: Ryan/original character
Prompt: Ryan at college, seen through an outsider's eyes. I'm sorry this sort of deviates from the prompt and becomes slightly creepy, but I hope you enjoy it!
Written for overnighter.
And it felt like a winter machine
That you go through, and then
You catch your breath, and winter starts again
And everyone else is springbound
*
Even at night, Ellen's neighborhood is never really quiet. The laughter of students socializing carries over the houses, and she finds herself listening to it intently, trying to pick up on conversations. When Jerry was around, she had something to distract her, but things are different now. Most nights, she pours herself a bottle of wine, opens a book, and lets the humming noise fill the empty house. She soaks herself in it, and eventually the voices blend together, lulling her to sleep.
Sometimes she gets up and opens the file cabinet, pulls out the divorce papers and runs her fingers along the edges. She hasn't signed them yet, and the blank space hovers in her mind like a dark bird, looming. She knows that she can only pretend for so long. Jerry isn't coming back.
***
Her sister calls periodically to check in, asking questions about the sub-pump and the nutritional value of Ellen's frozen dinners. Ellen knows that she means well, but sometimes she just wants to hang up the phone and take a bath. She's tired of people asking her how she is.
"Maybe you should get out of the house," Amy says one Saturday afternoon. Ellen can hear her two nieces fighting in the background. "You could join a gym."
Ellen closes her eyes. "Jerry goes to the gym in town," she says. "Don't you think that would be awkward?"
Amy pauses. "You can't avoid him forever, you know."
"I'm not avoiding him," Ellen says, annoyed. "I'm just not going to go to places where I know I'll run into him."
"You're being stupid," Amy says. "You're going to wake up one day and think, God, I'm fifty, and I wasted half my life pining over some guy who couldn't even make toast right." There's a short silence, and Ellen can't think of anything to say. Amy clears her throat, and when she speaks again, she sounds a little embarassed. "I'm only trying to help."
"I know," Ellen says, leaning her head against a cabinet. "But you have to let me do this on my own."
Amy relents and changes the subject, and Ellen pours herself a glass of pineapple juice as her sister talks. She knows that Amy's right, that she should grit her teeth and move on. She just wishes she had some idea of where to start.
***
The beginning of the school year arrives hot and muggy, and Ellen watches as students drag couches and microwaves up the fire escapes into the dorms. She's grateful for her air conditioning, but the girls pulling suitcases up the stairs don't look hot or sweaty - just young, happy in a nervous way. A group of sophomore boys congregates on the grass to watch them move in, and Ellen suddenly feels sharply, acutely jealous.
She sometimes felt that way when she first moved to the college town, when she was sitting at home with a book, listening to students laugh and shout on the streets near her house. It made her feel old and boring in a way she'd never felt before, and it stung. When she told Jerry about it, though, he just looked at her as if she were crazy. "You can't be in college forever," he'd said, and he sounded so contemptuous that she hadn't brought it up anymore.
She wants to ask other professors if they feel the same way, because it hurts to feel alone in something like this. She wonders sometimes if they're all secretly there for the same reason; if maybe constantly being on a college campus makes them feel more alive. It used to, with her. She used to see girls in short skirts and feel younger, more vibrant, but something's changed.
She looks in the mirror, now, and she feels out of place. Her part is lined with streaks of gray, and when she smiles, new wrinkles creep into place around her eyes. She puts on lipstick and clips her hair into a ponytail, but it doesn't quite work the way it used to. She looks old.
***
Her schedule for first semester isn't too bad; Intro and Post-Colonial Lit on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and a creative writing course on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. She gets her class rosters a week before classes start and looks them over with Alison, scanning the photographs for awkward-looking freshman boys and girls with badly dyed hair. It's a tradition that they go through every year, and it makes Ellen feel young, if slightly petty.
As always, the students are mostly pretty average-looking. "Dena Burke is pretty," Alison comments, pushing her Intro to Bio roster across the table. "I think she was the one who requested to switch to Simpson's class."
Ellen laughs. Jon Simpson, a biology professor and tennis coach, is infamously popular with female students. "Look at this one," she says, pointing to a blond boy in her creative writing class. "Cute smile."
"Cute eyes," Alison says, and they look at each other and start laughing. "Do you ever feel like two creepy old women when we do this?"
"Only a little more than usual," Ellen says, and they grin at each other.
***
Classes start on the twenty-fifth of August, and as always, Ellen is unreasonably nervous. She feels like a freshman going into the classroom every year, even as the age gap between her and the students continues to grow. That morning, she pulls on a new blouse and a black skirt, slides her feet into a pair of black, comfortable heels, and tries to take deep breaths. If Jerry were here, he would slip his arms around her waist and tell her that she had nothing to worry about. If he were here.
The Monday classes go off without a hitch, though, and by Tuesday lunchtime, Ellen is confident. She packs up her folder and heads to her creative writing class, grabbing a muffin from the student forum and stirring sugar into her coffee as she walks.
The class passes quickly, and Ellen breezes through the usual introductions - the class syllabus, her policies on extensions, and their first paper - without a problem. There are a few students that she thinks might be trouble, girls who obviously think they're the next Dickinson, but overall, the class is respectful and enthusiastic.
At ten to nine, she dismisses the class and turns to put her papers back in her folder. Her bag is unwieldy on her shoulder, and when she grabs her coffee cup and turns to go, she collides with a male student. The coffee slips out of her hand and crashes to the floor, soaking his jeans and shoes.
"Oh God, I'm sorry," she says, reaching for the box of tissues on the desk. "I'm so clumsy, let me - "
"Don't worry about it," he says. She looks up, and he gives her a half-smile, all blond hair and California tan and quiet blue eyes. She grins back stupidly for a second, then hands him a bunch of Kleenex and brushes her hair out of her face.
"Great way to meet your professor, right?" she says, and he laughs. His laugh is deep and rolling, and after a moment, she has to remind herself that she's not a fourteen-year-old girl. As he dabs his pants with the tissues, she glances at the class roster, then looks back up at him. "You're Ryan, right?"
"Yeah," he says, not quite looking straight at her. "Ryan Atwood." He drops the tissues into the garbage can and picks up his bag. "Thanks, Professor Walker." He looks a little embarassed.
"You're welcome," she says, as he starts to walk away. The crowd of students moves towards the door, and she watches as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. As he catches the door in his hand, he turns back to look at her for a second, and he smiles. The door swings shut, and for a moment, Ellen almost can't breathe.
***
Sometimes, when the class is working in groups or taking time to put projects together, Ellen watches Ryan. She memorizes little details about him - the way he taps his pen against his front teeth when he works, or the way he never looks his group members completely in the eye. By October, she knows the slant of his writing and the curve of his blond hair against his forehead. Publicly, she knows that her behavior would be completely inappropriate, but privately, it's like having a secret. If she holds it close to her body, she can enjoy it, and she likes that.
Ryan doesn't talk much in class, but when he does, the other students listen. His voice is quiet and deep, and he speaks calmly, his words pouring out like smooth sauce into a mixing bowl. Mostly, he looks at his hands when he talks, but sometimes he looks up, and his bright, fixing eyes stun her for a second. As bizarre as it sounds, she feels as if she could get lost in him.
The students turn in a writing assignment every Friday, and Ellen saves Ryan's until the evening, until she can relax on the couch with a glass of Merlot and read through it properly. His style is short and clipped, but it flows. He writes about the way his roommate laughs, the scenery on the highway drive to campus, the view from the roof of his dorm - always about college life. She wants to open him up like a new textbook, find out why he never writes about home, but she's scared. Asking about a student's personal life is always tricky, and it's even harder with Ryan. Somehow, she thinks that he'd just stare at the floor and stay silent.
Students come in for extra help, sometimes, but Ryan is never among them. She wishes that he would come and ask her about his writing, tell her that he's confused or happy or lonely, but he doesn't. He just pushes his writing assignments towards her with a mumbled, "Great class today" and leaves, and she knows she cannot follow.
***
Ellen signs the divorce papers at the end of October, sitting in a cheap restaurant with Alison and Joan, who teaches stagecraft. They all order cheeseburgers and ice cream sundaes, and they laugh like teenagers the whole night. After the check comes, they sit at the table for a while, chatting.
After a while, Alison glances at her watch. She looks up at Ellen. "Okay," she says. "It's time."
Ellen swallows and pulls the papers out of her purse. Joan takes her hand and squeezes, and Ellen feels the beginning of tears prick the corners of her eyes.
"None of that," Alison says, but she's smiling. "You're a free woman. It's a wonderful thing."
"Think about it," says Joan, grinning. "Now you can have sex with anyone you want, and it's not cheating."
"Well, not anyone," amends Alison. She winks. "Maybe not freshmen."
They laugh, and Ellen feels a twinge of guilt in her stomach. Willing her hand to stop shaking, she picks up the pen and signs the paper. For a moment, they all sit and stare at the signature, and then she picks up her glass.
"A free woman," she says, and they all smile and drink.
***
At the end of the first week in November, Ellen is sitting at her desk, shuffling through assignments, when she realizes that Ryan's paper is missing. She goes through the stack twice before she looks up, and there he is, standing in the doorway of the classroom.
"Hi, Ryan," she says, and he nods slightly. Feeling a little apprehensive, she stands up and motions for him to come over. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah," he says, sitting on a table in front of her desk. "I mean, maybe. I had a little trouble with this assignment."
"Okay," she says. "What was the problem?"
He swallows, and his hand tenses on the edge of the table. His neck muscles are tensed, and she wants to run a hand through his hair, calm him down.
"Ryan?"
He looks at the floor. "You told us to write about home. And I - I've been trying, I really have, but I don't really - " He swallows again, and this time, he looks straight up at her. "I don't really have one."
She doesn't know what to say. She can't take her eyes off his face, the way the corners of his mouth turn downward just slightly. She follows that downward line to the collar of his t-shirt, where blue fabric meets smooth skin, and bites her lip. "Oh, Ryan. I'm sorry."
"It's fine," he says, a little defensively. "I mean, you don't have to feel sorry for me. I have a great family." He scratches the side of his head and looks out of the window. "I just don't know that having a family means that you have a home."
She nods. "Well, write about that, then." He looks up at the suggestion, and she decides to pursue it. "You don't necessarily have to write about your family. Just the topic of family. So write about the way that a family can sometimes feel like strangers, the way that even when you think you should feel at home, sometimes you just - "
"Don't," Ryan finishes, and then blushes a little.
"Right," she says. There's an awkward moment of silence, and then he gives her another half-smile. "Does that help at all?"
"Yeah," he says. "Thank you. Do you mind if I turn this assignment in on Monday?"
She shakes her head. "Take the time you need. I'm really glad you decided to come and talk to me."
He nods, and she can't stop herself from smiling. "Me too," he says shyly, and turns to go. "Have a good weekend, Professor Walker."
He closes the door behind him, and she wants to leap onto the table and scream. Instead, though, she just sits down behind the desk, pushes her papers into a little pile, and grins.
***
For the next few weeks, Ryan comes in regularly to talk about his work. He never divulges many personal details, but they talk about style and diction and the overuse of clichés, and he seems much more comfortable. He starts to talk more in class, and the morning that he criticizes another student's work, Ellen has to cover her mouth to keep from grinning.
He comes in at the same time every week, Friday at four o'clock, and she learns to look forward to it. Sometimes after their discussion, they sit and talk for a few minutes, chat about the new campus center or the terrible food that the forum serves. She feels very at ease with him, and she finds that she can make him laugh.
One afternoon, after they've discussed one of Ryan's short stories, he looks up at her and clears his throat.
"This will sound stupid," he says, "but you're a great professor. I mean, I'm learning a lot."
She smiles and extends her hand, pulls him up from his chair and jokingly shakes his hand. "Well, it's been a pleasure, Mr. Atwood." He grins back shyly, and suddenly she becomes very aware of how close they are. His hand is still in hers, and when she looks up at him, he has stopped smiling.
"Professor Walker," he says, unsure.
She wants to stop herself, but suddenly she can't, can't take another student looking at her as if they feel sorry for her. As if she's old and lonely and desperate. "Just stop," she says quietly, and she reaches up to brush his cheek.
He pulls back a little, but she cups the back of his neck and pulls him toward her, and their lips crush together. The kiss is strained and slow, and after a moment, he slides his hands around her waist. She runs her hands through his hair, and he pushes her up onto the desk, hard. His mouth is hot and chapped and bruising, and for a brief second, she wonders if maybe he's just as lonely and desperate as she is.
She pulls away slowly, and for a minute, he rests his forehead against hers, breathing heavily. When he opens his eyes, they stare at each other for a second, and then suddenly, he lets go of her.
She's sitting on the edge of the desk, feeling extremely disheveled, and she knows before it happens what he will say.
"Oh God," he says, his face white. "I'm sorry, I can't - "
She cuts him off, her stomach rolling. "No, I'm sorry," she says. "I'm your professor, and I shouldn't have - "
They both stand there for a moment, not quite looking at each other, and then he picks up his bag. "I should go," he says quietly, and she nods. She doesn't look up at him, doesn't say anything, just waits for the classroom door to shut. She glances down at his paper, sitting beside her on the desk, and puts her head in her hands.
***
The semester ends three weeks later, and the creative writing classes pass in a painful blur. Ellen can't bring herself to look at Ryan, much less to call on him, and he doesn't volunteer his opinions. When the classes end, he's the first one to leave, and he never comes in after class for help.
On the last day of the semester, when students are packing up to leave for winter break and turning in their final papers, she's sitting with Alison in her office. There's a hesitant knock on the door, and Ryan walks in, paper in hand.
There's an uncomfortable silence, and Ryan slides his paper across the desk. He doesn't look at her, and when he talks, his voice is quiet. "It was a great class, Professor Walker," he says, sounding slightly pained. He looks up, and their eyes meet.
"It was great having you there, Ryan," she replies. She knows she sounds fake. He nods and pushes the door open, and as he leaves, she thinks she hears him murmur, "I'm sorry."
There's so much that she would say, if he wasn't so young, if she wasn't his professor and she hadn't betrayed his trust. She wants to follow him, to tell him that he shouldn't be sorry, that she's the one to blame, but she doesn't. She just sits in silence with Alison, hearing students mill around in the courtyard and staring at her hands.
After a minute, she gets up and goes to the window, looks out across the quad. Ryan is walking towards the dorms, his backpack slung across his back. She presses her forehead against the cool window.
Alison stands up and puts her hand on Ellen's shoulder. "Do I want to know?" she asks, and Ellen shakes her head.
"Probably not," she says. She watches as Ryan blends into the crowd, until his head is just another blond speck in a mass of color, just another boat floating aimlessly on rolling water. She turns to Alison and smiles, takes her by the hand. "Come on. Let's get coffee."
*
Rating: PG
Pairing: Ryan/original character
Prompt: Ryan at college, seen through an outsider's eyes. I'm sorry this sort of deviates from the prompt and becomes slightly creepy, but I hope you enjoy it!
Written for overnighter.
And it felt like a winter machine
That you go through, and then
You catch your breath, and winter starts again
And everyone else is springbound
*
Even at night, Ellen's neighborhood is never really quiet. The laughter of students socializing carries over the houses, and she finds herself listening to it intently, trying to pick up on conversations. When Jerry was around, she had something to distract her, but things are different now. Most nights, she pours herself a bottle of wine, opens a book, and lets the humming noise fill the empty house. She soaks herself in it, and eventually the voices blend together, lulling her to sleep.
Sometimes she gets up and opens the file cabinet, pulls out the divorce papers and runs her fingers along the edges. She hasn't signed them yet, and the blank space hovers in her mind like a dark bird, looming. She knows that she can only pretend for so long. Jerry isn't coming back.
***
Her sister calls periodically to check in, asking questions about the sub-pump and the nutritional value of Ellen's frozen dinners. Ellen knows that she means well, but sometimes she just wants to hang up the phone and take a bath. She's tired of people asking her how she is.
"Maybe you should get out of the house," Amy says one Saturday afternoon. Ellen can hear her two nieces fighting in the background. "You could join a gym."
Ellen closes her eyes. "Jerry goes to the gym in town," she says. "Don't you think that would be awkward?"
Amy pauses. "You can't avoid him forever, you know."
"I'm not avoiding him," Ellen says, annoyed. "I'm just not going to go to places where I know I'll run into him."
"You're being stupid," Amy says. "You're going to wake up one day and think, God, I'm fifty, and I wasted half my life pining over some guy who couldn't even make toast right." There's a short silence, and Ellen can't think of anything to say. Amy clears her throat, and when she speaks again, she sounds a little embarassed. "I'm only trying to help."
"I know," Ellen says, leaning her head against a cabinet. "But you have to let me do this on my own."
Amy relents and changes the subject, and Ellen pours herself a glass of pineapple juice as her sister talks. She knows that Amy's right, that she should grit her teeth and move on. She just wishes she had some idea of where to start.
***
The beginning of the school year arrives hot and muggy, and Ellen watches as students drag couches and microwaves up the fire escapes into the dorms. She's grateful for her air conditioning, but the girls pulling suitcases up the stairs don't look hot or sweaty - just young, happy in a nervous way. A group of sophomore boys congregates on the grass to watch them move in, and Ellen suddenly feels sharply, acutely jealous.
She sometimes felt that way when she first moved to the college town, when she was sitting at home with a book, listening to students laugh and shout on the streets near her house. It made her feel old and boring in a way she'd never felt before, and it stung. When she told Jerry about it, though, he just looked at her as if she were crazy. "You can't be in college forever," he'd said, and he sounded so contemptuous that she hadn't brought it up anymore.
She wants to ask other professors if they feel the same way, because it hurts to feel alone in something like this. She wonders sometimes if they're all secretly there for the same reason; if maybe constantly being on a college campus makes them feel more alive. It used to, with her. She used to see girls in short skirts and feel younger, more vibrant, but something's changed.
She looks in the mirror, now, and she feels out of place. Her part is lined with streaks of gray, and when she smiles, new wrinkles creep into place around her eyes. She puts on lipstick and clips her hair into a ponytail, but it doesn't quite work the way it used to. She looks old.
***
Her schedule for first semester isn't too bad; Intro and Post-Colonial Lit on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and a creative writing course on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. She gets her class rosters a week before classes start and looks them over with Alison, scanning the photographs for awkward-looking freshman boys and girls with badly dyed hair. It's a tradition that they go through every year, and it makes Ellen feel young, if slightly petty.
As always, the students are mostly pretty average-looking. "Dena Burke is pretty," Alison comments, pushing her Intro to Bio roster across the table. "I think she was the one who requested to switch to Simpson's class."
Ellen laughs. Jon Simpson, a biology professor and tennis coach, is infamously popular with female students. "Look at this one," she says, pointing to a blond boy in her creative writing class. "Cute smile."
"Cute eyes," Alison says, and they look at each other and start laughing. "Do you ever feel like two creepy old women when we do this?"
"Only a little more than usual," Ellen says, and they grin at each other.
***
Classes start on the twenty-fifth of August, and as always, Ellen is unreasonably nervous. She feels like a freshman going into the classroom every year, even as the age gap between her and the students continues to grow. That morning, she pulls on a new blouse and a black skirt, slides her feet into a pair of black, comfortable heels, and tries to take deep breaths. If Jerry were here, he would slip his arms around her waist and tell her that she had nothing to worry about. If he were here.
The Monday classes go off without a hitch, though, and by Tuesday lunchtime, Ellen is confident. She packs up her folder and heads to her creative writing class, grabbing a muffin from the student forum and stirring sugar into her coffee as she walks.
The class passes quickly, and Ellen breezes through the usual introductions - the class syllabus, her policies on extensions, and their first paper - without a problem. There are a few students that she thinks might be trouble, girls who obviously think they're the next Dickinson, but overall, the class is respectful and enthusiastic.
At ten to nine, she dismisses the class and turns to put her papers back in her folder. Her bag is unwieldy on her shoulder, and when she grabs her coffee cup and turns to go, she collides with a male student. The coffee slips out of her hand and crashes to the floor, soaking his jeans and shoes.
"Oh God, I'm sorry," she says, reaching for the box of tissues on the desk. "I'm so clumsy, let me - "
"Don't worry about it," he says. She looks up, and he gives her a half-smile, all blond hair and California tan and quiet blue eyes. She grins back stupidly for a second, then hands him a bunch of Kleenex and brushes her hair out of her face.
"Great way to meet your professor, right?" she says, and he laughs. His laugh is deep and rolling, and after a moment, she has to remind herself that she's not a fourteen-year-old girl. As he dabs his pants with the tissues, she glances at the class roster, then looks back up at him. "You're Ryan, right?"
"Yeah," he says, not quite looking straight at her. "Ryan Atwood." He drops the tissues into the garbage can and picks up his bag. "Thanks, Professor Walker." He looks a little embarassed.
"You're welcome," she says, as he starts to walk away. The crowd of students moves towards the door, and she watches as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. As he catches the door in his hand, he turns back to look at her for a second, and he smiles. The door swings shut, and for a moment, Ellen almost can't breathe.
***
Sometimes, when the class is working in groups or taking time to put projects together, Ellen watches Ryan. She memorizes little details about him - the way he taps his pen against his front teeth when he works, or the way he never looks his group members completely in the eye. By October, she knows the slant of his writing and the curve of his blond hair against his forehead. Publicly, she knows that her behavior would be completely inappropriate, but privately, it's like having a secret. If she holds it close to her body, she can enjoy it, and she likes that.
Ryan doesn't talk much in class, but when he does, the other students listen. His voice is quiet and deep, and he speaks calmly, his words pouring out like smooth sauce into a mixing bowl. Mostly, he looks at his hands when he talks, but sometimes he looks up, and his bright, fixing eyes stun her for a second. As bizarre as it sounds, she feels as if she could get lost in him.
The students turn in a writing assignment every Friday, and Ellen saves Ryan's until the evening, until she can relax on the couch with a glass of Merlot and read through it properly. His style is short and clipped, but it flows. He writes about the way his roommate laughs, the scenery on the highway drive to campus, the view from the roof of his dorm - always about college life. She wants to open him up like a new textbook, find out why he never writes about home, but she's scared. Asking about a student's personal life is always tricky, and it's even harder with Ryan. Somehow, she thinks that he'd just stare at the floor and stay silent.
Students come in for extra help, sometimes, but Ryan is never among them. She wishes that he would come and ask her about his writing, tell her that he's confused or happy or lonely, but he doesn't. He just pushes his writing assignments towards her with a mumbled, "Great class today" and leaves, and she knows she cannot follow.
***
Ellen signs the divorce papers at the end of October, sitting in a cheap restaurant with Alison and Joan, who teaches stagecraft. They all order cheeseburgers and ice cream sundaes, and they laugh like teenagers the whole night. After the check comes, they sit at the table for a while, chatting.
After a while, Alison glances at her watch. She looks up at Ellen. "Okay," she says. "It's time."
Ellen swallows and pulls the papers out of her purse. Joan takes her hand and squeezes, and Ellen feels the beginning of tears prick the corners of her eyes.
"None of that," Alison says, but she's smiling. "You're a free woman. It's a wonderful thing."
"Think about it," says Joan, grinning. "Now you can have sex with anyone you want, and it's not cheating."
"Well, not anyone," amends Alison. She winks. "Maybe not freshmen."
They laugh, and Ellen feels a twinge of guilt in her stomach. Willing her hand to stop shaking, she picks up the pen and signs the paper. For a moment, they all sit and stare at the signature, and then she picks up her glass.
"A free woman," she says, and they all smile and drink.
***
At the end of the first week in November, Ellen is sitting at her desk, shuffling through assignments, when she realizes that Ryan's paper is missing. She goes through the stack twice before she looks up, and there he is, standing in the doorway of the classroom.
"Hi, Ryan," she says, and he nods slightly. Feeling a little apprehensive, she stands up and motions for him to come over. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah," he says, sitting on a table in front of her desk. "I mean, maybe. I had a little trouble with this assignment."
"Okay," she says. "What was the problem?"
He swallows, and his hand tenses on the edge of the table. His neck muscles are tensed, and she wants to run a hand through his hair, calm him down.
"Ryan?"
He looks at the floor. "You told us to write about home. And I - I've been trying, I really have, but I don't really - " He swallows again, and this time, he looks straight up at her. "I don't really have one."
She doesn't know what to say. She can't take her eyes off his face, the way the corners of his mouth turn downward just slightly. She follows that downward line to the collar of his t-shirt, where blue fabric meets smooth skin, and bites her lip. "Oh, Ryan. I'm sorry."
"It's fine," he says, a little defensively. "I mean, you don't have to feel sorry for me. I have a great family." He scratches the side of his head and looks out of the window. "I just don't know that having a family means that you have a home."
She nods. "Well, write about that, then." He looks up at the suggestion, and she decides to pursue it. "You don't necessarily have to write about your family. Just the topic of family. So write about the way that a family can sometimes feel like strangers, the way that even when you think you should feel at home, sometimes you just - "
"Don't," Ryan finishes, and then blushes a little.
"Right," she says. There's an awkward moment of silence, and then he gives her another half-smile. "Does that help at all?"
"Yeah," he says. "Thank you. Do you mind if I turn this assignment in on Monday?"
She shakes her head. "Take the time you need. I'm really glad you decided to come and talk to me."
He nods, and she can't stop herself from smiling. "Me too," he says shyly, and turns to go. "Have a good weekend, Professor Walker."
He closes the door behind him, and she wants to leap onto the table and scream. Instead, though, she just sits down behind the desk, pushes her papers into a little pile, and grins.
***
For the next few weeks, Ryan comes in regularly to talk about his work. He never divulges many personal details, but they talk about style and diction and the overuse of clichés, and he seems much more comfortable. He starts to talk more in class, and the morning that he criticizes another student's work, Ellen has to cover her mouth to keep from grinning.
He comes in at the same time every week, Friday at four o'clock, and she learns to look forward to it. Sometimes after their discussion, they sit and talk for a few minutes, chat about the new campus center or the terrible food that the forum serves. She feels very at ease with him, and she finds that she can make him laugh.
One afternoon, after they've discussed one of Ryan's short stories, he looks up at her and clears his throat.
"This will sound stupid," he says, "but you're a great professor. I mean, I'm learning a lot."
She smiles and extends her hand, pulls him up from his chair and jokingly shakes his hand. "Well, it's been a pleasure, Mr. Atwood." He grins back shyly, and suddenly she becomes very aware of how close they are. His hand is still in hers, and when she looks up at him, he has stopped smiling.
"Professor Walker," he says, unsure.
She wants to stop herself, but suddenly she can't, can't take another student looking at her as if they feel sorry for her. As if she's old and lonely and desperate. "Just stop," she says quietly, and she reaches up to brush his cheek.
He pulls back a little, but she cups the back of his neck and pulls him toward her, and their lips crush together. The kiss is strained and slow, and after a moment, he slides his hands around her waist. She runs her hands through his hair, and he pushes her up onto the desk, hard. His mouth is hot and chapped and bruising, and for a brief second, she wonders if maybe he's just as lonely and desperate as she is.
She pulls away slowly, and for a minute, he rests his forehead against hers, breathing heavily. When he opens his eyes, they stare at each other for a second, and then suddenly, he lets go of her.
She's sitting on the edge of the desk, feeling extremely disheveled, and she knows before it happens what he will say.
"Oh God," he says, his face white. "I'm sorry, I can't - "
She cuts him off, her stomach rolling. "No, I'm sorry," she says. "I'm your professor, and I shouldn't have - "
They both stand there for a moment, not quite looking at each other, and then he picks up his bag. "I should go," he says quietly, and she nods. She doesn't look up at him, doesn't say anything, just waits for the classroom door to shut. She glances down at his paper, sitting beside her on the desk, and puts her head in her hands.
***
The semester ends three weeks later, and the creative writing classes pass in a painful blur. Ellen can't bring herself to look at Ryan, much less to call on him, and he doesn't volunteer his opinions. When the classes end, he's the first one to leave, and he never comes in after class for help.
On the last day of the semester, when students are packing up to leave for winter break and turning in their final papers, she's sitting with Alison in her office. There's a hesitant knock on the door, and Ryan walks in, paper in hand.
There's an uncomfortable silence, and Ryan slides his paper across the desk. He doesn't look at her, and when he talks, his voice is quiet. "It was a great class, Professor Walker," he says, sounding slightly pained. He looks up, and their eyes meet.
"It was great having you there, Ryan," she replies. She knows she sounds fake. He nods and pushes the door open, and as he leaves, she thinks she hears him murmur, "I'm sorry."
There's so much that she would say, if he wasn't so young, if she wasn't his professor and she hadn't betrayed his trust. She wants to follow him, to tell him that he shouldn't be sorry, that she's the one to blame, but she doesn't. She just sits in silence with Alison, hearing students mill around in the courtyard and staring at her hands.
After a minute, she gets up and goes to the window, looks out across the quad. Ryan is walking towards the dorms, his backpack slung across his back. She presses her forehead against the cool window.
Alison stands up and puts her hand on Ellen's shoulder. "Do I want to know?" she asks, and Ellen shakes her head.
"Probably not," she says. She watches as Ryan blends into the crowd, until his head is just another blond speck in a mass of color, just another boat floating aimlessly on rolling water. She turns to Alison and smiles, takes her by the hand. "Come on. Let's get coffee."
*