Taught by him

CHAPTER SIX. terrible coffee

I wore yellow.

A soft yellow dress with sleeves that fluttered when I walked. White sneakers. My hair in a loose braid. I looked like spring in the middle of a grey October.

Lila whistled when I came out of the bathroom.

"Okay, so funeral black was to prove a point, but yellow is to commit murder. He is dead. Professor Black is dead."

"It's not for him. It's my lucky color, remember?"

"Sure. And I'm wearing this face mask for my health."

Elm Street Coffee was exactly as bad as I remembered. The green awning was faded, the bell above the door jingled too loudly, and the coffee tasted like burnt toast.

Ethan was already there.

He was in the corner booth, back to the wall, facing the door. He wore a dark blue sweater instead of black, and for the first time since I'd known him, he looked like a normal man in his late twenties waiting for a girl, not a cold professor.

He saw me and stood up.

When I reached the table, he didn't hug me. He didn't touch me. He just looked at me like I had knocked all the air out of him.

"You wore yellow."

"You told me to."

"I shouldn't have. Now I can't think."

We sat. The waitress came. We both ordered terrible coffee.

"You came," he said quietly after she left.

"You told me 6pm."

"I thought you would change your mind. That you'd realize this was insane."

"I did realize it's insane. I came anyway."

He smiled. A real, nervous smile.

"I have never done this before," he admitted. "Waited for a student in a coffee shop. I have never broken this rule."

"I have never had coffee with a professor who watched my dorm window in the rain."

"We are both terrible people, then."

"Terrible people with terrible coffee."

He laughed. Loudly. The few other customers looked over. I had never heard him laugh like that. Not in class, not in his office. It was a free, unguarded sound.

Our coffee arrived. It was as terrible as promised.

I made a face after the first sip. He made the same face. We both laughed again.

"So," I said, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "If you weren't Professor Black at Blackwood University, who would you be?"

He thought for a moment.

"Ethan who owns a bookstore that never makes money. Ethan who writes books that three people read. Ethan who sleeps past 6am."

"Ethan who doesn't wear only black?"

"That might be asking too much."

"What about you?" he asked. "If you weren't Miss Vale, the girl who argues about Sylvia Plath?"

I looked down at my yellow dress.

"Aria who owns a flower shop. Aria who writes poetry no one will publish. Aria who is not afraid of being lonely."

"You are afraid of being lonely?"

"Terrified. That's why I talk so much in class. If I'm talking, I can't feel lonely."

He reached across the table. Slowly, giving me time to pull away. I didn't.

His fingers brushed mine over the chipped ceramic mug.

"You are not lonely right now."

"No."

"Neither am I."

We sat like that, fingers touching, terrible coffee getting cold, rain starting to patter against the green awning outside.

"Can I tell you something inappropriate?" he asked.

"How inappropriate?"

"On a scale from office hours to standing in the rain at midnight?"

"Somewhere in the middle."

He leaned forward, voice low.

"Every time you wear that yellow dress, I forget you are my student. And every time you argue with me in class, I want to kiss you just to make you stop talking."

My face went hot.

"That is very inappropriate, Professor."

"Ethan."

"Very inappropriate, Ethan."

"Do you want me to take it back?"

"No."

The bell jingled. Two students from Blackwood walked in, laughing, shaking off rain. First years.

Ethan's hand pulled back instantly. His shoulders tensed. The professor mask slipped back on.

I saw it happen. The fear. The realization that we were in public.

"We should go," he whispered.

"Okay."

We stood. He threw cash on the table, way too much. We walked out separately, thirty seconds apart, like spies.

Outside, under the green awning, rain pouring, he waited.

"You were right. The coffee was terrible."

"But the company—"

"The company was excellent," he finished.

He looked down the empty street, then back at me.

"Aria, I have to tell you something before this goes any further. About Clara."

"Okay."

"Her body was never found. The police said it was an accident. But her mother... her mother thinks she left. That she didn't want to marry me. I have lived three years thinking maybe she left because of me."

"Ethan—"

"And then you walked in, looking like her, and for a crazy second I thought... what if she came back? What if this was some kind of second chance? But you are not her. You are so much... more. And I need you to know that I am not looking for a ghost anymore. I am looking at you."

Tears stung my eyes.

"I believe you," I said.

He reached out, hesitated, then cupped my face, rain on his thumb.

"Can I—"

I didn't let him finish. I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him.

It was quick. Soft. Tasted like terrible coffee and rain.

He froze for half a second, then kissed me back, one hand in my braid, the other holding my waist.

The bell from the coffee shop jingled behind us. We broke apart.

"I have to go," I whispered.

"I know."

"Tomorrow? Same place?"

"No. Tomorrow, come to class wearing yellow. Let me be tortured properly."

I laughed and ran into the rain, his coat that I had stolen again around my shoulders, his kiss still on my lips.

Behind me, I knew he was still watching.

He was always watching.