Page 4

Chapter 3

Deirdre

“Invisible things are the only realities.” Edgar Allan Poe

T he day before classes begin, I step into my dorm room for the first time. It is like most dorm rooms, small and modest. However, for the amount of tuition I paid, I expected a little more. A shared nightstand separates two twin beds. A pair of wooden desks, barely big enough to hold a laptop and one or two textbooks, sit on opposite sides of the room.

The closet is tiny. I don’t know how the university thinks that two college-age students will be able to fit their clothes in it.

A single, tall and narrow window, framed in dark, weathered wood, separates the two beds, overlooking the courtyard below. I walk over and peer down between the dusty blinds. The campus spans several hundred acres, across lush green grass. Students are sprinkled everywhere across the lawn, some knowing exactly where to go, and others looking lost. You can definitely tell who is fresh meat and who has been a student here for a while.

The scent of freshly cleaned carpet lingers in the air, mingling with the faint hint of teakwood mahogany from the air freshener someone has already placed on the windowsill. I’m assuming that someone is my roommate for the semester.

At least she doesn’t have bad taste in scents.

I have been in the room all of ten minutes, unpacking my suitcases and enjoying what I fear may be my last moments of silence, when the door swings open with a dramatic whoosh .

Claire, my new roommate, comes bounding in. At first glance, she is the epitome of preppy: blonde, bubbly, and brimming with energy. She is wearing a pastel pink sweater draped casually over her shoulders and carrying a stack of color-coded notebooks in one hand. Aside from the notebooks, we are polar opposites. I quickly glance at the skull and crow paperweight I set on my desk and then look at hers. It is adorned with pink office supplies and a vase of fake peonies.

Thinking back to mine and Gabe’s conversation, I wince.

My very own hyper chihuahua.

“Hi! You must be Deirdre! I’m Claire!” she chirps, her voice as bright as her perfectly straightened hair and carefully made-up face. She drops her notebooks onto her bed, walks over, and extends her hand toward me.

I hesitate for a moment before shaking her hand.

“Hi,” I say simply, keeping my tone neutral.

Claire doesn’t seem to notice my enthusiasm, or lack thereof. She plops onto her bed and begins chatting me up as if we are old friends.

“Okay, so, I know the dorm is kind of basic, but I already have a Pinterest board full of ideas to decorate. What’s your vibe? Do you like fairy lights? Throw pillows? Oh, and we definitely need a mini fridge. Do you drink oat milk? It’s my favorite.”

Did she even take a breath?

I blink, overwhelmed by her rapid-fire questions.

“Uhm, I haven’t really thought about it,” I admit, turning back to my suitcase and pulling another black sweater out. I lay it down next to the stack of hangers on my bed.

“That’s fine! We’ll figure it out together,” she says, completely undeterred. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “So, what’s your story? Where are you from? What made you choose Cornelia Heights?”

My body stops moving, and I freeze for a moment, then pick up another sweater and start wringing it around in my hands.

“I…just needed a fresh start,” I say carefully, keeping my answer as vague as I can.

What do I tell her? That I left my stalker-abusive-ex-boyfriend almost three thousand miles away as a result of my father’s dying wish? That I have been hopping from town to town trying to figure out what it is that makes me happy, and that I finally settled on an Ivy League school in hopes of pursuing a literary career, even though I haven’t written in years, since Trevor thought my poems and writings were stupid.

Yes, let’s unload all the baggage now, D. Maybe it’ll shut her up.

That was mean.

“Ohhh, mysterious,” Claire teases, but her tone is light. “Well, I’m from Greenwich. Total suburban bubble, but I’m obsessed with literature, so Cornelia Heights was a no-brainer. American lit with a focus on comparative lit. What’s your major?”

Not even attempting to hide my surprise, I look over at her. “Oh. Uh, Same,” I say quietly.

I could have sworn she was going to say something like political science, or that she was determined to be some successful prosecuting attorney like the girl in Legally Blonde .

That’s so judgy, I know.

Her enthusiasm is almost breaching the line of being exhausting, but there’s something comforting about her openness.

“No way!” Claire squeals. “We’re going to be in so many of the same classes. This is perfect! Honestly, I was so worried I’d get a roommate who hated me. You don’t hate me, right?”

“I don’t hate you,” I reassure her, a faint grin tugging at the corner of my lips despite myself. “Yet.” I pause to look at her as her eyes widen, and her mouth gapes open.

I quickly correct myself. “I’m kidding. That was a joke. I definitely don’t hate you.”

Her shoulders slack in relief. “Good, because we’re going to have the best year ever! Mark my words.”

As Claire begins unpacking her own things, she fills the room with chatter about everything from her favorite coffee shop to her love of Jane Austen. I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. Her life seems so untouched, so carefree. I wonder what she would think if she knew the truth about me. About why I am here and the past I’m running from.

Still, as I watch her string up a set of twinkling fairy lights over her bed, I find myself thinking that maybe having a roommate like Claire might not be the worst thing in the world.

The blaring sound of the alarm jolts me awake, my eyes snapping open. Whoever convinced me to sign up for an eight a.m. class deserves a solid punch to the face. Groaning, I slam my hand down on the nightstand, barely managing to hit the snooze button. I shove my pillow into my face, trying to drown out the daylight pouring in from the windows. From across the room, I hear Claire practically bouncing around, her chipper energy radiating off the walls.

I knew it. She’s a morning person.

“Come on! Get up! We need to get there early if we want to be in the front of the auditorium!” she shrieks, pulling the covers off me.

Thank God I’m not one to sleep in the nude.

“Claire, you’re up here,” I mumble, holding my hand up in the air. “I’m going to need you to bring it down a notch until I’ve had my coffee.”

I sit up in bed, stretch, and let my eyes adjust. This girl is already dressed and ready to go with her bag on her shoulders. She’s wearing an oversized beige sweater that hangs off one shoulder, with soft, pale pink leggings and fuzzy boots to top it off. Her long blonde hair falls in flawless curls around her shoulders. She has the slightest hint of makeup on, but her face looks damn near perfect.

I’m not jealous.

Standing up, I clamber over to the closet. I pull on some black leggings, an oversized Trapt band t-shirt, and my black combat boots. Quickly, I throw my hair up into a messy bun on the top of my head. Walking over to my desk, I grab my backpack that is hanging on the chair.

When I turn around to face Claire, I don’t even try to stifle the laugh that escapes me.

She looks at me, confused, “What?”

I walk over to her and turn her so we are both facing the full-sized mirror she put on her side of the room.

“We’re like night and day,” I say, motioning between the two of us.

She giggles, “Hey, sometimes opposites make the best of friends.”

“Come on, chica. Don’t want to be late on our first day.”

I link my arm through hers. Her face beams with excitement as we walk out of the dorm and toward Scholar’s Auditorium, where our first two classes, American Literature and The Five Sides of Edgar Allan Poe, are being held. Our first stop though, is the university Starbucks, which, lucky for us, is on the way to the lecture hall.

The first day of class has my stomach filled with anticipation. I clutch my notebook tightly as I enter through the thick glass doors. The scent of old books and polished wood fills the air and brings with it a sense of calm for my nerves. The auditorium is exactly what I imagined for Cornelia Heights, grand and intimidating, with high ceilings and arched windows that let in streaks of morning light.

I scan the room for an empty seat, my nerves buzzing. Claire grabs my hand and pulls me up the steps to the second row of chairs.

At least it’s not the first row . I think to myself, rolling my eyes.

As I slide into a chair near the middle, I hear the low murmur of voices around me. Students are busily chatting away, introducing themselves and flipping through pristine textbooks. They’re paying no attention to me.

Good.

Leaning down, I tug my journal from my bag and flip it open across the small desk, shielding it with my arm as I scribble a quick entry. First day at Cornelia. I’m pretty sure my heart is going to explode. I shouldn’t have had that espresso. My hands are clammy and won’t stay still. Everyone looks so calm, like they belong here. I need to breathe. I belong here too dammit. Just make it through today, D. The familiar scratch of my pen against the paper steadies me, grounding my nerves just enough to hold it together.

“What are you writing?” Claire’s voice breaks through my concentration. She’s leaning over from her desk, craning her neck, her brows lifted with a teasing smile.

Startled, I snap the journal shut and shove it back into my bag. “Nothing. Just...notes,” I say, forcing a casual shrug. Surprisingly, Claire, Miss Talks A Lot , doesn’t press any further.

Closing my eyes, I try to focus on steadying my breath.

Chill, D. It’s just a class. You live for Poe. This class is an ace in the hole.

When I open my eyes, I focus on the massive chalkboard before me.

In my peripheral, I notice a dark shadow walking through the side entrance, and I can almost feel the air in the auditorium shift. The same way it did when Kieran McKnight entered the bar that night.

The man comes into view as he walks behind the large wooden desk and sets his briefcase down. He looks up and scans the class quickly with an annoyed look plastered across his face. His body freezes when his eyes meet mine.

Kieran.

The broody manwhore from Salvation is my professor?

My stomach drops to the floor.

Not just any professor, but one who is considered one of the most recognized Poe Scholars in the country ? Except now he isn’t a shadowy figure at the bar. He’s standing at the front of the auditorium. His sharp eyes are judging every student in the room as he stands tall behind his desk, commanding attention. I tear my eyes away from his gaze, intent on his attire now that he has removed his overcoat. He is wearing a crisp navy blazer over a white shirt with suspenders again, and his expression is as emotionless as ever.

He acts completely unbothered by my presence as he turns around, picks up a piece of white chalk, and begins to write on the board.

Maybe he doesn’t recognize me. I mean, it was dark in the club, and I’m not wearing my cheesy schoolgirl outfit today. I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks as I think about that stupid work uniform.

Oh, God. He’s going to think I’m the class whore.

His voice booms off the walls as he speaks, tearing me from my thoughts.

“Welcome to American Literature 1401. I’m Professor McKnight.” He turns around to address the class. “This semester, we will be diving into the works of Melville, Hawthorne, and my personal favorite, Poe, a man who defined our literary landscape. This class will also focus on comparative themes and the human condition.”

The sound of his voice is the same as it was at Salvation, low, gravelly, and authoritative. The moment it hits my ears, it sends a jolt straight through me to my thighs. Attempting to keep my composure, I cross my legs under the small desk and clasp my hands in my lap.

He continues, “Before we begin, a few rules. I take my work seriously, and I expect the same from you. This class will challenge you, I will challenge you, but if you’re willing to put in the effort, you’ll leave here with a deeper understanding of the material and, perhaps, yourselves.”

The room is silent, every student, especially the girls and most of the guys, hanging on his every word. He turns his back to the class and begins writing on the board again.

“This is my number. It’s a direct line to me for any academic concerns. Do not abuse it, and do not text me after six p.m. I do not mix business with pleasure.”

The comment elicits a few chuckles from some of the students in the class, but I can’t help myself; I let out a loud snort, the sound escaping before I could stop it.

Kieran’s sharp gaze snaps to me, and my cheeks burn under his scrutinizing stare. “Something amusing, Miss…?”

“Ravencroft,” I reply, keeping my voice steady despite my embarrassment.

His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t say another word. Instead, he turns to the board and writes a quote I instantly recognize. “Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?”

“Poe,” he said, turning back to face us. “Who can tell me what your interpretation of this line is, and what it tells us about the man who wrote it?”

Without thinking or raising my hand, I blurt out, “It’s about the fragility of our own reality. Poe was a man obsessed with loss, whether it was love, sanity, or the loss of life itself. The quote reflects his fear that everything we hold on to is ultimately meaningless, slipping away like sand through our fingers. The piece itself suggests that our existence is insubstantial.”

Surprised by my own words, I sit back in my chair, waiting for any reaction from the man now walking around to the front of his desk to stand just mere feet in front of me. His stare is so intense, I almost forget there are people around me.

If the room could become more silent, it did. Professor McKnight studies me for a moment, his expression blank. Then, he nods. “An insightful interpretation, Miss Ravencroft. Let’s see if you can keep that level of analysis throughout the semester.”

A knot forms in my throat. I swallow hard, nodding in return. My heart is pounding in my ears, but I refuse to let it show, even though I’m sure my cheeks are doing that for me.

This is going to be a long semester.

I tap my pen on the desk and mindlessly stare at the clock on the auditorium wall above the chalkboard. It’s teasing me by ticking loudly toward the end of the lecture, and I can’t help but let out a small sigh of relief. My first class of the day is almost over, and I survived without completely embarrassing myself, or so I hope.

After Professor McKnight stops speaking, he closes his leather-bound notebook with a practiced snap and surveys the room. His sharp, dark eyes roam the sea of students, who have been busily scribbling every word that falls out of his mouth into their notebooks.

“If you’re enrolled in The Five Sides of Poe, ” he began, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the lecture hall, “you can remain seated. That class will be held here as well, and to your delight, I will be teaching it.”

My mouth drops open before I can stop myself.

What?

I quickly pull out my schedule and see he is not listed as the professor.

As if he can read my mind, he goes on, “Professor Lindly is no longer with Cornelia Heights. I have taken his place in the interim as I am the most qualified at this university to educate you on Mr. Poe and his works,” he boasts.

That is probably the most emotion I have seen from him. I can see the passion he has for Poe and literature.

Whispers and murmurs spread through the room while I stare at him in disbelief.

Two classes. Two whole classes with Professor Broody. My luck couldn’t possibly be this bad, or this good, I guess, depending on how you look at it.

“If you need to, take fifteen minutes,” Kieran continues, his tone brisk and professional. “We’ll begin promptly on the hour. Do not be late. Tardiness will not be tolerated.”

The students begin filing out of the auditorium, but I remain frozen in my seat, staring at the chalkboard as Professor McKnight erases the powdered words scrawled across the blackboard. It isn’t until Claire smacks me on the arm that I snap out of my trance.

“How does it feel to be noticed by McDreamy?” she teasingly whispers, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief as we walk into the hallway. Her voice is laced with a playful singsong tone that makes me roll my eyes.

“Noticed?” I scoff. “He didn’t notice me, Claire. I answered his question, like everyone else in the class. Are we really comparing him to the hot neurosurgeon from Grey’s Anatomy now?”

She ignores my question and addresses my denial.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she said, a grin tugging at her lips. “But everyone else didn’t get the death-glare-slash-smolder when they snorted in the middle of class.”

I groan, pulling my bag higher onto my shoulder. “It wasn’t a death glare or a smolder. He probably thought I was rude. Great start to the semester.”

Claire waves me off as if my statement is irrelevant. “Please. The man couldn’t look uninterested if he tried. He’s basically a tortured, romantic book boyfriend come to life. He’s brooding, mysterious, impossibly good-looking, and clearly hiding some deep emotional scars.”

“Wow, you got all that from a fifty-minute lecture?” I say dryly, though I can’t help but tease her. “Remind me to never invite you to meet my therapist.”

She gasps dramatically. “Are you admitting that I’m right? You think he’s hot, don’t you?”

“I think ,” I pause, drawing the words out with exaggerated patience, “that he’s my professor, and I should probably focus on not failing his class.”

Claire laughs, looping her arm through mine as we head toward the vending machines for a quick break.

“Whatever you say, D. But if I were you, I’d sit up front for The Five Sides of Poe. Might make it easier to get, ya know... noticed .”

I give her a playful shove, shaking my head as we approach the line. The truth is, Claire’s comments are not entirely wrong, no matter how hard I tried to push my thoughts about him to the side. There is something about Professor McKnight that makes me feel unsettled in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. But whatever it is, I have zero intention of letting it distract me from why I’m here, or from the fresh start that I am determined to make.

I made a promise, and I intend to keep it.