Gabriel's Rapture Reynard, Sylvain (literature books to read TXT) 📖

wiggled her toes. “I’m sorry for lying.”

He cleared his throat. “Um, I brought your mail. You had some stuff in the mailbox outside, and I also brought your mail from the department.”

Julia looked at him with a worried expression.

He held up a hand as if to reassure her. “It’s only a couple of flyers and a textbook.”

“Why would someone send me a textbook? I’m not teaching.”

“The textbook reps put exam copies in the professors’ mailboxes. Sometimes they give books to the grad students too. I got one on Renaissance politics. Where should I put everything?”

“On the table. Thanks.”

Paul did as he was bidden while Julia busied herself by retrieving the cups and bowls from around the apartment and stacking them neatly on top of the microwave.

“What kind of textbook?” she asked, over her shoulder. “It isn’t about Dante, is it?”

“No. It’s Marriage in the Middle Ages: Love, Sex, and the Sacred.” Paul read the title aloud.

She shrugged, for the title didn’t interest her.

“You look tired.” He gazed at her sympathetically.

“Professor Picton asked me to make a lot of changes to my thesis. I’ve been working around the clock.”

“You need some fresh air. Why don’t you let me take you to lunch? My treat.”

“I have so much work to do.”

He brushed at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You need to get out of here. This place is depressing. It’s like Miss Havisham’s house.”

“Does that make you Pip?”

Paul shook his head. “No, it makes me a nosy jerk who interferes in someone else’s life.”

“That sounds like Pip.”

“Is your thesis due tomorrow?”

“No. Professor Picton gave me a week’s extension. She knew I wouldn’t be ready to turn it in April first because of—everything.” She winced.

“It’s just lunch. We’ll take the subway and head to Queen Street and be back before you know it.”

Julia looked up at Paul, into concerned dark eyes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because I’m from Vermont. We’re friendly.” He grinned. “And because you need a friend right now.”

Julia smiled in gratitude.

“I never stopped caring for you,” he admitted, his eyes unexpectedly gentle.

She pretended she didn’t hear his declaration.

“I need a minute to get dressed.”

They both looked at her flannel pajamas.

Paul smirked. “Nice rubber duckies.”

Embarrassed, she disappeared into her closet to find some clean clothes. Not having done laundry in a week, her choices were limited, but at least she had something halfway presentable for a casual meal.

While she was in the bathroom, Paul took it upon himself to clean up her apartment, or at least, to tidy it. He knew better than to touch her thesis materials, choosing rather to straighten her bed and pick up things from the floor. When he was finished, he shelved the textbook and sat down in a folding chair to look over her mail. He quickly disposed of the flyers and junk and stacked what looked like bills into a neat pile. He noticed there weren’t any letters of a personal nature.

“Thank God,” he muttered.

After she dressed, she covered the circles under her eyes with concealer, and pinked up her pale cheeks with blush. When she was satisfied that she no longer looked like a youngish version of Miss Havisham, Julia joined Paul at the card table.

He greeted her with a smile. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “I’m sure you have things you want to say. You might as well get it over with.”

Paul frowned and gestured to the door. “We can talk over lunch.”

“He left me,” she blurted, looking pained.

“Don’t you think that’s a good thing?”

“No.”

“Jeez, Julia, the guy seduced you for kicks, then dumped you. How much abuse do you want?”

Her head snapped up. “That’s not how it was!”

Paul looked at her, at her sudden show of anger, and was impressed. He’d rather have her angry than sad.

“You should probably wear a hat. It’s cold out.”

A few minutes later they were outside, walking toward the Spadina subway station.

“Have you seen him?” she asked.

“Who?”

“You know who. Don’t make me say his name.”

Paul huffed. “Wouldn’t you rather forget about him?”

“Please.”

He glanced over to see a pinched look on Julia’s pretty face. He stopped her gently. “I ran into him a few hours after the hearing. He was coming out of Professor Martin’s office. Since then, I’ve been trying to finish my dissertation. If Emerson dumps me, I’m screwed.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“In Hell, I hope.” Paul’s voice was cheerful. “Martin sent an email to the department saying that Emerson was on a leave of absence for the rest of the semester. You probably saw that email.”

Julia shook her head.

Paul looked at her closely. “I guess he didn’t say good-bye.”

“I left a few messages for him. He finally emailed me yesterday.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me to stop contacting him and that it was over. He didn’t even call me by name—just sent me a two line email from his university account, and signed it ‘Regards, Prof. Gabriel O. Emerson.’”

“Asshole.”

Julia winced, but didn’t disagree. “After the hearing, he told me I wasn’t sensible of my own distress.”

“Pretentious fucker.”

“What?”

“He stomps on your heart and then he has the balls to quote Hamlet? Unbelievable. And he misquoted it, the jackass.”

She blinked in surprise. “I didn’t recognize the line. I thought it was just—him.”

“Shakespeare was a pretentious fucker too. That’s probably why you couldn’t tell the difference. The line is from Gertrude’s speech about the death of Ophelia. Listen:

“When down her weedy trophies and herself

Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;

And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:

Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;

As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indued

Unto that element: but long it could not be

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay

To muddy death.”

Julia’s face grew pale. “Why would he say that to me?”

“You are nothing like her.” Paul reiterated his list of favored profane adjectives with respect to