Page 49 of Hot As Ice

I stare at the amount, my mind spinning. Sex with Hunter is incredible, beyond my wildest fantasies. But waking up with his arms around me, my back pressed to his chest, his erection pressing insistently against my ass – that…did something funny to my heart.

I’d pretended to be asleep, and he’d gotten up and gone to the kitchen. He’d made me breakfast. It was almost too much for me to handle.

I log out of my bank app, and sit back in my desk chair, thinking and feeling too many things. Feeling overwhelmed and out of my depth, I have no idea what I’m doing. The uncertainty has me logging into the job sites I frequent, double checking I didn’t miss any available waitressing jobs or marketing internships.

The truth is, I don’t want Hunter to keep paying me.

It seems to cheapen what we have, what we do together. I like him. Like like him. But does he like me? Sometimes there’s something in his eyes that seems to indicate he does, but then he’ll switch up, and I think it’s all about the sex for him, nothing more. What if paying me for sex is just a way for him to keep me at arm’s length, to make sure I don’t get too close or attached? The thought is disheartening.

He saved me from a monster, and I’ll be forever grateful.

But now our relationship is confusing. There are too many complicated emotions at play in my heart. The fact that we had dirty, filthy, hot sex and then he made me breakfast? And then he sent me $2,000? How does he really feel about me? Am I just a plaything? He called me a sex toy in the contract. If that’s all I am, why is he making me breakfast? I have no idea what to make of it all.

And there’s nobody to talk to about it, which makes it so much worse.

I remember him telling me that I was made for him. That he would never let another man touch me. But that was just his sex-addled brain spouting nonsense. Right?

I have to stay away from him until I can figure all this out. When I’m in his presence and his good looks and charming smile and intoxicating scent are assaulting my senses, my brain does not work properly.

My English class is in half an hour, and I’m excited to go. I need to fill my mind with something other than Hunter.

I get to class just in time to take my seat before the lecture. Today, Professor Marquez is lecturing on the themes of love in The English Patient. She’s a tall, thin woman with short dark hair shot through with strands of gray, eyeglasses perched on the tip of her nose. I always take copious notes in her class, because her questions on the multiple-choice exam and essay portion always come from her lectures. I’ve been getting high marks, because I pay attention.

“What is the nature of love in Ondaatje’s work?” Professor Marquez begins. “It’s not just that love is transcendent, regardless of time or place, it’s that love can be as destructive as it is a source of connection. Take, for instance, Almásy’s love for Katharine. He describes himself as becoming ‘insane’ because of his love for her. He’s extremely possessive and jealous when it comes to her.” Professor Marquez pauses at the lectern and sweeps her eyes over us. She makes eye contact with me as she says, “Is this a healthy type of love? We cannot say it is not passionate, but it’s also too stifling, isn’t it? It’s a suffocating kind of love. Passionate and destructive.”

I know she has no idea about me and Hunter, but it’s like she’s looking into my so-called relationship with him and dissecting it right in front of me, like a therapist might.

I raise my hand.

“Yes, Stevie?”

“Is it really love when it’s fueled by jealousy and possessiveness like that? Or is it just a man being territorial?”

Professor Marquez laughs. “I see your point. Yes, sometimes men can treat a woman like a favorite toy, and fight over her like two toddlers fighting over Legos. But Ondaatje is not glorifying this type of love. He’s showing us that it is as dangerous as it is euphoric. And, yes, it is real love, but it’s not exactly something to aspire to. Does that make sense?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Anyone else have any questions?”

I lower my head over my notebook and scribble down my notes, feeling exposed. It’s insane to think my classmates are surmising anything from my question, but I can’t shake the thought that I revealed too much. Paranoia, it’s a bitch.

“By the way,” Professor Marquez continues. “This possessive type of love is certainly not the only depiction in the novel. The love between other characters is much healthier, a source of healing and deep connection for them. What we must take from this work is that love exists in many forms.”

After class, I’m meeting Becca at The Roast for coffee.

I wish I could spill my guts to her. Something tells me she wouldn’t really judge me. She’s one of the least judgmental people I’ve ever met, but I also don’t feel ready to say it all out loud. There’s this weird phenomenon where saying something out loud makes it more real. Not to mention the fact that once something is said, it cannot be unsaid.

I decide I’ll just tell her some of the details, but nothing about the money.

Becca is already at the coffee shop when I get there. She waves me over. “Hey, girl,” she greets as I sit down across from her. “What’s up?”

“Just got out of English class.”

“I don’t care about that. Tell me where you were last night,” she grins wickedly, waggling her eyebrows.

I roll my eyes. “You know where I was.”

“Give me all the details. Now.”