Gabriel's Inferno (Gabriel's Inferno #1)(79)

Later that evening, Julia checked her voice mail and once again, there was a message waiting from Gabriel.

“Julianne, it’s Wednesday evening. I missed you in my seminar. You brighten a room, you know, just by being in it. I’m sorry I never said that to you before.

“Paul said you’ve been sick. Can I bring you some chicken soup? Ice cream?

Orange juice? I could have those items delivered. You wouldn’t have to see me.

Please let me help you. I feel terrible knowing that you’re in your apartment, alone and sick, and there’s nothing I can do.

“At least I know that you’re safe and not on a Greyhound bus somewhere. 

[Pauses — clears throat.]

“I remember kissing you. You kissed me back. You kissed me back, Julia, I know you did. Didn’t you feel it? There  is  something between us. Or at least, there was.

“Please, we need to talk. You can’t expect me to uncover your true identity and not have the chance to talk to you about it. I need to explain a few things.

More than a few things, all right? Just call me back. All I’m asking for is one conversation. I think you owe me that.”

The tone of Gabriel’s voice in his messages had grown increasingly desperate. Julia turned off her phone, deliberately suppressing her own innate empathy. She knew the university had access to Gabriel’s e-mail, but she didn’t care. His messages needed to stop; she would never be able to move on if he kept bothering her. And he didn’t appear to be giving up any time soon.

So Julia typed an e-mail and sent it to his university address, pouring all of her hurt and anger into every single word: Dr. Emerson,

Stop harassing me.

I don’t want you anymore. I don’t even want to know you. If you don’t leave me alone, I will be forced to file a harassment complaint against you. And if you call my father, I will do just that. Immediately.

If you think I’m going to let an insignificant thing like this drive me from the program, then you are very much mistaken. I need a new thesis director, not a bus ticket home.

Regards,

Miss Julia. H. Mitchell,

Lowly Graduate Student,

On-Knees-More-Than-The-Average-Whore.

P.S. I will be returning the M. P. Emerson bursary next week.

Congratulations, Professor Abelard. No one has ever made me feel as cheap as you did Sunday morning.

Julia pressed send without proofreading her message, and in a fit of rebellion, she took two shots of tequila and began to play the song All the Pretty Faces by The Killers. At a high volume. On repeat.

It was a Bridget Jones moment if there ever was one.

Julia grabbed a hairbrush from the bathroom and began singing into it as if it were a microphone and dancing about the room in her now penguin-decorated flannel pajamas, looking more than slightly ridiculous.

And feeling strangely…dangerous, daring, and defiant.

In the days after Julia sent her angry e-mail, all contact from Professor Emerson ceased. Every day she somehow expected to hear from him, but every day there was nothing. Until the following Tuesday, when she received another voice mail.

“Julianne, you’re angry and hurt — I understand that. But don’t let your anger prevent you from keeping something  you  earned by being the top master’s student in this year’s admissions pool.

“Please don’t deprive yourself of money you could use to go home and visit your father just because I was an ass.

“I’m sorry I made you feel cheap. I’m sure when you called me Abelard you didn’t mean it as a compliment. But Abelard truly cared for Héloïse, and I care for you. So in that sense, there is a similarity. He also hurt her, as I have hurt you. But he was deeply sorry for having injured her. Have you read his letters to her? Read the sixth letter and see if it alters your perception of him…and me.

“The bursary was never awarded before because I never found someone who was special enough to receive it, until I found you. If you give it back, the money will just sit in the Foundation’s bank account benefiting no one. I’m not going to allow anyone else to have that money because it’s yours.

“I was trying to bring goodness out of evil. But I failed in doing that just like I’ve failed in everything else. Everything I touch becomes contaminated or destroyed…[Long pause…]

“There is one thing I  can  do for you and that’s find you another thesis advisor.

Professor Katherine Picton is a friend of mine, and although she’s retired, she has agreed to meet with you to discuss the possibility of directing your project.

This will be a tremendous opportunity, in more ways than one. She asked me to have you contact her directly via e-mail, as soon as possible, at K Picton at U Toronto dot C A.

“I know it’s officially too late for you to drop my seminar, but I’m sure that’s what you want. I will approach one of my colleagues and see if she will supervise a reading course with you, which will enable you to have enough credits to graduate, even if you drop my class. I’ll sign the drop form and work it out for you with the School of Graduate Studies. Just tell Paul what you want to do and ask him to pass on the message. I know you don’t want to talk to me.

[Clears throat.] “Paul is a good man.

[Muttering…] “ Audentes fortuna iuvat.

[Pause — voice drops to almost a whisper.] “I’m sorry you don’t want to know me anymore. I will spend the rest of my life regretting the fact that I wasted my second chance to know you. And I will always be conscious of your absence.