Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 6

The library wasn’t the same as when I left.

Right before the start of the last semester of my senior year, I walked into the place where I’d spent most of my time at the University of Minnesota-Gemidgee and found its most infamous carrel altered.

The Prince Rogers Nelson carrel now sat on top of a tarp in the middle of the library floor. Though it still bore The Artist’s signature shade of purple, the words “The Beautiful Books, They Hurt You Everytime” had been written across it in calligraphy. Below those words was a musical staff, but instead of notes, the covers of classic works like Othello, Anna Karenina, Lolita, and The Great Gatsby dotted the ledger lines.

I recognized the play on the lyrics from “The Beautiful Ones”—though, in a total “Today I Learned” confession, I’d thought Mariah Carey wrote that track.

So, it was her voice and the lead singer of Dru Hill that I heard as the song began to play in my head. Along with a weird, uneasy feeling of being watched.

It was the same feeling I’d had when I took my sweet time admiring the view of Berlin from that Tourmaline hotel room. Anything to delay the awkward conversation with the insanely hot hockey player about my virgin status. But I could only stall for so long under the intense heat of his gaze, tracking me around the intimate space.

Is he here? I glanced around, despite knowing that was a ridiculous question to ask. No way UMG’s star hockey player was spending the last Friday night before classes started studying, like me.

And I was right. Save for one solitary clerk sitting behind the checkout desk, hunched over her phone with AirPods shoved in her ears, the library was empty as far as I could see.

Still, my skin prickled with the sensation of his heated gaze, and without warning, memories of that night in Berlin flooded my mind.

The way he smiled at me. Touched me. Held my gaze as he made me⁠—

“Lydia.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin when a hand plopped down on my shoulder.

But no… it wasn’t Artyom. I turned around to replace the sleepy smile of Julian “Julz” O’Connor, the easygoing illustration and design major who’d been the resident dorm advisor my first year, until he got kicked out of the position under suspicion of selling weed to his advisees.

And, sure enough, the heavy flannel coat he wore open over a paint-splattered tee reeked of marijuana when he pulled me in for a warm hug.

“What are you doing here?” I asked excitedly while still keeping my voice down, even though the sole librarian really didn’t look like she could care less.

“I’m just finishing up this carrel commission that I won over six other applicants!” Julz didn’t bother to keep his own voice down as he let me out of the hug to wave a proud hand toward his artwork.

“Oh, wow, congratulations! I’m so happy for you!”

“Thanks, but what’s your excuse for being here on a Friday night?”

“Just trying to get a head start on the semester,” I answered with a wry chuckle, holding up my paperback copy of Dawn by Octavia Butler. “I’m taking this literature class called Black Women in Other Space⁠—”

“Wait.” Julz frowned. “Isn’t a senior lit class going to be mad difficult with the sexy lexie?”

I laughed at his nickname for the learning disability we’d discovered we were both navigating during an icebreaker game he oversaw for the first years. Tell us your name, home city, and what you think will be your biggest obstacle here at UMG.

“So hard.” I winced. “And that’s why I’m spending Friday night in the library reading instead of partying, like everybody else.”

“Yeah, me and my girl Lindsey are hitting up a couple of bars now that I’m done here for the day.” Julz gave me a pitying look. “You didn’t get those required lit creds out of the way with an easier, breezier summer semester, like I told you to?”

“I did, actually,” I assured him, so he wouldn’t think I wasn’t appreciative of the one piece of good advice he’d given me, along with an open invitation to “hit him up” if I was ever in need of a study break—delivered with a toking gesture so that his meaning couldn’t possibly be lost in translation. Seriously, it was impressive it took all the way until the spring semester for him to get caught.

“And, you know, I didn’t hate that introduction class. So when the English and women’s studies department announced they were going to go halfsies on a guest residency from my favorite fantasy writer, Clara Quinn, I just knew I had to sign up. You should see the reading list. Octavia Butler, Tananarive Due, N. K. Jemisin, Tomi Adeyemi… and you know I can hardly wait to ask Clara Quinn about her Seasons of the Fae series.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Julz held up both hands, as if my enthusiasm was a spray hose that was hitting him directly in the face. “Hope you’re taking that shit pass/fail, though. Even that list of author names sounds too complicated.”

“No, they’re just… Black names,” I answered, feeling awkward for both him and myself. “Anyways, this is so wonderful.” I pivoted back to the carrel to change the subject. “And imaginative. Wow.”

“Totally, right?” Julz turned with me to proudly admire his artwork. “Like, how I’m matching the line in the Prince song with books where the guys get hurt by beautiful women? I’ve still got to add a few more, though, when I repeat the pattern on the other side.”

“Yeah, that’s super clever,” I agreed. “But maybe you should add a few where the women get hurt by beautiful men or women, too.”

“Like, a feminist angle?” Julz scrunched his face. “You know, I’m a feminist, too. But, it is Prince’s carrel.”

“Yeah, but the song appeals to everyone,” I pointed out. “And so far, you’ve only used books written by White men. You could totally include Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and The Color Purple.”

Julz pursed his lips at me, his expression turning suspicious. “You sure do read a lot for somebody with the sexy lexie.”

“Have you heard about audiobooks?” I asked, shaking my head at him. “They’re a huge world opener.”

Julz shrugged. “Well, I put Othello on there. He’s Black.”

“Technically, Othello’s not a…” I trailed off when I saw the glazed-over look in Julz’s eyes and decided to finish with “…a terrible choice.”

Instead of pointing out that Othello was a play, I did what I always did—canted back to positive so that no one’s feelings got hurt. “Anyway, if you want, I’ll send you a list of more books for you to add to this awesome concept.”

“Or, maybe you could give me that list of yours over a couple of drinks.” Julz tipped his head down, and his expression turned flirtatious as he took me by the hand. “You’re a senior now, right? You can get me into the campus bar. You wouldn’t believe how much drinks cost in the real world.”

Okay, well, getting come on to by a guy who’d graduated three years ago wasn’t on my bingo card for Friday night at the library.

“What about that Lindsey person you mentioned?” I asked, politely pulling back on my hand.

“We’ve got an open relationship. In fact, she’s bi and likes them exotic, so if you want to come back to my place after the drinks⁠—”

“Wow, no, thank you!” I said a little too loudly. This time, I didn’t just pull; I tugged hard to get my hand back from the guy who didn’t realize that calling a woman exotic had to be the least attractive way to get someone to say yes to your threesome.

“I’m studying tonight,” I reminded him through a clenched-teeth smile. “Like I said.”

“It’s just one night.” His voice took on a cajoling tone. “C’mon, we’ve got to celebrate my first commission.”

Do we? I looked longingly over at my usual Anne Tyler carrel, where I wasn’t sitting yet because I was stuck having this conversation.

“Um… actually, I kind of just started seeing someone,” I told him, grabbing on to the excuse like a life preserver—that would save me from having to hurt his feelings.

“Seeing someone?” The pursed-lip suspicious look came back. “Who?”

“Um…” I opened my mouth to answer.

But then Julz’s entire expression suddenly dropped.

“Oh, I get it. You already have plans tonight,” he said, visibly paling. “Sorry to have bothered you. I’m just going to go now. Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do.”

I went from trying to figure out how to let Julz down easily to scrunching my forehead when he switched from weed-head Lothario mode to Speed Racer. I watched him snatch up his backpack like a runner in a relay and practically race toward the library doors with a hasty “Bye!”

“Bye!” I called after him with a cheerful wave, even though I was beginning to worry that maybe he was on something stronger than weed.

But then, the feeling of being watched came back. With such force, it raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

No one called my name this time. Or laid a hand on my shoulder.

But somehow, I knew, even before I turned around, who was standing there.

Artyom. It felt like the air was snatched from my lungs. Artyom Rustanov towered over me. His expression was stormy and dark, and he didn’t look nearly as glad to see me as the guy he’d just sent running away had been.