Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 8

Of course, I didn’t get any work done that night.

I did my best to act like I didn’t care one way or another about Artyom Rustanov’s presence in the library. But it was kind of hard to appear unbothered when I could feel his heavy, hateful gaze on me.

My hands shook as I put on my headphones, and even bringing out a six-inch plastic Gemidgee Dog Shelter ruler didn’t help me follow along with the book’s narrative. The words swam worse than usual as I tried to escape into the post-apocalyptic world of Dawn, the first book in Octavia Butler’s Lilith’s Brood series.

And my stomach continued to roil. Even after he left.

I struggled for nearly an hour before giving up and heading back to the off-campus bungalow I shared with my best friend, Trish. Ironically, it was located on the public side of the campus stadium, where the Gemidgee Yolks men’s and women’s teams were currently finishing up their seasons.

I had to walk underneath the stadium’s newest billboard, which featured a larger-than-life mid-action shot of Yom Rustanov in full white-and-gold hockey gear next to the words HOME OF YOM RUSTANOV. Except someone had crossed out his first name with bright gold paint and replaced it with the word YUM.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen this nickname applied to him. Sophomore year, I’d overheard Trish and the rest of the Rainbow Alliance Club planning who to invite to stand up in the Ally Float for the Gemidgee Pride Parade, and one of the guys had called out, “Ooh, add Yum Rustanov to the list for sure, for sure!”

And there’d been those giggling nursing students in my junior year Interprofessional Collaboration in Healthcare Systems course, talking about how if Yum Rustanov looked their way, their boyfriends would just have to understand why they cheated because he was “the ultimate campus hall pass.”

On the billboard, Artyom Rustanov’s intense gaze was focused straight ahead in a way that promised violence to all challengers.

In other words, he looked the exact opposite of the kind guy who’d kissed me so softly in Berlin.

Sorrow and regret tugged at my heart as I looked up at the billboard. What would those nursing students think if I told them the whole, sordid story about running from my once-in-a-lifetime chance to lose my virginity to the campus hockey god?

But it hadn’t just been about that. That night, in the softness of his touch and the warmth of his words, I’d felt a connection with the human beneath the hard exterior. For a moment, it had seemed like he truly saw me—not the awkward girl in the stupid dress or the one who’d fallen into his lap, but someone who mattered.

And that hurt the most—not missing out on him physically, but losing whatever had sparked between us before I ran. Because I hadn’t remotely deserved the gift he’d tried to give me.

The buzz of my phone interrupted my thoughts, an electronic voice chiming over that Swedish singer Trish loved, lamenting that her crush would never be hers.

“Message from Mom Carrington: Darling, what do you mean you can’t attend Paul’s birthday party? This has been on the calendar for months! I’ve already booked your suite at the Chicago Benton Grand!”

Leaving the billboard behind with a sigh, I paused the synth-pop I’d much rather be listening to in order to send my mom a new voice text that completely left out my real reason for canceling my trip: “I know! I know! I’m so sorry, Mom. But I’m, like, already drowning in school work and other obligations….”

That part wasn’t a lie at all.

My first official day of school was nonstop. An 8 am Animal Behavior seminar followed by an all-day field practicum with Gemidgee Pawsible, who had me assist with back-to-back Back-to-School events with their menagerie of therapy animals. Way better than listening to the computer read off therapy visit requests, for sure. But I was already dragging by the time I showed up for my late-afternoon volunteer shift at the Gemidgee Animal Shelter.

“Are you still okay for tomorrow’s special assignment?” Val, the supervisor I’d been working with since I started volunteering at the shelter my first year, eyed me worriedly. “You look tired. Maybe we can get Brigid to take over the Puppy Mama Project.”

“I am tired, but I promise I’ll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow,” I answered. “Besides, I’ve done all the prep work, and the project’s too important. I wouldn’t want to put this on Brigid at the last minute.”

Valerie let out an audible sigh of relief. “Oh good, because the truth is, there’s no one I trust with this operation but you. I can’t even get Brigid to show up to work on time, and she’s an actual paid employee.”

The Puppy Mama Project was no joking matter, but I found myself laughing along with Val before I got to work, tending to the animals in the back. I then explained the process of adopting a cat to a walk-in visitor and once again told Mrs. Isaacson, a retiree who had decided to live out her years as the dictionary definition of a crazy cat lady, that we’d have to do a home check before we could let her adopt another cat—or as she called the older tabby she wanted to take home, another “precious baby.”

Of course, she wasn’t happy about me telling her that, and eventually, Val had to escort her out while assuring her we’d replace a home for the precious baby we couldn’t let her adopt.

Anyway, after a day filled with people and paperwork, all I wanted to do was go home and fall face down into bed. However, since I had major plans on Tuesday, I made myself go to the library after my volunteer shift. I needed to get Dawn read before it was due for next week’s meeting of the Clara Quinn seminar, and, unfortunately, it was the only book on the list that didn’t have an audio version I could use as training wheels.

However, I stopped halfway to the carrel and frowned when I saw a girl with turquoise hair and a septum nose ring painting the other side of the Prince carrel instead of Julz.

Luckily, the library checkout clerk didn’t have her AirPods in tonight, so I could ask her, “What happened to the guy working on the carrel yesterday?”

“Not sure. Something about a broken arm?” The library checkout clerk shrugged. “Can’t say I’m missing him. He kept trying to get me to ‘hang out’ with him and his girlfriend. So gross, and when I tried to report him to my boss, he basically told me to put up with it because his dad’s on the university board.”

“Oh, wow, that sucks.” My stomach twisted with a terrible suspicion, but I made sure to validate her feelings about Julz’s problematic behavior before asking, “Any word on how he broke his arm?”

She didn’t have that information, either, and I figured I should leave it at that.

But as I sat down at my carrel, I had that strange sensation of being watched again. Was Artyom here? Staring at me from someplace in the library? My belly dipped at the thought, and I honestly did not know if it was discomfort or a secret thrill.

Instead of cracking open my copy of Dawn, I looked all around. But… nothing.

A few students wandered through the stacks, but other than that, I could replace no tall and ridiculously hot hockey player lurking around.

Wow, you really need to get over yourself, Lydia. I huffed a breath and returned to my book, assuring myself that Artyom Rustanov had nothing to do with Julz breaking his arm. And that he most definitely wasn’t watching me from the shadows of the library.

Still, I felt unsettled for the rest of the night. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, even when I left the library after two hours of toil over two chapters.

They still hadn’t fixed the billboard. And it felt like “Yum” Rustanov’s eyes were following me as I walked past it to the little two-bedroom bungalow I’d been renting since sophomore year. Technically, I was supposed to be using the second bedroom as a dedicated study space. But I’d given it to Trish when a tuition increase junior year had pushed her cobbled-together-scholarship-and-work-study budget to the breaking point.

That had been before she met her girlfriend, though. Tonight, when I walked into the house, I found our shared space empty.

I sent her a yawning voice text before going into the bathroom for a pre-bedtime shower. “Remember what you said about making sure you see people other than Claudia at least once a week? This is your 7-day warning. Could we maybe have lunch after my Clara Quinn seminar?”

I woke up the next day to replace Trish’s reply waiting in my messages. Unlike my mother, she always left me voiced as opposed to written texts.

“I do remember that. Do you remember how jealous I was about you getting into the seminar I was wait-listed for? I mean, I’m the one who introduced you to Clara Quinn in the first place!”

I immediately raised the phone to leave a new voice message.

But then Trish’s second voice text started auto-playing: “And before you offer to trade spots, I’ll remind you that’s not possible. But you’re my girl, so of course, let’s have lunch. Just let me know where you want to meet. And before you say wherever I want, I’ll also remind you that you promised me you’d work on considering your own wants and needs this year.”

Seriously, if I didn’t love Trish to pieces, I’d consider dumping her as a best friend. She knew me way too well.

Of course, I picked the campus center food court. Trish was on the school’s eating plan, so it wouldn’t cost her anything to eat there. Beaming at the thought of catching up with my bestie—who I hadn’t seen for more than ten minutes since getting back from Berlin a couple of weeks ago—I trekked over to Bexham Hall, home to all the English department classes.

As it turned out, the classrooms in the old stone building were nothing like the ones in the mostly glass and metal School of Social Work. Instead of a lecture hall, I walked into a small, intimate room with a conference table and chairs placed all around it. Somehow, the unexpected intimacy of the situation made my fear of the course even worse. There was no back of the room to hide in—no way to easily avoid getting asked a question I wasn’t prepared to answer.

Could I really handle this class? Julz’s words about the “sexy lexie” echoed ominously in my head.

And my heart thrummed even faster than it had last night when I thought that maybe Artyom Rustanov was watching me from the library’s shadows.

In the end, the thought of Artyom’s hateful stare brought me some solace. Yes, the classroom felt impossibly small, but at least I knew there wouldn’t be any run-ins with the glaring hockey god here.

I chose the only space left at the table with an empty chair on each side. Several other students were murmuring excitedly about how thrilled they were to meet Clara Quinn. Nearly all of them were women of color, and they seemed to already know each other.

Probably because they were either English, African American culture, or women’s studies majors, like Trish. You’re the only senior who would sign up for a class she didn’t absolutely need to finish her degree.

Still, I sucked in a breath to cut into the conversation of the group talking closest to me and introduce myself. I learned early, after getting thrust into my adoptive parents’ glittering world at the age of eight, that the easiest way to get over being uncomfortable in a new situation where I knew no one was to either make myself useful or introduce myself, so that I did know someone.

And Clara Quinn had probably already been assigned a teacher’s assistant to help her out in class. So, introducing myself it was.

But before I could speak up, all conversation in the small classroom came to a sudden halt.

Was she here?

My heart sped up as I turned to see if the famous author had just walked in… then dropped when I found Yum Rustanov staring back at me. Like the iciest Siberian mountain come to life.

In my seminar class!