by Penny Reid
His smile grew, and—if I wasn’t mistaken—his sexy, smarty-pants eyes twinkled at me.
“Precisely,” he said, his response and the way he said it causing a cascade of warmth to spread from my chest to the top of my head, from my stomach to my toes.
We engaged in a stare-athon, during which a galvanized current seemed to pass between us, both electric and magnetic. Goodness, he was so very attractive to me now, no use fighting it. My internal wary sway of anticipation began to resemble a happy jig once more, and I was just about to suggest we turn our examination of power calculations to other areas of study when Victor frowned abruptly.
Closing his eyes, he gave his head a quick shake and sighed. “Look, this isn’t . . .” He swallowed, sighed again, his shoulders rising and falling with the breath. He seemed to brace himself before lifting his gaze to mine. I sensed a restless urgency and frustration there as well as in the set of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow. “I’m sorry, this isn’t going to happen.”
“What? Dinner?”
“No.” He moved his index finger between us in what could have been interpreted as a come here motion, but his words contradicted the movement. “I don’t date. I’ve never dated. Anyone. And if I did, I would never date a student.”
Oh.
“Oh.” I leaned back in the booth and could feel my eyes blinking rapidly but could do nothing to stop them. I was too busy experiencing what an emotional sucker punch felt like. Interestingly, it felt a lot like an actual sucker punch.
I lowered my attention to my menu and stared at it. I—my brain and therefore my body—was frozen, as usual.
Meanwhile, Victor breathed out, another long sigh, followed by yet another that sounded pained. In my peripheral vision I saw him rub his forehead, shift in his seat, then spin his menu with restless fingers. His agitation and unrest were obvious.
“Emily—”
“Just . . . just give me a minute here.” I held up a hand, endeavoring to free my mind from its gridlock so I could leave. Or, leave now and think about this later, because thinking about it now will just lead to questions like— “Then why did you kiss me?” I glanced at him.
“Because I wanted to.” His answer was sudden and smacked of his usual bluntness, but also of something else I’d never noticed. Interacting with him up close made me wonder whether his honesty—both now and the various occasions during his lectures—was an impulse he couldn’t contain, a compulsion he struggled with.
Regardless of this possible odd quirk of his personality, Victor’s confession only served to confuse me further.
“Okay.” I frowned at the tabletop, the gridlock in my brain loosening just enough for me to think and say at the same time, “So you’re one of those guys who doesn’t do relationships.”
“It’s not like that.” His tone was stern, defensive, and drew my gaze back to his face. He’d crossed his arms. “It’s not—not how you mean.”
“Then how is it?” Once again, I was thinking and speaking in tandem.
The muscle at his jaw jumped, his eyes like a brick wall reinforced with brainiac steel. “It’s not . . . not your concern.”
This time, the sucker punch was worse, because I should have known better than to ask the question. Why was I still here? Hadn’t he already shut me out and shut me down just seconds ago? As good old GW used to say, “There's an old saying in Tennessee—I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee—that says, ‘Fool me once, shame on—shame on you. Fool me—you can't get fooled again.’”
“Right.” I was blinking compulsively again, wincing at the ache that twisted in my abdomen and jarred my teeth. “Right. I guess I should just go.” I reached for my bag and pulled out a bill—it might have been a one-dollar bill, it might have been a fifty—and scooched to the edge of the booth. We hadn’t ordered anything yet, so why I was leaving money, I didn’t know.
“You don’t have to go. If you want to stay, you should stay.” Victor placed his hand on the edge of the table halfway between us, sliding out of his bench seat.
“Why would I stay?” I mumbled this to myself as I stood, realizing too late that—once more—I’d spoken out loud.
“We could talk.” He stood as he made this offer, sounding completely reasonable. “I’m interested in you.”
“You’re—what?”
“I mean, I’m interested in how things are going with Gloria and if you feel like your academic needs are being met.”
Like before, his words surprised me enough to draw my attention to his face. But unlike before, he didn’t look stern and defensive. His expression was open, beseeching even. He wanted me to stay, and that made no sense.
Placing the money on the table, I hooked my purse strap over my shoulder. “I don’t want to stay.”
His eyebrows pulled together, now he seemed confused. Stepping closer, quite close, he whispered, “Because I don’t wish to pursue a romantic relationship with you?”
His question knocked the wind from my lungs and my brain wanted to freeze again, but I wouldn’t let it. A frozen brain would mean standing at the edge of the table like an idiot and smelling him and losing myself in his erotically intelligent eyes for who knows how long.
I didn’t have enough mental energy for a polite excuse, so I chose the Victor Hanover method: blunt honesty.
“No, not exactly. It’s because talking to you is disorienting, and it seems like every time we talk, you end up hurting my feelings. My feelings are hurt, right now, and I’m not sure if that’s you, or if that’s me being overly sensitive or misreading something, or what. Instead of staying and allowing that to happen again, I’m just going to call it a night and avoid you from now on. So . . .”
I nodded at the logic and truth in my journey of words, watching Victor—Dr. Hanover—for any sign or response. But when I realized what I was doing, giving him an opportunity to hurt my feelings again with his reaction (or non-reaction), I closed my eyes, gave myself a physical shake, and turned for the exit.
For the record, I would have liked to keep my eyes closed the entire time, but there were tables to navigate. No reason to knock over some poor, unsuspecting couple’s delicious injera.
With my eyes open, my brain mostly frozen, and my heart beating like mad, I strolled to the door, opened it, and walked out of it, certain of only one thing: tonight would most assuredly be the end of any unfortunate attraction I’d felt for Dr. Victor Hanover—magnetic, electric, or otherwise.
Chapter 9
*Emily*
The first thing I did upon closing the door to my car was unlock my phone, navigate to Dr. Hanover’s text message with directions to Queen of Sheba, and delete the conversation. I then tapped over to my contacts and deleted the entry I’d created for him not more than an hour ago.
The next thing I did was call my best friend.
Anna answered after the third ring. “What’s up?”
Fastening my attention to the steering wheel, I willed myself to not stare at the front door of the restaurant and watch for Victor. No, Dr. Hanover. Not Victor.
“Where are you?” My jaw hurt. I must’ve been clenching it. I don’t care if he comes after me. I don’t care. I don’t.
Lies. All lies. Because movement in my peripheral vision had my eyes moving reflexively to the front door of the restaurant. Sure enough, there was Vict—Dr. Hanover. He’d just busted through the door, seemed to be scanning the parking lot, pushing one hand through his hair while anchoring the other to his waist. He looked. . . frustrated.
Or, maybe that’s what I was hoping to see. Yep. That’s probably it.
“I’m at Luca’s and we’re just cleaning up from dinner. Why?”
Ripping my eyes away from the entrance and swallowing around the tightness in my throat, I slid lower in my seat, hoping Dr. Hanover wouldn’t see me. As far as I knew, he had no idea what kind of car I drove.
“Can I come over?” I’d never been to Anna’s professor-manfriend’s house, inviting mysel
f over wasn’t something I would normally do. But I needed my friend, so I offered instead, “Or could we meet somewhere?”
“Yes, come over. Absolutely. Yes.” She didn’t hesitate, which meant she didn’t consult with Luca.
“Uh . . . Why don’t we meet somewhere?”
“Come over, Emily.” Luca said this, his voice clear as a bell.
“Wait, Anna!” I whisper-hissed. “Do you have me on speaker phone?”
“Yes. Sorry. Okay? My hands are in soapy water. I asked Luca to answer, put you on speaker, and be silent. Please forgive me!”
“You’re forgiven.” I frowned at my side mirror, trying to angle my head such that I could see the entrance to the restaurant again. But then I caught myself and shut my eyes.
“Here, you’re off speaker now.” Anna sounded contrite. “Speak freely. And both Luca and I insist you come over.”
“I could use your help with something, but I don’t want to—”
“Come over! If you don’t come over now, I will never return your Le Creuset pot.”
“It’s a Dutch oven! And you better return it.”
“Come over then.”
“Fine.” I rubbed my chest, it felt wonky. Achy and wonky. “Send me the address.”
“Excellent. I’ll text it and I’m hanging up now so you can’t change your mind. Bye!” Anna clicked off.
“What’s going on with you?”
“I’m . . . irritated,” I admitted, glancing around the room.
I’d arrived less than a minute ago and I already wanted to leave. Luca’s house was nice. It was small, but it was very adult-like. The furniture appeared to be expensive and antique. The room we were sitting in—some kind of library off the main entrance—looked like one of those old studies from the movies. Books were everywhere, stuffing the shelves, with several shelves positioned above the doorways. Many of the volumes looked old and the room smelled like leather furniture polish and smoke. It smelled like smoke because there was presently a wood fire burning in his very impressive fireplace-within-a-fireplace.
“I can see you’re irritated.” Anna poked me, bringing my attention back to her. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shot her a look. An irritated look. A I-want-to-nut-punch-someone look.
“Yikes! That’s your I-want-to-nut-punch-someone look.”
“Exactly.” The look quickly faded, as did some of my irritation and anxiety. It was so great to have a person in my life who knew all my looks (other than my mother). I reclined by the merest fraction against the leather couch, pleasantly surprised by how comfy it was.
“You don’t have to talk about it.” Anna leaned forward and wrapped me in a sitting hug, squeezing my shoulders tightly. She smelled good, like beef roast, rosemary, and geraniums. I inhaled deeply. “We can talk about anything you like, no pressure.”
“I want to talk about it, but I don’t want to talk about it.” I was nuts. Fact.
Leaning away, reclaiming her spot on the other side of the couch, she examined me. “Is it your mom?”
I shook my head. “No. Things are great.”
I understood why my mother was Anna’s first guess. I loved my mother. She was awesome: funny, witty, clever, kind. But she didn’t take great care of herself, and she suffered from depression. It was a vicious cycle with her: get sick, which made her depressed, which made her sicker, which made her more depressed, and so on. Also, she didn’t have the best insurance—basically, they covered Pap smears and that’s it—so I’d been paying her therapy bill for the last year.
I didn’t mind!
I was happy to do it. Especially since, for the first time in my memory, things were great with my mom. She was seeing her therapist twice weekly, walking for a half hour daily, and her new meds seemed to be working. Yay money!
“Good. I’m glad things are great with your mom. Is it work? School?” Anna asked, apparently content to play twenty questions.
I love Anna. She had the patience of a saint. A SAINT!
“It’s . . . both.” I gritted my teeth.
“Both?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Okay. Got it. Complicated. How complicated?”
“Very.” I hedged, working up the nerve to tell her the truth, or some version of it.
“On a scale from me and Luca now—so, one—to me and Luca before we started dating—so, eleventy thousand—how complicated?”
I laughed at the irony of her comparison. “You know, I’d say it’s exactly as complicated as you and Luca before you got over yourselves, had an honest conversation, and started dating.”
“Really?” Her tone told me she was impressed. “That complicated?”
“But also less complicated,” I amended. “I don’t know what to do about this guy.”
“A guy? This is about a guy?” She leaned forward a little, her voice pitching higher. “Well, my goodness. A guy.”
“Yes. A guy. Sorry. My visit won’t pass the Bechdel test.”
“Nah. I’ve been dying to tell you how vanilla orchids are pollinated outside of Mexico. Spoiler alert, it’s cray-cray. We’ll talk about it later.” Anna pushed my shoulder gently with her fingertips. “But back to the guy. Who is he? Do I know him?”
“We should skip ahead to pollination of vanilla outside of Mexico, because this is probably pointless to talk about. Nothing is ever going to happen with me and this guy.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because he told me so, tonight, that nothing is ever going to happen between us.” I sighed. It was a sad sigh.
“Then he’s the king of morons,” Anna said dismissively. “Let him sit on his throne of dumb bro-ness.”
“He’s not a moron. He’s smart.” I wanted to be dismissive and indifferent about Victor too, but I wasn’t. I was sad. “I just really like him. He’s . . .” I searched for the right word, “He’s gentlemanly. Formal. Guys aren’t formal these days. It’s strange and wonderful. And he’s so smart. So. Smart. It gets me hot, you know?”
Anna reached for my hand and we shared a commiserating look. “Yeah, I get that. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
I nodded, sighing again. “Okay. It’s a long story.”
“We have all night.”
“Are you sure Luca won’t mind?”
“Luca is grading papers, which was his plan for the evening whether you were here or not. Plus, he loves you.”
“Bah.” I rolled my eyes and chuckled, but then I told my story.
I had to fib in some parts so as not to disclose where I worked or that the guy was a professor, but I got the gist of our interactions across. Anna was used to me being vague with details, something I appreciated about our relationship, so she didn’t ask any questions while I spoke. She just listened, something else I appreciated.
It felt good to tell her, to relive it through the retelling, to separate my hopes from reality. It helped me focus, to be honest with myself about how pointless this crush of mine was.
When I finished recounting a version of the evening’s events, Anna—her elbow resting on the back of the couch, her chin resting in her hand, her eyes narrowed with confusion—released a large breath. Loudly. “Why’d he kiss you? If he doesn’t do relationships, why do that?”
“He said he did it because he wanted to, but wouldn’t give me any more of an explanation.” I picked at invisible lint on my pants, feeling sad and frustrated all over again.
“Who is this guy?”
“Guess.” I chuckled, shaking my head at myself for the millionth time. I was a mess.
“So, someone complicated?”
“Yes.”
“Just as complicated as me and Luca?” Anna tapped her chin with her index finger.
“Exactly as complicated.”
“A professor.” She grinned suddenly, pushing my shoulder while wagging her eyebrows jokingly.
I stared at her, saying nothing.
Her grin waned while her eyes
grew. “Emily.”
I blinked.
Her expression became one of horror. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Oh, honey. That’s not a road you want to take. Which one? Who is he?”
“Dr. Hanover.” My face fell to my hands and I peeked at her from between my fingers.
“WHAT?” she shrieked, jumping up on the couch and reeling back. “Dr. Hanover? You can’t mean—”
“Yes. I do.” Anna had taken Dr. Hanover’s class two years ago during her sophomore year, his first year teaching, because she had figured out a lot earlier what her major would be.
“Dr. Hanover?” She shook her head, as though this was impossible for her to comprehend. “Wait, did he talk to you about an advocate? Because if he kissed you, then—”
“Yes. He arranged one last month. That’s all settled.” I let my hands drop and waved away her concern.
“Oh. Well. Okay. Good.” But then she looked completely confused again. “Dr. Hanover? I’m sorry, but . . . I’m going to need a minute.”
“What? I’m attracted to his brain.” Tilting my head back and forth, I decided to amend this statement. “And his body.”
Anna’s gaze narrowed on me. “His body? Em, he’s . . . he’s not at all your type.”
“I know, I know. I like my guys sweet and short and skinny, not stern and tall and athletic. But I can’t help it!”
Anna’s eyes became slits. “Are we talking about the same Dr. Hanover? Research methods?”
“Yes. And I blame you.”
“Why do you blame me?”
“Because you told me to take his class instead of Dr. Wilson’s.”
“Dr. Wilson is a terrible professor. You’ll find out when you take discrete structures, he’s the only one who teaches it. You’ll learn nothing. Dr. Hanover actually teaches.”
“Yes. He does . . .” I stared at the neatly built fire crackling in Luca’s fireplace, my dumb heart fluttering at the memory of Victor’s impassioned speech about challenging preconceived norms, about the nature of great scientific advancement.