by R. S. Elliot
“Yes, I wish all my problems worked that way.” I laugh. “Where I could just make an excuse that fits the situation. And convince myself it’s the truth.”
“Fine.” Lyndsey throws up her hands in defeat. She’s not actually done arguing. She just likes the dramatic flair it adds when she slams down the defining argument later. “Whatever the outcome, just know we can either go party to celebrate or party to drown your sorrows.”
“I don’t want to go to a party.” The last time I went I ended up holding some girl’s drink while she made out with her boyfriend for thirty minutes. It took me fifteen minutes to realize she wasn’t planning on coming back for it and then another fifteen minutes just to figure out where to put it.
“It doesn’t have to be a party,” Lyndsey says. “We can just have a fun night out. Go into San Francisco, hit a few clubs. Get you in some fine ass dress, looking all cute. I’ll do your makeup. It’ll be good for you. You’ll love it.”
“I need a dress.”
“I have dresses. They’ll look adorable on you.”
My heart sinks at the thought of having to wear one of Lyndsey’s dresses. They look great on her, stretched out on a body that looks like it was plucked right off of a store mannequin. But I’m not Lyndsey. We may even be close in dress sizes, but my body doesn’t fill it out the same way.
I mean it’s not that I hate my body. I actually have quite a nice shape. But the skin-tight look, midriff exposed makes me feel way too self-conscious. It just isn’t me.
“Let’s just put that on hold for a minute,” I say. “I have no idea what state I’m going to be in when I get out of this meeting. It could be a rocky-road-binge kind of night, and I would just be no fun at a club.”
“Whatever, but you owe me a night out.” Lyndsey hops up from her seat and collects her things from the table. “We don’t have to go to a club. Hell, I’ll take you to a painting class.”
We laugh. I guess I could use some loosening up. I’m never going to get used to talking to men if I don’t even try to make an effort.
Lyndsey pokes my cheek playfully. Her eyes peer back at me with that all-knowing sparkle, as if she can imagine the flurry of thoughts already taking control of my mind. “You just need to get out more. Meet some hot, single man who isn’t afraid to ask you out on a date. Even when you try to skirt around his question.”
I roll my eyes. Why on earth did I tell her anything?
“It’s not-”
“Goodbye.” She pivots on her heel and sashays down the walkway toward her yoga class.
So, now I don’t even get to make excuses for the mystery man.
Zach.
My body tingles just at the thought of his name. At least now my torrid little dream sequences have some real experience to work with at night. I still feel the hard planes of his chest beneath my fingertips, the wild drumming of his heartbeat encouraging me to continue. The warmth of his arms around me, his lips at my forehead, all of it is enough to send my body shivering with ecstasy once again.
I remove the slip of paper he gave me from the pocket in my day planner.
Marianne Beaucodray. Community Outreach Coordinator. So not his personal card. Not even a man’s card. His friend is a woman. Red flag number one, I guess.
What am I supposed to do with this? Was this his way of indirectly asking me out? First, set up some meeting where we’re no longer in an uncomfortable setting like my work. Or did he really think I could be of use to the program?
I don’t know the first thing about this man. I shove the card back into my day planner. He could be married with six kids. Or worse, divorced with six kids and looking for a new mother for his wild brood. I’m not sure which one bothers me more. I’m not opposed to children. But do I want to take care of six of them? Do I want to stay home and be any man’s trophy wife?
I remind myself that he is exactly the type of man to have a trophy wife. Rich, entitled, thinking he’s secretly saving the world. He probably has some high-stakes job that rakes in millions each year but forces him to spend all his time scrambling for investors. That sounds exhausting, networking with clients, traveling across the country day in and day out, throwing galas and event dinners.
I mean, I guess it’s not too bad. Wouldn’t make much of a husband though.
I collect my things. I’m going to be late for this class. My pulse is already racing by the time I enter the lecture hall.
Soul Collector, huh? Let’s see how terrifying you really are.
I claim a seat in the middle of the lecture hall.
The steady flow of students trickles in, so I prepare my notebook and find any way to distract myself from what’s happening. I can do this. I’ve come up with an excellent proposal. I’m a great student. I can handle this man’s class and whatever meticulous, off-the-wall revisions he decides to throw at me.
The murmur of conversations swells to a dull roar.
“I heard no one gets an ‘A’ in his class,” the girl behind me says. “This is going to wreck my GPA.”
“Yeah, but I’ve also heard people describe it as an intensive course,” her friend chimes in. “Like you don’t hate the personal trainer, just because he pushes you outside of your comfort zone.”
Did she just compare the supposed Soul Collector to a personal trainer?
“I’ve heard he’s gorgeous,” the student in front of me whispers. “But he loves his privacy. That’s why there are barely any photos of him anywhere.”
“I’ve heard he’s strict,” her companion says, “but like in a hot sort of way. You know, like you wouldn’t mind getting disciplined by him.”
I groan. If this is how the rest of my semester is going to be, I’m going to start day-drinking.
The door at the front of the lecture hall opens. It slams shut behind the professor toting a stack of notebooks and his laptop bag. The room falls silent. Never in my life would I think I’d use that phrase to describe anything. And yet it is the only accurate depiction of his entrance. Not a subtle fade into hushed tones. No one has dared to speak a word since he’s entered.
Complete, submissive silence.
The true hallmark of fear.
I squint past the few clusters of heads blocking my view. I’m on the end of my row, but our professor has positioned himself in such a weird angle that I can’t make him out.
“You should all have these resources online, but I’m going to hand out a couple of papers that you should keep handy for the next few weeks.”
A shiver ripples down my spine. Why does his voice sound so familiar?
“In case, you have somehow landed in the wrong classroom, this is Personalities, Traits and Disorders.”
No, I’m in the right classroom. This isn’t a joke. I can’t even rightly say it’s a dream. I pinch myself.
Ow! Why would I do that? I know who this man is, and I know this isn’t a dream.
“You will need to keep a weekly dream journal,” he says, his voice closer. “Something that will allow you to decode the symbols in your life which are often filtered in through your dreams.”
Great. And what if the only dreams I’ve had lately are of a man bending me over the customer counter and taking me right there on the spot?
And what if that man turns out to be your professor?
I stare down at the floor. Every sensitive corner of my body seems to acknowledge his presence. My breasts tighten, sending cold fingers of electricity across my chest. Tingles weave their way up my thighs, meeting at the core between them.
I try to talk myself down, talk myself away from this catastrophe I have wandered into. I can’t want my professor. There are rules against things like that. Aren’t there?
His feet slide into my view, stopping just beside my desk. I don’t want to look up. I don’t want him to see the pink flush of arousal in my features. Instead, I hold my palm out to accept the papers, my eyes locking on some distant viewpoint as if lost in thought.
The papers brush
my palms. I curl my fingers around the edges, but he doesn’t release them. The throbbing in my throat bids a tiny farewell to the world. I am one skipped heartbeat away from fainting, but I lift my gaze to meet his.
A spark flashes across his jade-colored eyes, the whispered desires of a man restrained by the audience watching us. Heat prickles up the back of my neck. I feel completely exposed. Have others noted the sudden hitch in my breath? Or only his curious green eyes now growing cold as stone?
“Ms. McKenzie, I presume,” he says softly. I am surprised by how even his voice sounds. I, on the other hand, can’t even force out a squeak to confirm his claim.
I nod.
“You and Jackson Riley will be working on your proposals with me for the apprenticeship,” he adds, his tone a little colder than before. Anyone watching us now could not mistake the pure animalistic longing I have for him. But with his clipped words and indifferent stare, it would be hard to interpret those feelings as mutual.
“I have a few suggestions for your proposal that we can go over later,” he says, finally releasing the paper.
I’m still trembling by the time I pass the stack of printouts to the person beside me. Long after Zachary Hawthorne has passed my chair. What a nightmare.
Not only will I have to spend the next two months working through my proposal with this man, pretending I don’t want him more than air. He’s going to rip all my hard work to shreds. Which means I will probably bawl my eyes out in front of him or hold nothing back in proving him wrong.
You’ve already scolded him once.
I didn’t need the reminder.
I lean into my hands. Why of all people did it have to be him?
I draw one long, deep breath.
The kind that’s supposed to center you during a meditative cleanse. This is fine. I can do this. All this means is that I have less to focus on. Right? No need to worry about a man coming in and ruining all my plans, consuming all my time with thoughts of how I’m going to get over my fear of intimacy.
This works much better. Much less of a headache.
Aly McKenzie. Vestal virgin for life.
Chapter Eight
Aly
How did I even get into this mess?
I just tried to do my job, earn the apprenticeship, and live happily ever after.
So what happened?
Fate had another plan in mind. A horribly unnerving plan that has me turning into a puddle of hormonal desperation at the sight of my professor. My drop-dead-gorgeous professor. Who, might I add, has ridiculously high expectations.
A small corner of my chest collapses onto itself, the part already so tender from allowing myself to hope there could ever possibly be something between us. Even if he wasn’t my professor, there is no way this man would ever be interested in me. Someone with his levels of standards likely possesses very specific requirements for a lifelong partner, right down to the measurements, hair color and clothing style. Someone with his level of attractiveness, and clearly wealth, would have no trouble at all finding his perfect person.
And that person is not me.
I’ve only been waiting outside Professor Hawthorne’s office for fifteen minutes, but it feels like an eternity trapped with my thoughts.
Professor Hawthorne. Zach.
The nameless customer from my wild little fantasies now has two names to call him by, and neither one feels right to use.
The door to his office swings open. Relief floods in on a tide of paralyzing uncertainty. So no longer left with my thoughts, but now I must face the man.
I steel myself to the voices rolling around in my head. I earned this chance at the apprenticeship. I am an excellent candidate and have monumental plans in mind that will hopefully change lives for the better. I will not be intimidated by a pair of hard chiseled pecs and a reputation for crushing the hopes and dreams of final-year Berkeley students.
Professor Hawthorne steps out from around the entrance of his doorway and sees me. He smiles, but it is no longer the genuine tilt of admiration and understanding I’m accustomed to seeing. We’re already off to a great start.
“Perfect. You’re here,” he says. “We can get started.”
He leads me into the office. I’m not sure what I expected to see upon entering. A dark room lit only by the glow of a few candles, perhaps? Jars lined along the shelves of his bookcases containing souvenirs from his enemies and the disembodied souls of the students he’s collected?
But there is hardly anything noteworthy in his office at all. If I didn’t know he’s worked here for the past three years, I would assume he had only just arrived. Surprisingly, there is an abundance of light that filters in through the window overlooking a garden in the courtyard. Textbooks, and not shrunken heads or potion bottles, line the walls of his bookshelves.
His desk is potentially the saddest part of all. There is nothing but a generic desk calendar, a filing tray and enough space for his laptop. No personal tokens, no family photos. Not even a knick-knack or two to add something of his own personality into the mix.
You’re a psychology major. What does that say about a man?
Closed-off. Unemotional. Detached.
Off-limits.
“I’ve reviewed your file,” he says, claiming a seat and gesturing for me to take the chair across the desk from him. “While you have a noble cause in mind, there are some flaws in your proposal.”
Damn, I haven’t even sat down yet. “Ok. How do we fix them?”
Professor Hawthorne opens his laptop and clicks a few keys on his keyboard before adding, “Well, first you want to provide relief for mental health patients in poverty, correct?”
I take my seat, ignoring the cool tone in his voice that reminds me of the day we first met. That same condescending reaction, as if those in poverty should be more concerned about food rather than the state of their mental health. And while Maslow would argue that theory holds plenty of weight, a person who is not in their healthiest frame of mind cannot make rational decisions about their future.
I should know.
“Anyone who can’t access mental healthcare,” I explain. “Be that veterans, domestic violence victims or the homeless. But yes, my research was mainly geared toward those in lower-economic standings, since they are the least likely to have access to it.”
His eyes flick over the screen in front of him. They are not focused on me or the sudden breathlessness in my words. “And in your proposal, you are suggesting there is a correlation between poverty and mental health? When in fact, mental health is only a small portion of economic standing.”
I stiffen. The implication in his words is enough to irritate me, but I refuse to lose my temper or show any signs of being flustered. This is no minor argument to be taken lightly. I have seen first-hand what happens to communities who suffer from a lack of mental healthcare, and I will not have my ideas dismissed so easily.
“I am suggesting that the lack of mental health care and education about the warning signs is much more prevalent below the poverty line,” I say. “Even those living right on the margins, making enough to provide for their families, but not enough to receive government assistance, will not always have the extra hundred dollars or so to go to a therapist once a month, or even once a week.”
“But they would have health insurance.”
I take a deep breath before answering. He’s goading me now. There is no other reasoning for his shallow responses. Or is he that out of touch with the common man that he doesn’t see how difficult it is for most working families to bite the bullet and go to the doctor when it’s necessary?
“Not all health insurance companies cover therapy sessions.” My fingernails are digging into the armrests beneath them. I can’t help but wonder what miraculous theories Jackson Riley concocted to earn this man’s favor. “And even when they do, a person is much less likely to pay for therapy sessions that could run anywhere from once a month to once or twice a week, when they might only have to pay
a copay once or twice a year for regular healthcare services.”
“So how does all of this pertain to poverty levels?”
My chest tightens. Did he not read my proposal? Did he not major in psychology? Or do any kind of work in the field? “Mental health contributes to addiction, to violence, to homelessness. It’s- It’s everything.”
I struggle for the right words, so flustered at the thought of what’s happening that I can barely speak. Am I really having to argue this? The only example I can think of hits too close to home. He doesn’t have to know that. If I burst into tears in his office trying to explain myself, he will think I am completely incapable of handling this apprenticeship.
He is watching me, intently. Coldly. The sensation is a shock to my system, like someone dumping ice water on me after an eternity in the desert. This is not the man I knew from before, the man who affectionately held me in his arms to protect me from bludgeoning myself on a rake and some stepping stones. This is not the man whose pale green eyes have been the centerpiece of my dreams for the past few days.
This man is distant. As far away from me as the sun.
I inhale one long stream of breath to steady myself. “Take, for example, a woman who loses her husband. Not only has she lost the love of her life and a father for her child, but she has lost a source of income and has likely accrued medical debts as a result.”
His brow furrows. Did something in my voice give me away? I push forward.
“The stress from having to console her daughter, having her household income cut in half and managing the bills, all while trying to pretend she isn’t breaking on the inside, is enough to send her spiraling into depression.” I hear a note in my voice crack, and I pause. I’m very close to losing myself, to forgetting where I am and who I am with, as well.
I refocus my thoughts. He seems to notice, shifting uneasily in his seat before crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze continues to level over mine, seeking the answers I’m trying to reveal without giving too much of myself away. I’ve already told this man far more than any level of our acquaintance should dictate. He knows what drives me, what sparks my passions. He knows pieces of my past I try to hide from others. What is it about him that both encourages me to share my secrets and hide from him all at the same time?