by Sierra Hill
“Huh,” she muses, as this seems to baffle her. “Why didn’t you bring him home then? Why the late night phone call?”
Pussy Cat chooses this moment to stroll into the kitchen, acting as the perfect distraction and getaway from this line of interrogation. Whether Peyton knows it or not, she has a way of sussing out information from me. Personal details I’ve never shared with anyone else.
But right now I’m not at a point to share anything more about my feelings toward my professor or the connection between us.
Not only because it’s complex and frowned upon to have a thing with your teacher, but it’s also confusing the hell out of me.
11
Lucas
“Hello, Grandmum. How are you feeling this morning?”
My weekly call with my grandmother begins as it always does, a sign that we’ve grown all too accustomed to the monotony of our regular check-ins.
I normally begin by asking her how she’s doing or how she’s feeling, to which she replies she’s always fine but her gout, or back or arthritis are acting up.
I inquire about the weather in New England. Nantucket, specifically. She’ll complain even if it’s the most perfect of summer days.
And then I’ll ask what she has planned for the coming week, which usually consists of board meetings in the city, golf, and tea on Saturdays, and church services on Sundays. Which then leads to our weekly call.
“Oh, my dear Lucas. It’s so good to hear from you. I wish you would check in more often.”
And there’s also the guilt trip she lays on thickly related to my infrequent visits, which I work to do twice a year for an extended period of time and hold our weekly phone calls. Thankfully, I can handle this particular grievance.
It’s the other one she brings up about my lack of relationship and marriage potential that has me wincing every time it’s mentioned.
I grit my teeth and remember that I’m her only grandson and her desire to carry on the family name causes her great stress and worry. Besides my mother, whose relationship with Grandmum has been strained for years, we’re her only remaining family. My aunt Meredith died several years back and while she had been married, she never had children. Which leaves me to pass on our genes.
It also means I have to bite my tongue and respond politely to whatever she insists I do or don’t do.
“I know, Grandmum. But you know how busy I get at the start of every semester. There’s so much additional workload in preparation for the new school year and the endless series of meetings and task forces. And with the time difference, it’s difficult to get you during the workweek. Plus, your calendar is generally busier than mine.”
Which is true, but she’ll never admit to it.
Jocelyn MacArthur Mathiasson is a force to be reckoned with in her own right. At age seventy-three, she’s still the CEO of Mathiasson Industries, as well as the Chair of the Board for two international businesses, and on countless other charity and non-profit boards. She keeps herself busy and on-the-go more than any man or woman I know of at her age.
“Nonsense,” she grumbles weakly with little vigor. “Now tell me about your new classes and students. Any bright ones that will provide you a challenge this year?”
My stomach tightens instinctively, lightning coursing through my blood as the image of Kyler pops into my mind. Although to be fair, he’s been there all weekend, even more so after the illicit conversation, I had with him last night. The heat of my flushed face burns like fire and I nearly stutter out the words.
“Oh yes, there are quite a few students who are particularly curious and have good heads on their shoulders.”
One in particular who has my head in jumbles.
“Ah, of course there are. I’m absolutely certain they are thrilled to have such a dedicated and scholarly professor to educate them on their chosen subject matter.” She emphasizes the last two words to indicate her irritation that still lies at the top of her frustration over my chosen profession.
My grandmum was indeed not happy when I chose the path I did. Wanting me to inherit the business and take the helm of the international company that had been passed on for three generations, she was flabbergasted when I chose not to. Our disagreement —which we finally agreed would never be resolved — was finally put to bed, although it will rear its ugly head every so often through the small digs she gets in here and there.
It’s rather laughable but I suppose endearing. She is who she is and I still love her and vice versa.
“Teaching is a very rewarding role and most often I find that I’m the one who has been educated by those I’m paid to educate.”
“Well, dear boy, don’t allow that to interfere with your social life. I know you, you’re just like your grandfather, always with your head in the books and not on the people around you.” She lets out an exaggerated sigh as if it still bothers her ten years after his death. “I would just like to see you dating again, even if it means using those god-awful dating apps. Although, I have heard horror stories about those dreadful sites, about people being carped?”
I snort, wondering if she really knows anything about dating apps – aka hookup central – and the misuse of the word.
“I think you mean catfished. It’s a thing.”
She huffs indignantly. “Well, whatever. I think you should consider getting out there again and meet someone new. You’re not getting any younger and you must be ready to move on now from Daniella.”
Until this summer after I met and hooked up with Kyler, no one had interested me in the slightest and I had no desire to date. Truthfully, I’d been over Daniella well before that, but Grandmum doesn’t have to know that. She also doesn’t have to know that it’s hard for me to want to date someone when my interest lies somewhere else. Which for me has been my unrequited love of Garrett.
Yet, now I’m trapped between a rock and a hard place. Unable to date the man I’ve found stirs my blood in a way no one else has before because he’s my student and has said he doesn’t want a relationship or anything serious. And neither did I.
Except, after last night, I’ve concluded that Kyler’s words and actions are not in sync. He says he doesn’t want anything with me, but he’s the one that continued our conversation, even when it changed direction and became very, very explicit.
Regardless of the attraction and pull we feel, the circumstances dictate that we can’t take it any further than it’s already gone. Do I feel guilty for the inappropriateness of our texts and subsequent conversation? Yes.
Rationally, I know that our conversation crossed the line.
And yet, I wouldn’t change a thing about last night.
Talking to Kyler was not only titillating and the most excitement I’d had in months, but it also refocused my energies on someone else other than my longtime unreturned feelings toward Garrett. A man I can never have.
But am I just exchanging one for another? I seem to fall for unavailable men and the ones I can never have.
“You can’t rush love, isn’t that what you’ve always told me, Grandmum?” I add in for good measure, hoping she’ll realize that I’m not at the same place she wants me to be in my love life.
She harrumphs with an annoying huff. “Too true. But remember, Lucas, I’m not getting any younger, either. And since you’ve chosen to walk away from managing my businesses, I want to ensure you’re settled before you receive any of your inheritance. In fact, I’ve met with my attorneys recently after that little heart spell I had and reworked my will.”
Something twists in my stomach. A knot of unease and dread. It’s not that I need, or even want, any of her millions of dollars or investments or properties, but the fact that she may have changed things to spite my choices is a bit vengeful. I swallow thickly.
“What did you do, Grandmum?”
She coughs delicately. “I want to see you married before I pass. Therefore, I’m giving you until the end of next year. That should give you plenty of time to find someone
who piques your interest, and maybe even someone you love.”
Jesus H. Christ.
This woman is out to torture me and knows exactly just how tightly to twist that vice.
12
Kyler
“Fuck!” I shout loudly, leaning over to check the time on my phone to see that I’m running thirty minutes late for class, having overslept because my alarm didn’t go off.
Or rather, I may have inadvertently forgotten to set it after getting home at three a.m. after a late shift at the bar last night.
Regardless, I’m in a shitty mood knowing I’m going to be late for Lucas’s class. That is if I can even get my ass out of the door at all.
I use the restroom, running a hand through my bedhead hair, brush my teeth, and splash some cold water on my face before throwing on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and some slides. Grabbing my bag that sits on the floor near my desk, I confirm my laptop is there and out to the kitchen to feed Pussy Cat. I find Peyton hunched over her laptop at the table working on a paper that’s due in one of her classes today.
She gives me a cursory glance, returns her attention back to her laptop, but then her head pops up again with her eyes blown wide.
“Are you going to class looking like that?” She flips her hand in the air, gesturing at my appearance.
Closing the lid on the cat food box, I reach in the fridge for a bottled water and shove it in the open sleeve of my bag.
I nod. “Yeah, I’m in a hurry.”
Peyton tips her head and purses her lips. “Okay then…but you might want to turn your shirt around. It’s inside out and backwards.”
Looking down at my chest I see she’s right and curse out a loud exasperated grunt. “Goddammit.”
I maneuver the shirt over my head to the correct direction and pick up the bag I’d tossed on the floor, and stride toward the door.
“What would I do without you, Pey-Pey?” I ask, a very rhetorical question, as I blow her a kiss and open the front door. “Have a good day, babes.”
Rhetorical or not, she feels compelled to shout out her reply as the door closes behind me. “Good thing you have me in your life!”
At least she gave me a laugh this morning, despite my tired and crappy mood. I know this schedule is going to take me time to adjust to, but I’m frustrated with myself for falling behind so easily. I’m usually good at managing my time, and typically run on very little sleep, easily compartmentalizing my school, social life and work life without any issues.
And today is not a day I wanted to start off poorly, because my first class is Lucas’s lecture, which means I’ll need to school my thoughts and temper my reaction to him after our very intense phone call this past Saturday night.
I feel no embarrassment over our sexting and phone call. It happened. We had fun. It was sexy as fuck and took the edge off my horniness. But now I’ll have the discomfort of watching and listening to Lucas while he lectures and will need to dissect the two different aspects of him in my head. Which is going to cause great difficulty for me in my current mood.
It’s thirty minutes after the class began when I enter the room, doing my best to creep quietly into the back of the lecture hall unnoticed. Thankfully, Lucas’s back is to the class, as he lectures on some modernism pieces that are currently projected up on the screen in front of the classroom.
The door snaps shut behind me and take a glance around the room for an open seat, seeking one out in the back row where I can sit down with little disruption or notice.
Unfortunately, my one-time lover and now professor has eyes on the back of his head because before I can take a step toward the back row, his voice erupts through the hall, ricocheting off the high-coffered ceiling, pinging between the four walls.
It stops me in my tracks, with all eyes turning toward me as if they’ve all spotted an alien in their midst. I smile apologetically.
“Good morning, Mr. Scott. So nice of you to grace us with your presence this morning.”
I grip the strap of my backpack tightly between my interlaced fingers, replying with a hint of sarcasm.
“I wouldn’t miss your class for the world, Professor Mathiasson.”
Grinning broadly, my voice is overly bright and fake, so as not to show him just how indignant I really am for being called out like this. I nudge a guy to move his foot so I can take the seat next to him but just before I sit down, Lucas sets in motion the path for the remainder of the class. And maybe even the rest of the semester.
“Mr. Scott, since your late arrival obviously proves your thorough knowledge of this morning’s topic. Perhaps you’d care to assist me in this lesson.”
I swallow down the seething anger that floats in the back of my throat – anger at Lucas for acting like this. Why can’t he just let me be and avoid all of this public humiliation?
I take my seat and lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees to emphasize my perfect willingness to accept whatever he’s going to throw my way. Bring. It. On.
“I’ll do my best. Where would you like me to begin? Fire away.”
The class snickers with uncertain amusement, which must amuse him because there’s a flash of humor in his intense green eyes. His response is thoughtful, voice clear, and deep, as he considers my question.
It’s the first time I get a good look at him this morning. His dress shirt — a crisply ironed periwinkle blue — is tucked snuggly into his black dress trousers, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to show off the light golden-brown hair on his forearms, his arms crossed over his chest. The blue enhances the color of his eyes which are pinned on me in consternation.
To the rest of the class, his posture appears to be calm, but I notice the nuances of the rigid tautness of his muscles pulled tightly underneath the collar of his shirt. His cheek twitching under the scrutiny of his hard gaze.
“We were discussing how the industrial-age and the analysis of the human spirit influenced modernism art in the late 19th century and turn of the 20th century. Would you like to discuss these paintings and give us your educated viewpoint on how the technique used by the artist drew from a more realistic human experience?”
I switch my gaze from Lucas to the screen and notice the painting he has displayed for the class and stammer unimpressively before I can find my words.
Staring at it, my mind works through my memory bank of art I’ve studied and seen over the years.
“It’s a Picasso. Weeping Woman, I believe.”
I snap my gaze back to Lucas who gives me an appreciative head nod. “Very good, Mr. Scott. And what does it depict?”
My comeback is notoriously snarky – an autopilot response. “A woman weeping?”
The class stifles their laughter as Lucas peers over the rim of his glasses, immediately shutting down any more of their encouragement of the class clown.
“That much is obvious, yes. But what is it actually meant to say? What aspect of the woman’s emotional bank is he trying to express?”
I straighten my posture in my seat and thoughtfully assess the painting, my gaze flicking over the sweeping lines and artistry of the portrait.
“Well,” I begin, fascinated now by the piece in front of me. “It’s obviously a woman in anguish.”
“Over what, do you suppose?”
I chew a corner of my lip, suddenly filled with an emotion that bubbles up from the pit of my stomach. “A man. A loss. Someone who couldn’t or wouldn’t love her enough. Maybe he took her for granted or didn’t reciprocate her feelings. Or didn’t want the same things.”
My voice grows weak, the end of my statement coming out like a sob.
“Thank you, Mr. Scott. That is very insightful,” he offers, a look passing between us that tells me he’s proud of me and glad I made it to class. At least, that’s what I think he says.
“Okay class, let’s move on.”
I sit through the remainder of the hour in a stupor of sorts. Stunned at the depth of emotion that erupted from me without any warnin
g.
Making me realize how much I may still grieve from the sudden loss of Max’s love, as well as my father's. Both men who dropped me without a moment’s notice because I no longer fulfilled their requirements of love.
The very reason I don’t ever want to love another man again.
13
Lucas
Shit, the minute I saw Kyler’s expression change from that smug boy grin to the painful grimace, and I heard the rough grainy tone of his voice, it was evident something was wrong.
Everything I’ve learned thus far about Kyler—both in and out of the classroom—is that he loves attention and is always up for a little fun. It’s the only reason I called him out in front of the class the way I did. I rarely do that to students or put them on the spot, especially if I didn’t know their personality or what cloth they’re cut from. For some, it can be torture to be singled out like that.
Heading out of the lecture hall, I check my phone and calendar, preparing myself to spend the next hour directly with Kyler. But a tap on my shoulder grabs my attention.
“Professor Mathiasson?” The female voice is tentative, a bit nervous, as I turn my head behind my shoulder to get a glimpse of one of the students from my last class.
Jessica, I think. She smiles a girlish smile – one her parents obviously paid dearly for with years of orthodontia – her cheeks reddening like apple blossoms.
“Yes, what I can do for you, Jessica?”
I continue walking as she moves along-side me, fiddling nervously with the strap of her designer bag.
“It’s just Jess,” she stammers, her chin dipping self-consciously.
We get to the door of my office and I unlock it, swinging it wide and kicking the doorstop to prop it open. A habit I have continued since beginning this career. A habit out of pure protection.
Not for the young women I teach, but a safety mechanism for me. While I may not be interested in pursuing anything with them, considering my sexuality, my lack of interest, unfortunately, has done little to prevent some of my female students from coming on to me. I do nothing to provoke them or encourage them, but sometimes a young woman will feel a connection with me because of the nature of our acquaintance.