Page 119 of Forbidden Lessons

Dude,stahp.

“Did you move around a lot as a kid, Haven?”

I was going to shovel another bite into my mouth, but instead I lay down my fork so I can stare at him with all my energy.

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?”

“That’s a bit of a leap.” He wipes his mouth too, and then takes a sip of wine, leaning back from his bowl like he’s done eating.

“So is a random question about my childhood after I admit I’m jumpy.”

He gives me a slow nod. “Touché.”

Then he sits forward in a rush, cradling the base of his wineglass on his palm. “Sometimes, a heightened stress response could be caused by childhood trauma.” He holds up a hand like I’m going to interrupt him.

I’m not.

Professor Rooke is fascinating, especially when he goes into full-on teach mode. He punctuates each point by tapping a finger against his glass.

“This could be anything from abuse to simply existing in a dysfunctional family unit. For instance, parents fighting all the time. Their children become more vigilant about their surroundings. Walking on eggshells to predict when the next trigger lands so they’ll be prepared for the fallout.”

He takes a sip of wine.

“Real question.” I lay my palm on the table between us. “You ever think about becoming a therapist?”

He stares at me, blinks, then laughs. “Jesus,” he murmurs. “I forget how jaded you kids are.”

“I’ll take that as an insult, Boomer.”

Waving his hand, Bastian sits back again and takes another sip of his wine. “Slip of the tongue. Did you get through today’s material?”

I shrug. “I’m sad I missed the group discussion. How did it go?”

He shrugs too. Shakes his head. “Would probably have gone a lot better if you were there. I so rarely hear a new perspective these days.”

“And I’d have given this new perspective?” I’m frowning as I take another sip.

The wine is a lot more tart than I’d expected, but it’s not awful. There’s a hint of something woody left behind on my tongue after every sip, which I quite like. I’m not sure if it’sintentional, but it seems to complement the earthiness of the mushroom pasta.

“Of course.” He holds out his hand again. “No offense, but most of the kids I teach are impatiently waiting for their trust funds to mature so they can jet off to Europe for a year.”

“I’m both offended and appalled.”

“By their generational wealth?”

“By your assumptions.” I sniff, leaning back as I take a sip of wine. This pasta is filling, but I’m not done with my bowl yet. “I could go to Europe if I wanted.”

He cocks a dark, silver-streaked eyebrow. “I’m not following.”

“It’s easy. I just need to find me a sugar daddy, open an OnlyFeet account—“ I snap my fingers “—I’ll be rolling in it.”

Bastian frowns. “OnlyFeet,” he repeats woodenly.

“Yeah.” I nod, taking another sip.

I’m really enjoying this wine now. And despite the not-so-subtle reminders Bastian keeps tossing my way, I feel mature and worldly holding this big glass, the sound the ice cubes make as they clink gently against the sides.

My professor is still frowning.

---