Page 26 of Damaged Professor

Without thinking about it, I walk over to the bathroom door. It’s sitting partially open, just enough that I can look in at the mirror above the bathroom sink. The mirror is angled, by sheer chance, towards the garden tub where Abby is stretched out.

Abby is down far enough in the water that I can only see the upper curve of her chest, her head reclined backwards against the edge of it. The water has turned a misty shade from some oil or another that she’s dropped into it.

I get these gift baskets at college events a lot. I’m not sure why, but they almost always come with some bath items but since I’m a shower guy, they’ve just been piling up in one of the bathroom cabinets.

I’m glad that she found them. Someone ought to be making use of the damn things.

She doesn’t realize that I’m watching her. One hand sweeps through the surface of the water, stirring it up. Without opening her eyes, she asks, “Well? Are you coming in or not?”

I want to.

That’s…a problem, actually.

Yes, sleeping with Abby definitely didn’t clear my head at all. Quite the opposite. I think that it might have made me feel more attached to her. I want something better than this, something bigger than this—I want her to stay the night.

Clutching onto that thought, I work at trying to get rid of it.

Abby suggested that we have a benefit type of thing. Sex, dinner, nothing more than that. I’m not going to push for something else, especially since I was the one who originally didn’t want to pursue a relationship.

So I tell her, “I think I’m going to pass.” And then, “Coffee is on the dresser for you.”

“Oh, that sounds amazing, thank you,” Abby says. I stand there for a moment longer, just watching her in the tub, through the mirror, before finally dragging myself away.

I go back down to the kitchen, but this time with a more pointed path. I don’t just get another cup of coffee. I also grab a bottle of brandy from the liquor cabinet and add a splash of it to my cup.

I’m not usually a drinker like this, but tonight my head is scattered. I feel lost, and I need something to ground myself. The drink is bitter, and it turns into fire on the way down my throat and into my belly. I drink it way too fast, sputtering after the final swallow.

Not wanting Abby to get the wrong idea, I tuck the bottle of brandy back into the cabinet, and then grab myself a fresh cup of coffee to chase the spiked one with. It finishes up the pot. The cup that I brought up for Abby is probably cold by now, so I use it as justification for putting on a second brew.

It gives me something to do, a reason for not going upstairs and just throwing myself into the bathtub. If I get in the tub with her, I’m going to ravish her again, and then I’m going to pull her back into the bed and insist that she stays until morning.

The second pot has finished brewing by the time Abby comes out. She’s dressed in her yellow blouse and black skirt again, but her damp hair has been pulled up into a loose bun on the top of her head. She offers me the cup. It’s mostly full. “What are the chances that I can get a hot cup instead?”

There’s a hickey on the side of her neck. I reach out and touch it without thinking, brushing my thumb over the bruising there. “Sure.” Then I turn and get the cup made up. “Freshly brewed.”

“How do you always know exactly what I’m looking for?” Abby asks.

“I have great intuition,” I respond, passing it back to her. I’ve had my fair share of coffee for this time of night, so I skip on getting another one for myself. Leaning back against the counter, I look Abby over. She takes the first sip of her coffee, smiles at me… and like a switch has just been flipped, the whole situation descends into something that can only be described as painstakingly awkward.

It seems that neither of us know exactly what we should be doing now, or where we should be taking this specific situation. I offer, “Do you want to go sit down?”

Abby nods, and we move into the living room instead. The black leather couch has never been more uncomfortable. She nods at the painting over my mantle. “I love that.”

“It’s just a copy. I didn’t want to take the real piece out,” I tell her, moving to stand closer to the photograph. “I think that you’ve got a good eye for art though. Are you sure that you don’t want to try and get a degree in art history instead?”

“I’m positive,” laughs Abby. “I don’t think that Nichole would want to share classes with me anyway. At some point, you just start seeing too much of a person, you know? Plus…Writing about history is something that feels right to me.”

There’s something almost sad about the way that she says that. I decide that it’s best not to ask what’s made her mood change, and instead just set about trying to fix it. I’ve been thinking about this since she went in for the bath and invited me to join, and now I’ve decided to just go for it.

“Would you like to stay?” I ask.

Abby freezes. There’s a line of tension through her shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Her gaze slides to me from the corner of her eyes, though she doesn’t actually turn her head to look. “What?”

“Just the night, I mean. It’s later than we expected and I’m sure you’re tired,” I tell her. “You could have the bed if you wanted, or—you could have the guest room. Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

The corners of Abby’s mouth twitch up into the start of a smile, and then she shakes her head, and she tells me, “I don’t think that I can. I think that could complicate things, don’t you?”

“I guess it could.” I say knowingly, making a frustrated sound in the back of my throat. “It’s supposed to be easy. We’re supposed to be able to do this, with no strings attached. That’s what we want, right?”

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