Page 38 of Damaged Professor

It gets an eye roll out of me, but I follow after him anyway. We exit through a side door, onto a patio that has been built to emulate an Italian veranda. There's lots of climbing ivy and glittering fairy lights woven through the white wood structure above us, mirrored on the glass top tables.

Ashton takes up a seat, telling me, “I’ve got wine coming out, too.”

“Don’t you have to go back to work after this?”

“I’m not going to get wine-drunk, Dylan. I’m going to have a glass of it with my French onion soup,” says Ashton, as though it’s the most obvious thought. “And you’re going to have the rest of the bottle because you have the day off. Speaking of having the day off, since you don’t have anything planned, it would be great if you could go check in with the catering in person. He wants us to do a tasting and approve the food plans. Same as we did with the cake. He’s well aware of how picky Mom can be.”

“We?” I frown at him. “Nice try, but I do have plans.”

“Bullshit. What kind of plans do you have?” Ashton demands.

“I’m telling you; I can’t do it today. I’ll have to do it tomorrow after work, or you can do it before you head back to work. What did you order for me?” I ask.

“No, no, no. What plans do you have? You never have plans.”

“Ashton. The caterer?”

But it’s the curse of having an older brother—they always know when a woman is involved. Ashton’s eyes go bright, and his mouth splits into a grin. He braces one arm against the table and leans against it, telling me, “You’ve got yourself a lady friend. She was in the house that day, wasn’t she?”

‘Lady friend,’ I mouth. “What are you, a nineteen eighties mobster?”

“You’re avoiding the question.” says Ashton. “You’ve got a girl. Since when?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“It’s exactly what I’m thinking. I thought you were too happy the last time that we spoke. Should have guessed that you’d finally found someone,” Ashton says.

I roll my eyes. “Come on, is this really what you want to waste your lunch talking about?”

“Yes,” says Ashton. “Tell me what’s going on. Is it the woman you were staring at when we were at the bakery? Why haven’t I met her yet?”

“Because nothing’s official.”

“It’s official enough that you have plans.”

“It’s complicated,” I tell him. Maybe there’s something on my face when I say it, or maybe it’s just the fact that we’re brothers and he knows me. Either way, Ashton shakes his head and frowns at me.

“Come on, D,” says Ashton. He knows that I hate it when he shortens my name. “You can tell me what’s going on.”

I think on it for a moment, and then decide—why not try and get someone else’s opinion on it? Sometimes, when you’re too close to a situation, you just can’t see it the way that it’s meant to be seen.

“Fine,” I say. There’s a long pause, and then I explain, in brief, and without giving my brother any of the juicy details, how my relationship with Abby started, and the troubles that we’ve had so far.

Through it all, Ashton listens in totally rapt attention, nodding his head at times and wincing at others. Our food arrives right around the time that I’ve finished. My brother’s ordered us each a bowl of French onion soup, traditional style, in a bread bowl, with thick, toasty Swiss cheese on the top. A crostini covered in tomatoes, mushrooms, and brown butter garlic sauce is served alongside it, perfect for dipping.

A younger looking teenage boy is the one that delivers it to us, but Ashton leans forward and flashes Bethany a thumbs up through the glass. She smiles and returns the gesture.

Then Ashton turns back to me. “So, what’s the holdup, huh?”

“I just told you what the holdup is,” I say, frowning. “Were you not listening at all?”

“I listened,” says Ashton. He grabs up the crostini and uses it to bust through the layer of toasted cheese on the top of his soup bowl. “But I’m not getting the holdup. She’s—how old?”

“Twenty-four,” I answer, using the back of my spoon to accomplish the same thing. The Swiss cheese gives beneath the curve of the metal, pressing it deeper into the rich, brown broth beneath it.

“Look, there’s nothing wrong with your relationship. She’s an adult. You're an adult. This isn’t high school for fuck’s sake. So some other people might give you the side eye. So what?” he asks.

I frown at him.

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