Page 41 of Damaged Professor

“Okay,” I tell her, utterly miserable.

There are no pleasantries explained. I manage to get myself up and into clean clothes that are more fit for going out, and even take the time to splash water onto my face to clear away the tears. By the time Nichole pulls up ten minutes later, I look almost presentable.

She gets out of the car and rushes over to me, grabbing me in a hug. I throw my arms around her, only barely resisting the urge to start crying all over again.

Nichole demands, “What did that asshole do? I’m telling you, Abby, I’ll make him regret it.”

“It wasn’t Dylan.” I pull away and shove the phone into her hands, the email pulled up.

Nichole looks it over, a storm settling into her expression. “That bitch! Who does she think she is, huh? The proper police?” She shakes the phone at me. “Abby, she’s full of it. There’s nothing in the campus codes that says you can’t be involved with someone who works on staff.”

I shake my head at her, sniffling. “It’s not that simple. I’m worried that this—this is going to cost Dylan his career.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Nichole tries to reason. “Do you know why she—“

I just shake my head at her, and I tell her, “I can’t do this. I can't be the reason that he loses everything. I’m just going to call it off with him.”

“Abby,” she starts, clearly trying to comfort and soothe me.

But I shake my head, not wanting to hear it. I know that this is the best option. Dylan means the world to me. He’s the first man that I’ve had a real connection with in a long, long time. The thought of losing him, it hits me like a brand.

It’s awful.

I just can’t imagine asking Dylan to risk his career for me. That’s something he’s been working on his whole life. Being a professor at an ivy league university, that’s not something that happens overnight. And it’s not the sort of job that can be easily replaced. It’s one of those once in a lifetime careers.

Closing my eyes, I take the phone back, lock the screen, and shove it in my back pocket. “No. You have to understand, Nichole. You’re the only one that I’ve got right now. I need you… I need you to tell me that you understand why I’m going to end the relationship.”

“Abby, even if you end the relationship… She still has proof it existed.”

“I don’t think her goal is to harm him," I say. "It’s me she wants out of the picture.”

Even saying those words is enough to bring tears to my eyes again. How should I do it? Should I call him? Text him? I know that those are both asshole moves, but the thought of saying it to him in person is too much. And then there’s the fact that he’s my professor.

Do I need to change classes because of this?

It’s to protect Dylan. It’s the choice that I need to make, right here, right now. Before this goes any further and those images get emailed to everyone in the class—or even worse, before they get emailed to his colleagues.

I have to keep in mind that just because there’s pride in dating someone who is so accomplished as Dylan is, there probably isn’t the same feeling in regards to me. I’m not only just a student in my first year, but I started almost four full years late compared to most people. I’ve got a lot that I should be living up to.

A lot… And now…

Now I’ve got nothing.

My breath hitches, the despair coming out in the form of a muffled sort of sob. Nichole instantly grabs me and pulls me into another hug. “Hey, come on, it’s okay! It’s okay, you don’t have to worry about any of this right now. Let’s just—I do, I do understand.”

It’s a cooing sort of sound. She rocks me back and forth where we stand, making these soft reassuring sounds in the back of her throat. I press my forehead more firmly against her shoulder, digging my fingers into her shirt.

“I understand something else, too,” says Nichole. She urges me towards the car, opening up the passenger side and ushering me into it. She tells me, “When something like this happens, the best thing to do is have a drink.”

I let out a watery, tear-filled laugh. “That’s why I knew you would come out with me. I need a drink. Even I’m smart enough to realize that. And I didn’t want—”

“To go have sad drinks alone and make yourself even more sad,” says Nichole. She closes the door, our conversation coming to a brief pause when she moves around to the other side. But once she’s in and behind the wheel, she tells me, “I know exactly where to go to give you a boost.”

“Oh, do you have some secret heartbreak bar to go hide in?” I ask.

“Something like that,” Nichole says. “Have you ever heard of Cowboy’s Stand?”

“No?” I say, confusion curling into my words.

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