Page 11 of Damaged Professor

Nichole sighs. “Abby, I don’t do this often, so please pay attention—and appreciate what a good friend I’m being right now.” She moves closer to me and takes my hands in hers. Her giddy expression is gone. “You need to move on—like actually move on. It’s ok to have hookups or more than hookups. It’s ok to spend the night or leave the second it’s over. But it’s not ok to lie to yourself.”

I press my back on the headboard, but she pulls me up. “It looks like this time you wanted something more—more sex or something else, it doesn’t matter. It’s ok to have that. You deserve to have that. You can't live in a memory. And a one-night stand can go for as long as both parties want it.” She flashes a smile and gets up. “Keep that in mind next time.”

She heads to the kitchen, and I can hear her rummage through my fridge. “There’s no beer left,” I yell.

“Beer? This early?” she asks, her voice faking confusion. In her hands are two glasses of juice. She hands me mine and I toss it back.

“That was not just orange juice,” I tell her. We stare at each other for God knows how long before Nichole decides to break the silence.

“Are we going out tonight?” No. I need to recover from this. She sees the rejection. “You might meet someone new. Or maybe see him again. What’s his name again?”

“Dylan.” It feels strange to say his name. “Can we just change the subject? Please.”

“Okay, fine.” She gets out her phone and seems to scroll aimlessly. “There’s a photography exhibition in two weeks. Do you want to go?”

Chapter six

Dylan

It’sthefirstdayof the semester, and I can hardly focus. I'm trying to present myself as put together as possible. I’ve felt vaguely unsettled all week, like I’ve forgotten something, or like something is missing. It’s probably because this is a review year for my tenure. I hate it.

The possibility of losing it always has me a little unnerved. My class ratings are always pretty high, and I’m on good terms with all my colleagues. Plus, my family name goes a long way, they can’t cut me for anything other than a genuine issue. I should be able to relax.

I always get to class long before it starts, and that’s no different today. I write my name on the big chalkboard, as well as the name of my class. I’ve been teaching history for almost ten years now, and the first day of class is always the most telling—by the end I’ll have a clear view of what this semester will be like.

A skinny, red-haired boy walks up to me to ask about the class schedule, and I struggle to keep my attention on him. When he finally leaves, the room is full.

My gaze sweeps through the crowd, giving the students what I hope is a reassuring look.

“Hello, everyone. You can call me Professor Bancroft. I’m glad to see that some people still have an avid interest in history. I’m not going to be teaching this the same way that your high school teachers did, but I want you all to know that this class is to be taken seriously.”

There’s a woman in the front row with a sharp, black bob. She’s got what appears to be a color-coded index, and a slew of pens in different colors. That one’s going to pay attention, I can tell. Next to her is a boy that didn’t bother to change out of his rumpled pajamas and still looks half asleep, then two empty seats, and then another woman, also dressed inappropriately for class. She's got a baggy sweater on and a skirt so short that it might as well be missing.

I scan the next rows, making a mental note of the students, when my gaze lands on a very, very familiar face.

Abby.

My heart sinks at the sight of her. It feels like all the air has just been pulled from the room, and I’m left standing there, burning up.

Here’s the thing: if she was just someone that I picked up at the bar and slept with, that would be fine—maybe a bit awkward—but fine.

But this is not the case with Abby. I’ve been trying to put her out of my mind for the past seven days, but nothing has been able to clear the woman out of my head. I keep going back to the conversation we had before we went up to my bedroom. And how we spent time together in the kitchen after our shower, having a cup of coffee and discussing art history before she left.

She pulled at something in the back of my heart that hasn’t been touched since my heart was broken eight years ago. Chelsea had been the love of my life and then she cheated on me. We had big plans for a life together, for a family. She let me give her all of my love, all of my trust, and then she turned around and loved someone else.

She left me so broken and raw and I haven’t been able to find that connection with anyone else.

I haven’t wanted it, either.

But here I am, thinking about Abby. Thinking about her smile, and her laugh, and the way her eyes scrunch up at the corners when she has a cock in her mouth. It makes my whole body ache for her.

And that’s how I know that this needs to be dealt with, and it needs to be dealt with right away.

I do my best to focus on the class itself. We discuss the syllabus and I make sure to answer any questions as well as I can, but the moment the class is over and people start milling out of the room, I move to stand beside the door.

I shouldn’t be happy to see her. This could be terrible for my career. But every time that my gaze lands on Abby, my heart skips a beat. It feels like I’ve just found the missing puzzle piece for my whole world.

My goal is to catch Abby as she’s leaving and ask if she’ll stay and talk, but it turns out that I don’t actually need to do that. She just sits in her chair until everyone has left. Then she stands up and gives me one of those little, almost sheepish smiles of hers.

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