Page 12 of Damaged Professor

“Hey,” says Abby. “Funny seeing you here.”

“I didn’t realize that you would be taking classes like this. I thought—"

“Nichole is the Art major,” says Abby, grabbing her bag and slinging it over one shoulder. She walks slowly towards me. “I’m getting a major in History, and a minor in Literature.”

“Are you planning on teaching?”

“I want to write, I think. Maybe a few chronicles of history that most people don’t think about,” says Abby. “But that part is still a work in progress. Mostly I just—I just want to make sure that I’m putting the time in for a degree that I’m actually interested in.”

“That’s a good way to do it. You won’t believe how many students pick something that sounds prestigious only to realize that they can’t stand studying it,” I say, with a shake of my head. History is one of those things.

Abby tucks a strand of her sandy blonde hair behind her ear. “That's not what you wanted to talk about, though.”

“It’s not,” I say, relieved to have an easy opening into the subject. I was hoping that she would be able to understand what I was trying to get across, without making me dance around it or fight to bring it up.

“I didn’t know that you taught at this university when we met at the bar. I just—I wanted to let you know that. This isn’t about, you know, trying to get better grades or something,” she says.

“I’m sure that it’s not,” I tell her. “That never crossed my mind.”

She lets out a sigh of relief. “Good. I’m glad. I just—I just wanted to make sure of that. I’m not that kind of person.”

“I can tell you aren’t.” I give her what I hope is both a reassuring and an understanding smile. Then I set my shoulders and get down to business, telling her, “But we still can’t do anything like that again.”

Abby stares at me.

I push forward, before she gets a chance to say anything. “It was an unfortunate mistake that we ended up in this class together, I know that. But I can’t let anything happen now that you’re officially my student.”

“Oh, oh! Right!” Abby laughs, but there’s something almost nervous about it. “Right, I get that.”

There’s a long pause.

She gets it.

I get it.

But the air between us feels jagged and my heart feels raw.

I feel the need to keep justifying the situation, but not for her. It’s almost like I need to remind myself of all the reasons why I can’t sleep with her again. “You have to understand, it’s nothing against you. But if people think that I’m having some sort of a relationship with one of my students, they’re going to start questioning my ethics—and I can’t let that happen.”

“I get that,” says Abby, with a slow nod of her head. “I don’t want to jeopardize your career.” She pauses. “I was going to say that I really enjoyed spending time with you the other night but—wow, now I’m realizing that's just... That’s a bad idea.”

“It is a bad idea,” I agree, with a nod. But it feels like my stomach has just dropped down into my feet, and I’m struggling to hold myself as a put together professor.

Abby works her mouth a few times. There’s something about her expression that looks impossibly sad, and that just makes my heart ache even more. “I think that I have another class to get to.” She gestures towards the door. “Is it okay if I just…”

“Leave? Of course.” I wasn’t blocking her way, but I still step to the side, just to make sure that she knows I’m not going to try and stop her.

With one last smile, Abby steps out of the room. The door swings shut with a heavy thump, leaving me as the only person in the room once more.

The classroom feels cavernous. I know this is the best decision that I could have made, but I can’t help but feel as though something great has just slipped through my fingers.

Chapter seven

Abby

“Killme,”Isay,dropping down backwards onto the big, white, furry rug. The ceiling of Nichole’s bedroom is plastered in fake stars so old that they don’t actually glow anymore. That’s fine, because she’s recently upgraded to one of those space reflecting globe lights, so the white popcorn ceiling is still covered in swirls of false starlight.

The wall behind me is another story. There are Polaroid pictures tacked up onto the wall, above the headboard, showing off not just the places that she’s passed through, but the people that she’s met and some she hasn’t actually met. As part of her own personal study, Nichole is really, really big into looking at people.

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