Page 15 of Damaged Professor

“Can they take his tenure for that?”

“I don’t know. But like I said, he’s the one that pulled me aside and said that we can’t see each other again, so—that’s the end of it.”

Nichole asks, “Does it have to be?”

“Yes,” I say. And then, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Nichole agrees. “At least that’s better than an outright no.”

Is it?

I can’t decide if it’s worth trying to pursue this, even after having spoken to Dylan yesterday.

And I think that maybe is the closest to a no that I can give for now.

Chapter eight

Dylan

Ishouldn’thavesuggestedthis. Or at the very least I shouldn’t have come.

We’re two weeks into the new semester already, and I’ve realized that there’s a problem. Alright, that’s not entirely true. I’ve known that there was a problem from the start. It’s more like I’ve finally been able to figure out what’s causing the disjointed sensation that I’ve been struggling with.

It's Abby.

It had always been Abby.

It’s not that I can’t stop paying attention to her—it’s more that I can’t stop paying attention to this awful emptiness that has sprung up in my chest.

From the moment that she left my house that day, it’s as though she took something with her. A part of me that was never meant to leave the confines of my chest. Without it, I’ve become ungrounded electricity—something that snaps and crackles through the air, but doesn’t have anywhere to go.

We’ve been trying to only speak to each other when we absolutely have to, but there’s something about just being near Abby that’s enough to make me want more. A conversation. A coffee. Another night spent together. All of the above, more likely. Anything that I could get out of this girl and still have it be considered a professional thing.

I thought it would be easier to face her outside the classroom.

The exhibition is taking place in what used to be a restaurant. All the tables have vanished and the walls have been filled from bottom to ceiling with photos of old and new buildings. The premise is to go through the history of architecture in a single walk around the room. It’s not directly tied to Princeton, but it was heavily promoted by all the staff. It’s still early in the day but I can see a lot of our students filing in.

Abby is here too. She wears a simple black top again but this one hangs loosely from her shoulders, and a pair of black skinny jeans. Her hair is down, moving softly with her every move. Next to her is Nichole, passionately talking about something. It’s clear that Abby’s attention is elsewhere. She is frowning as her eyes scan the crowd—until they land on me. Her shoulders drop and she bites her lower lip. I’m not sure how much self-control I have, but it’s probably not much. I need to leave.

“It is truly impeccable,” Danielle comments, bringing me back to reality. She has stopped before the photograph of another cathedral and is staring in awe. She has been teaching at Princeton for only a few years but has very high ratings. It’s no surprise. I have seen her work—her paintings could easily be confused for photographs.

She moves her finger in the air, pointing at something, and comments on the lighting. I nod. I’m sure I’d be able to contribute more to our conversation if I could actually hear what she’s saying. It's loud in here. I try to keep my eyes on her and Jason, who teaches film, as we move around the rest of the exhibits.

Yet I know exactly where Abby is. Nichole is giving her a tour around the modern part of the exhibition. They often stop and talk with their classmates. Men mostly.

That’s good. It’ll make things easier. She’ll get a boyfriend and I will have no right to want what I want.

“Professor Bancroft,” a cheery voice startles me. I turn and see two of my students.

“We took up your recommendation,” the tall one says. Sara, I think is her name. She’s skipped the oversized sweater but not the short skirt. I am no prude, but I don’t get the appeal of looking at someone’s ass like this. “You were right, every piece tells a different story. I totally get it.” She wets her lips, clearly excited. The other one, Emily, looks extremely bored.

“I’m glad you are enjoying the exhibit. I hope you get great value from what you see here today.”

I sound like a broken record. Under other circumstances I’d love to share everything I know about the history of each place but right now I’m all tapped out.

I know this is getting ridiculous—maybe it’s because it’s forbidden—but I just can’t get Abby out of my mind. I turn to see her again.

“Can you tell me more about the history of the Reims Cathedral?” Sara asks, following my gaze slightly annoyed. She’s never shown much interest in history but does what is expected in class. This is probably an attempt to be on my good side. I hate when students do that.

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