Page 16 of Damaged Professor

But I can’t actually just ignore her question. I was the one who told them to come here.

I briefly explain its early history and excuse myself. The place is almost full. Not what you’d expect from this kind of theme. Or maybe I’m wrong and people just love the history of architecture. I'm stopped a few more times, mostly by my own students, and slowly I get my groove back. It is what I love after all.

Each building has a discrete history, much more complex and important than is widely known. I don’t dabble much with the actual architecture but the events that lead to their construction can offer significant lessons for us. Slowly a group full of excited faces surrounds me, and I feel bad that Abby is not one of them. I know she’d love to be part of this. And her questions and comments would add to the conversation. It’s that last thought that puts me off again.

The group is buzzing with excitement, moving along the exhibits. The collection seems endless, it's indeed truly impeccable.

La Sagrada Familia stands on the far corner of the room. It’s one of the most impressive architectural structures and with an equally interesting story. I stand there, mostly hidden by the supporting column, and admire it in peace. But it doesn’t last long. I can hear footsteps getting closer.

“Professor.” I close my eyes at the sound of her voice. She moves closer and her scent engulfs me—roses and something else. I savor the moment before I turn around.

“Abby.” It’s supposed to be a happy greeting, but my voice comes harsh, as if I’m choking. I clear my throat.

She takes a few steps ahead, her arm brushing against mine, before she stops in front of the photograph. Her eyes follow the towers of the cathedral.

“Will you tell me its story?” she asks.

Of course I will. I’ve been waiting for this moment all day. I start from the very beginning—the inspiration—and guide her through the centuries, up until it’s almost completion. And she listens, unmoving, her eyes locked with mine. There’s no one else.

“It’s sad that he never got to see it finished.” There’s a bitterness in her voice.

“It is. Even we don’t have that satisfaction yet. But its story makes it even more special. The past holds the future, for better or for worse.” A pause. “It’s up to us to keep only what’s beneficial and leave the rest in the past, where it belongs.”

Perhaps I should follow my own advice. Abby looks at me, her eyes teary.

“Come on, it wasn’t that deep.” I place my hand on her shoulder, gently rubbing it. It’s not appropriate but I don’t care. All I want is to pull her into me. As if reading my thoughts, her cheeks darken, and her breathing gets faster.

We could leave. We could go back home and forget about the college and my job and everything else—it’d be just me and her.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Nichole’s hand lands on Abby’s shoulder, pushing mine away. “But you’ve been standing still for a bit too long.”

“Not a good time,” Abby mutters through her teeth.

“Excellent time actually.” She says as she turns Abby around. The photographer is already on stage and cameras have been set up to record his speech.

Some of my students have formed their own little group, right by the stage. “We should get going.” I say in agreement.

At that moment Abby turns towards me. And I know that if I just ask her, she’ll leave with me.

I don’t. And I spend the rest of the night beating myself up over it

Chapter nine

Abby

There’sonlyoneupsideto having Dylan as my teacher: I don’t have any problem paying attention to what he has to say. In fact, the moment he starts talking, I’m totally enraptured. There’s so much love and passion in his voice! It keeps reminding me about the conversation we had back at his house, or the one at the exhibition.

He’d spoken about history and art with the same sort of passion that he uses in his classes. You know, sometimes when you’re absolutely in love with the concept of something, you can’t help but show it in your voice. There’s a brightness, a certain lilt that drips into each word. You couldn’t hide this kind of passion if you tried.

And you know, I’m not saying that some of the other professors aren’t passionate about their work. But my History of Travel professor showed up wearing a onesie to class earlier this week, and the science class that I’m taking is done almost fully online through poorly recorded videos. That means if you have a question, you have to try and email the guy—and it’s often two or three days before he gets back to you.

Meanwhile, Dylan handles each class like it’s the most important class of the year. If someone’s having a hard time, he always finds a way to help them.

He’s just a great teacher. And I’m a sucker for a guy who loves what he does for a living, as it turns out. The fact that Dylan always looks really good in his white button down and dark blue blazer, well, that doesn’t hurt matters either.

Of course, there’s one really, really big downside to all of this, too: it means that I can’t stop thinking about him.

And damn, I do spend a lot of time thinking about him outside of the classroom.

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