“Yes, it’s bad! A title bestowed by the sovereign precedes a title begotten from any other source, no matter how hard earned. Goodbye Dr. Thomas Grayson, hello Sir Thomas Grayson of Pelham Bt.”
“Oh, that sucks. Will you have to use that title all the time? I mean, you’ll still be Dr. Grayson at your university, right?”
“No, I won’t. Northbrook is a small school. A baronet on the letterhead is far too tempting. Hell, they’ll probably throw a bloody party.” He took off his glasses and set them down, rubbed his eyes with his hands and then stopped, his face resting in his palms.
“I’m so sorry,” I said softly. Boy, that escalated quickly, I thought, wondering how I could redirect this conversation.
“Actually, don’t be.” He lifted his head and put his glasses back on, then looked me in the eye. “I apologize. I just heard myself. I just heard how that sounded out loud, and I am repulsed.”
“What?”
“I’ve been very fortunate in my life, very privileged. And now I’m waxing maudlin about unwanted titles and having too much money.” He laughed cynically, the corner of his mouth curling into a sneer. “It’s obnoxious, and disgusting, and I think I may be drunk.” He lifted a hand to his head, wobbling a little.
“Oh I think you’re a bit past drunk, my friend. You’re full-on blotto.”
“Good God, I am. Let me get a cup of tea,” he said, rising from the computer. “And when I come back I want you to share something ridiculous with me.”
“Like what?” I said.
“I don’t know. Anything, as long as it’s equally embarrassing as my horrific ramblings.” He disappeared from my screen presumably to his kitchen, for tea.
* * *
My stomach flipped, from whiskey or from nerves, I wasn’t sure.
Something embarrassing, I thought. Great. What? How embarrassing?
My stomach answered with another flip flop, so this was definitely nerves. But why was I nervous? I stood up, put away my mother’s liquor, got myself a glass of water from the kitchen, then carried it and the laptop to my bedroom.
“Just waiting for the kettle,” the Professor called from somewhere off-screen.
“Take your time,” I called back as I set the glass of water on my bed stand. I plugged the laptop in, then slid into bed and settled in with a stack of pillows behind me, and the computer in my lap.
Let’s be honest, by embarrassing what he really means, whether he knows it or not, is vulnerable. And you don’t do vulnerable well, Jane. Vulnerable makes you itch, it makes you run. It makes you hide. And we are getting too old for that shit.
I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled slowly, my sister’s words echoing in my head, amplifying the anxiety that was building in my chest.
“Oh, Janie, be careful,” she’d said. “I don’t want you to get hurt again. Like last time.”
But this time was nothing like “last time”. Was it? When I’d met the Professor I was definitely not looking for Mr. Right. Mr. Right-now-with-a-big-cock was the only thing on my mind. Well, it was all that had been on my mind. But that was changing, wasn’t it? The more I got to know him, the more I craved his company. And I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. If I was honest with myself, I knew there was more going on here than just chemistry, more than just sexual attraction.
What? I asked myself. What else is going on?
DON’T ANSWER THAT! my mind screamed in response.
Well, that was an interesting reaction, I thought.
Now you sound like Mom, my brain answered. Fantastic, now I was psychoanalyzing myself.
“Penny for your thoughts?” The Professor’s voice fell over me like a bucket of cold water.
“Oh God! Sorry.” I laughed. “I was off in lala land.”
“Spill it,” he said, taking a careful sip of his tea. “What were you thinking about?”
“Er,” I stammered. Fuck, think of something.
“Come on, let’s hear it. I spent the past twenty minutes making an idiot of myself, it’s your turn.”
“I was thinking about my mother,” I said. It wasn’t a total lie, my last thought had been of Mom. A childhood spent with a therapist for a mother meant that my sister and I were pretty good at dodging questions we didn’t like, with answers that were half-truths and redirects. With relief I realized that I’d been overthinking this whole assignment. I had my “embarrassing story” after all.
“Go on.” He smiled.
“My mother,” I began, “is, along with my sister, my best friend. She’s poised and intelligent, beautiful and incredibly supportive, she’s the strongest person I know, and she’s also…” I paused for suspense.
“Yes?” The Professor raised an eyebrow.
“A sex therapist.”
“R-really?” the Professor sputtered over his tea. “That’s fascinating.”
“Yeah, everybody says so, but none of them had to grow up with it. Just try going through adolescence in a small town with a mom that leads ‘Get to know your vagina’ classes down at the local YMCA.”
“Oh no, she didn’t.” He laughed.
“Oh yes, she did.”
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