“That must have been brutal.”
“Oh you have no idea. And that class happened during my freshman year of high school. You can imagine the comments I got in the hallways between classes.”
“Unfortunately I can,” he said, laughing. “My God, why didn’t she take pity on you?”
“She had to work, and it was a tough time for everyone,” I said, shrugging. “She wasn’t always a sex therapist. When we were younger she was a stay at home mom, taking us to ballet and soccer practice, throwing dinner parties for my dad’s friends. My father is an attorney at a very prominent practice, so for years she played the dutiful attorney’s wife.”
“I see.”
“She had her own career as a counselor, but she put that all on hold for my father, and to raise us.”
“A pretty common story.”
“Yeah, with an all-too-common ending. My father cheated on her with a twenty-one-year-old intern at his practice.”
“Jesus, what a horrible cliché,” the Professor said, grimacing.
“That describes him perfectly,” I said, laughing. “That’s what he is, one giant, walking, sad mid-life crisis cliché.” I reached for my water and took a sip, stalling for time.
The conversation was starting to make me itch. I’d gone from talking about my mother’s unusual profession to my parents’ divorce. And that event was the beginning of a larger story, the story that had me running from my hometown, from everything and everyone, at just eighteen years old. I definitely was in no mood to share that tale right now, but I also wasn’t ready to say goodnight.
“My father,” I continued, “used every dirty trick in his arsenal when he decided to divorce my mother.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He tried to ruin my Mother,” I said. “He intimidated local businesses into not hiring her, so that she had to drive forty-five minutes to find work. She had to drive two hours to see her attorney, because none in the area would take her case. See, he put the word out to all the practices in town that if they wanted to maintain a good relationship with Traynor, Michaels, Claremont and Associates, they’d better steer clear of my mom.”
“So they did,” he said.
I nodded, and swallowed another sip of water, resolving to choose my next words carefully. Turns out I didn’t need to.
“That’s terrible,” he began, “and I can tell from the look on your face, this is not a topic you wish to discuss any further.”
I nodded again, grateful for the reprieve, grateful for his intuition and his generosity.
“Shall I change the topic? Deftly segue into some new and exciting subject? Something less distressing perhaps? World politics? Global warming? Human trafficking?” he said, arching an eyebrow, dimples flashing at the edges of his smile. “Stop me when I hit on something you like.”
I laughed, coughing on my water, as I fumbled to set the glass back on the bed stand.
“Hang on, have you changed venue?” he asked.
“Yes, I moved to my bedroom when you were getting tea.”
“Oooo,” he said, widening his eyes. “I’m in Jane’s bedroom again, am I?”
“In a sense.” I smiled.
“Oh what bittersweet memories.” He sighed, and rested a hand on his chest.
“Bittersweet? Memories?” I asked.
“Yes, when I was last here, just hours ago, you treated me most discourteously.”
“What?” I said, gaping at him.
“You threw a towel at me, completely obscured any glimpse I might have caught of that luscious body of yours.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I pouted at him in mock sympathy.
“You should be. I was seriously bereft for close to an entire minute.”
“Just a minute?” I teased.
“Well, truth be told,” —he frowned, his voice deepening, a twinkle dancing in those deep blue eyes— “I’m still somewhat disconsolate.”
“That is truly tragic. If only there was some way you might be consoled,” I mused, as a flush rose in my cheeks. Flirting with the Professor was a recent but very welcome addition to my list of favorite activities. I was very happy with this change in the conversation.
“I think,” he said, lifting a finger to his chin, “I think perhaps, if you were to be more naked, I think that might help.”
“It might?” I asked, laughing.
“Yes, yes, actually I’m certain of it, ” he said.
“Well, I’m afraid I won’t be able to accommodate you…”
“What?” he asked, eyes wide.
“At least, not without some reciprocity.” I wiggled out from under the laptop and knelt on the bed, placing my entire torso in view of the camera. I snagged a strand of hair from my nape, wrapped it around my finger and hugged my breasts together with my elbows.