“Power and Fantasy.”
She lifted her brows and forked a bite. “How nice,” she said.
We made polite conversation for the rest of the meal, but my stomach churned thinking about how Mom obviously had a problem with Nate. I had always known that liking Nate was a bad idea, and had never really cared that it was a bad idea, until now. Because I trusted Mom’s opinion. It was hard to sit through the dinner and pretend like nothing had changed.
As we started to get ready to leave, Nate said his goodbyes, hugging my mom. “I’ll be in the car,” he said to me. He knew that we needed a few minutes alone.
Mom was so focused on scrubbing the plates in the sink that she startled when I came in. “I thought you two already left.”
“I wanted to ask you what you think,” I said. “I know it’s weird that you two used to know each other.”
With both eyes on the sink, she jabbed the rinsed dish at the drying rack and grabbed another dirty plate. “That’s not it,” she said.
Which meant that therewassomething wrong.
I crossed my arms in front of me. “What is it then?”
“He’s older, Mara. Older people know how to control younger people because they’ve been there. They’ve done those things.”
My mouth hung open. How could she say that? “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking. Do you trust him?”
My cheeks flared red, and I knew it had as much to do with what Mom had said, as it did with the fact that I wasn’t sure how I felt about Nate anymore. But the older people manipulating younger people part ticked me off. It showed that Mom didn’t trust me to handle myself.
“You said you didn’t care that he was older than me,” I hissed.
Mom threw her hands down, the plate clattering to a halt in the sink. “You didn’t tell me that he was your professor.”
Because it all seemed to hinge on that part of the power dynamic. Nate was a professor who had the authority to make or break my grades, to say yes or no to the contest, to give me a good letter of recommendation, to refuse to give me his endorsement.
A person with that kind of control could mess up someone’s life.
“You don’t think he takes me seriously,” I said, bile rising in my throat. “You think he’s using me. A means to an end.”
Was he using me? Was I only a means to another publication? Another notch on his intellectual belt?
“He’s the same professor who argued with you, just to mess with you at the beginning of the semester, right?” Mom said. A flush of coolness tempered my cheeks. I had forgotten I had told her about that argument. “Nate has a history of doing that. He did it in college too. Pissed off your father to no end.” Mom shook her head. “Do you really want to be with someone who is argumentative for the sake of proving people wrong?” I blinked. How could she say those things? But I knew how she could. Because it was true. A breath rose in her chest, then she sighed and picked up the plate. “You’re an adult. You make your own choices.” She turned on the faucet.
That was the opposite of what she was thinking. In her eyes, it was my mess now.
“Thanks for dinner,” I managed to say, then I left.
I slammed the car door shut and crossed my arms over my chest. Nate opened his mouth, but when he saw my sulking posture, he drove. The shadows of suburbia danced past us, and it wasn’t until we were on the freeway that I relaxed.
“There’s a bar I want to take you to,” Nate said.
He parked on a side street off of the Strip. The lights from Las Vegas Avenue flashed on the pavement, even though we weren’t on it. He led me into a small lounge: tufted benches and booths, dim lighting, with blue lights twinkling on the ceiling as if we were underwater. A low, melodic tune with heavy bass played in the background. Despite being right off of the Strip, the place was surprisingly empty. A few quiet groups were spread throughout, some munching on meals, others drinking.
We found an empty corner and took our seats. A server came, and I was too annoyed to bother looking at the menu.
“Whatever he’s having,” I said.
We were silent, waiting for our drinks. The water-light danced on the ceiling, and the song changed. Nate put his arm around the back of the booth, his hand grazing my shoulder. It felt good to have his hand there. I wanted so badly to snuggle into him, to have his protective embrace swallow me up and tell me everything was going to be alright. But my brain wouldn’t let me forget about Dr. Smith’s or Mom’s words. Both urging me not to trust him.
It wasn’t the first time I had wondered about trusting him. Lily and Kiley had hinted that I should be careful too. And that wasn’t even academic. That was purely on a physical front. That he might hurt me. Really hurt me.
Hell, even Nate had told me not to trust him.
