“Good. I hope you’re not done drinking coffee, because that’s where we’re headed.”
I lifted an eyebrow, but Nate said nothing. We went upstairs and got dressed, Nate eyeing me as I pulled up my pants, my ass hanging out of my underwear. He smacked my ass, and I giggled. I hoped the flirtation would never stop, and somehow, I knew it wouldn’t.
We pulled into a small parking lot of a hipster-run café, close enough to Nate’s new campus that I knew it had to do with his work. Though it looked small from the outside, the shop had quite the seating arrangement inside, with vined plants dangling from the wall, a full herb garden, and mason jars hanging around the lights. A cold brew tower was dripping into a cup on the counter, and many of the seats were taken. I didn’t see anyone I recognized.
Nate took my hand and led me towards a table. A lone woman sat with her back to us; her silvery dark hair in a neat chin bob, her slim shoulders hunched.
“Dr. Berkley?” Nate asked.
She turned towards us. Her eyes were crowded with age, but there was a brightness there too. She seemed familiar. “Please,” she said, “Call me Flora.”
I blinked my eyes. Flora? Dr. Berkley?
My jaw dropped and I turned to Nate, whose only response was a wide grin. I turned back to Florence—er, Flora Berkley.
“You’re Florence Berkley?” I gasped. “I mean, Flora Berkley. Flora. You go by Flora?”
She took my hand. “Why yes, dear, isn’t that what I said?”
Nate squeezed my shoulder and pulled out a seat for me. “I’ll get us drinks,” he said.
I took the seat and stared at her. Florence Berkley. I never thought I would ever get the chance to see her in person, much less to meet her. A loose cardigan covered her shoulders, and delicate earrings hung from her lobes.
“Nate tells me you wrote an essay arguing on the power of sacrifice in submission,” she said. I nodded because the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth. “Don’t worry, dear,” she said, panting my hand, “Nate already sent me a copy. You were right, you know.” She raised an eyebrow and winked. “There is power in submission. I can see that with you.” She gestured to Nate standing at the counter. “You might be his submissive, but every action is your own.”
I was shaking, finding it hard to comprehend what she was saying. “So you mean that that stuff you wrote, the lines about gagging and crawling, all of it was actually about BDSM?” She nodded slowly. “Are you kinky?”
She grinned. “Academics can be kinky. You’re an example yourself.”
What was I supposed to make of that? “Does Nate know?”
She laughed. “Of course not. I barely know him. But clearly, you already knew that about me.”
Nate returned with three espresso lattes. “When are you due back on campus?” he asked.
“Uh…” I checked my phone for the time. “In an hour or two.”
“Good,” he said. “Then you two have time to chat.”
***
Being with Nate, and meeting one of my dream celebrities—okay, so she was only a celebrity in the academic world, but still a celebrity to me—gave me enough energy to go to the Crossing Collaborations Contest Finalists Ceremony without feeling rejected. With Nate’s hand in mine, we entered the university’s theater lobby. A few turned and waved, while the others watched us, curious at the public display of affection between a student and a professor—well, ex-professor. I guess that ex-part definitely made it strange. But neither of us cared.
Jessica hugged me. “Girl, you look amazing,” she said, admiring the rare black dress. “I can’t believe you got so dolled up for tonight. Thanks!”
The truth was that Nate and I had plans afterward, but Jessica didn’t need to know that. “Congratulations,” I said. She grinned.
“I’m only here because you dropped out. Lucky for me,” she said. She nodded to Nate. “Welcome back, Dr. Evans.”
They shook hands. “We’re rooting for you,” he said.
She pretended to curtsey. “Thanks! I am too.”
After a few minutes of awkward mingling (I mean, what do you say to a professor who quit and is now dating a current graduate student?) and munching on free cheese and wine, the lobby lights dimmed, signaling that the ceremony was about to begin. Nate and I took seats in the back row, for the ability to slip out if we wanted to.
Each of the student finalists read from their articles, their partnered professors standing beside them. It was a campus-wide competition, so it was interesting to hear students read from different subjects. I couldn’t help but think of Dad. He would have loved a competition like this. If I had made it into the finalists, he would have been proud of me. But then I realized that he already would have been. It didn’t matter if I was getting a Ph.D. like he had always wanted; what mattered is what I wanted.
What do you want?Nate had asked. Did I want to be at the university, just because of Dad?
