“And I thought we both agreed that you would be here yesterday,” she bites out.
Ah, so she’s punishing me.
“If it’s no trouble, I wouldn’t mind staying,” Mitch pipes in. “My mother isn’t much of a cook, so I never get too many home-cooked meals.”
Oh, Mitch.
“Perfect!” my mom nearly squeals in excitement as she claps her hands. “Summer will just run upstairs and change, while I finish up dinner.”
I feel the sharp sting of my fingernails digging into my palms, but I figure arguing won’t get me anywhere now. I’ll just grin and bear it, and hopefully the night will be over before I know it. And if it takes too long, I have no issue feigning a stomachache to get this guy to leave early.
I drag my things upstairs, grumbling to myself. I toss my luggage on my bed and throw open my closet door. I haven’t worn most of these clothes in years.
I take my time digging through my dresses before landing on one I think I might actually be comfortable in. It’s a brightred dress with a halter neckline that frames my shoulders with careless confidence, sweeping up and clasping at the back of my neck. A sliver of skin peeks through a dainty cutout just below my sternum. The top hugs my frame before cinching at the waist, the skirt flaring softly at my hips. It’s cute, surprisingly comfortable—and I know for a fact that my mother hates the cutout. Right now, anything that annoys her feels like a win.
I find a matching pair of red heels in my mother’s closet and decide that she won’t mind if I borrow them for the evening.
I begrudgingly make my way back down the stairs, bracing myself for a night of small talk and getting to know someone I have no desire to stay in touch with.
Maybe that’s not fair, I think to myself as I drag my feet through the hallway. Maybe I should be trying to enjoy my time with this guy. What if there could be something between us? He’s clearly a better idea than my Counseling Theories professor.
My mind flashes back to my night with Asher, and my cheeks immediately heat.I cannot believe I fucked my professor. Couldn’t I have at least waited until the semester was over? One more month and it would’ve been—well, still bad but so much better.
I round the corner to see the dining table already set for dinner, and Mitch is dutifully pouring red wine while my mother beams at him as she sets a dish of green beans down.
She glances up as I enter, and she narrows her eyes at me while her nostrils flare as she takes in my choice of attire. I can tell she wants to say something, but she bites back any reprimand she has, since we have company. Can’t embarrass her only daughter to the only available bachelor she can find.
I take the open seat on the left-hand side of the table, leaving two seats across from me. I unfold my napkin, set it in my lap, and give my mother a small, smug smile.
“Why don’t you sit over here, with Mitch?” my mother says politely, though I can tell she’s annoyed as hell.
“Oh, right here is fine,” I assure her, my voice saccharine.
Her eye twitches, and I hold back laughter. At least I can try to have fun with this whole situation. After brief small talk, my mother dashes into the kitchen for more food, even though we’re just three people, leaving me alone with Mitch.
“So, what is it you do for a living?” I ask to fill the silence.
His eyes light up, excited to be talking about something within his comfort zone. “I’m a gynecologist.”
My wineglass pauses halfway to my lips, and I see my mother hovering in the hall, listening. “Oh,” I say, surprised. “And how is that?”
“I really enjoy it. There’s something really beautiful about the female body.”
Even my mother can’t control her face at that; her nose scrunches, and her lips pinch shut. She turns on her heel and heads back to the kitchen.
We sit in silence, and I can only imagine the strained smile plastered across my face. I take a deep swallow of wine. “Did you always know you wanted to work… with… vagina’s?” It’s like a car crash. I know that what’s coming out of my mouth is bad, but I just can’t seem to stop it.
He freezes, staring at me as if he can’t tell if I’m making fun of him or not. He must decide that I’m making some sort of joke because he says, “My professor gave us plenty of incentives to be very hands-on with her.” Well, I feel sick. I feel the color drain from my face, and he takes in my startled expression. The teasing smile quickly disappears as he clears his throat. “Uh, no, it was something I decided in medical school.”
I nod. “Right. I didn’t always know I wanted to be a child psychologist, so I get it,” I say, trying to get us away from the uncomfortable topic of one fucking their professor.
His eyebrows furrow together as he looks away from me. The look says he is thoroughly concerned that anyone who randomly tosses ‘vagina’ into a normal conversation could be in charge of a child’s psychological health.
Which is rich, considering I wouldn’t let him near my vagina with a ten-foot pole.
I excuse myself to the bathroom and practically run down the hall, desperate to get away from this conversation. I slam the door behind me and firmly lock it before leaning against the bathroom counter. I pull my phone out of my pocket and immediately dial my best friend, knowing I’ll go out of my mind if someone doesn’t talk some sense into me.
The first call goes to voicemail.
