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“Ellie,” Mom says sharply.
“What? I didn’t say anything. I just described what sort of professor he is.”
“It’s not an intelligent idea, falling for somebody like Professor Stellar.”
“What do you mean, somebody like him? You don’t even know what he’s like.”
“Neither do you,” she snaps. “You’ve had one class with him, and you’re already getting all lovey-dovey in your voice. Do not get a crush on your professor. It will never end well.”
I fold my arms tightly and keep staring. Something deep inside me throbs as if telling Mom no, she’s wrong. It’ll end perfectly. Unlike most books I’m studying this year, it will be happily ever after. It’s going to be the best, brightest thing in my life. Our lives, mine and Max’s. A future together. Amid the sun-bright vignette, I see a tiny silhouette and hear a soft baby’s cry. My soul is hurting. I’m not even sure I believe in souls, yet mine’s hurting.
“I didn’t get lovey-dovey. I was just talking.” I stare, stare, stare.
“Okay. Keep it that way. He’d lose his job, you know.”
I turn to her. That’s something I couldn’t do. I couldn’t hurt him. He clearly loves his job. He spoke so passionately about love, gesturing from behind the lectern, occasionally glancing at me with those intense blue eyes. “Really?”
“Yes. It’s against the rules. It would probably be considered gross misconduct. Immediate dismissal.”
“It’s a good thing that A, I don’t have a crush, and B, even if I did, he wouldn’t want me anyway. So everything’s fine.”
“Any man would be lucky to have you, Ellie,” Mom says softly. “But it would be better for everybody if that man wasn’t over twice your age, not to mention your professor. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course, I agree,” I say. “I’m not going to do anything. There’s nothing to do, anyway.”
“Because you haven’t got a crush on him.”
“What are you, twelve?”
“You should’ve seen me at twelve,” Mom says, laughing. “I was a little lunatic. I didn’t care about boys. All I cared about was causing trouble. You were such a better kid than me, Ellie.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I just want you to be happy.”
I sigh. “I get that, but it’s my life.”
“I’d have something to say if you ever did anything with a professor.”
“You’ve made that clear.” I turn to the window again. “I was right, anyway. He’d never want me.”
“You’re a beautiful young woman. You’re smart. You’re kind. You’re modest and hardworking. One day, you’ll find a man. I know you want a family. You’ll get one. I promise, but it won’t be somebody who’s in a position of power over you, in age, experience, and—”
“You’re beating the hell out of a dead horse right now, Mom. I get it. I’ve said I get it.”
We say nothing for a while, then she reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’m only looking out for you.”
I give her hand a squeeze in return. “I know you are. I love you.”
Later, I’m waitressing at the local restaurant. It’s a busy evening. I’m helping the busboy carry trays to the kitchen when Lacy approaches me. Her eyes are red. She’s holding her cell phone in both hands, almost like she wants to snap it. She’s been waiting to hear about some adoption news. She’s been on edge all week. “Can you cover my tables? I’m sorry, but…”
“Is it…” I swallow.
She doesn’t need me to finish, nodding, almost bursting into tears. “They just called. It’s not good. I want to call my husband.”
“It’s okay. I can do it. Sure.”
“Thanks, Ellie.”
She almost runs toward the hallway to the staff room. My legs ache, my feet hurt, and my head is full of caffeine, literature, and work. It’s my fourth hour here. I scan her tables, then approach one. The closer I get, the tighter my throat becomes. My legs start to shake.
It’s him—his same bright hair, white, gleaming teeth, broad shoulders, and nasty muscles. It’s an insane thing to think, but that’s how I used to describe them to myself—nasty muscles.
He looks up at me, and his eyes narrow. That hurts, the moment he takes to remember me. After everything that happened, I’d expect him to know who the hell I am. He’s sitting opposite a beautiful blond woman around our age, who I don’t recognize. At least, that’s something.
That doesn’t mean he hasn’t told her who I am. How long has he been here? Why would he tell her? We’re not high schoolers anymore. It doesn’t make me look bad. Does it? A pinball is bouncing around my head, and I can’t control it.
I smile tightly. “Good evening, sir. Could I start you off with some drinks?”
This is his chance to go along with my play. We can pretend we don’t know each other. We don’t have to dredge any of it up, but instead, he runs a hand through his hair. I remember that gesture so well. He smirks, but it’s not a Max-style smirk. It’s an ugly, Cillian smirk.
