And today is not a day I wanted to start off poorly, because my first class is Lucas’s lecture, which means I’ll need to school my thoughts and temper my reaction to him after our very intense phone call this past Saturday night.
I feel no embarrassment over our sexting and phone call. It happened. We had fun. It was sexy as fuck and took the edge off my horniness. But now I’ll have the discomfort of watching and listening to Lucas while he lectures and will need to dissect the two different aspects of him in my head. Which is going to cause great difficulty for me in my current mood.
It’s thirty minutes after the class began when I enter the room, doing my best to creep quietly into the back of the lecture hall unnoticed. Thankfully, Lucas’s back is to the class, as he lectures on some modernism pieces that are currently projected up on the screen in front of the classroom.
The door snaps shut behind me and take a glance around the room for an open seat, seeking one out in the back row where I can sit down with little disruption or notice.
Unfortunately, my one-time lover and now professor has eyes on the back of his head because before I can take a step toward the back row, his voice erupts through the hall, ricocheting off the high-coffered ceiling, pinging between the four walls.
It stops me in my tracks, with all eyes turning toward me as if they’ve all spotted an alien in their midst. I smile apologetically.
“Good morning, Mr. Scott. So nice of you to grace us with your presence this morning.”
I grip the strap of my backpack tightly between my interlaced fingers, replying with a hint of sarcasm.
“I wouldn’t miss your class for the world, Professor Mathiasson.”
Grinning broadly, my voice is overly bright and fake, so as not to show him just how indignant I really am for being called out like this. I nudge a guy to move his foot so I can take the seat next to him but just before I sit down, Lucas sets in motion the path for the remainder of the class. And maybe even the rest of the semester.
“Mr. Scott, since your late arrival obviously proves your thorough knowledge of this morning’s topic. Perhaps you’d care to assist me in this lesson.”
I swallow down the seething anger that floats in the back of my throat – anger at Lucas for acting like this. Why can’t he just let me be and avoid all of this public humiliation?
I take my seat and lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees to emphasize my perfect willingness to accept whatever he’s going to throw my way. Bring. It. On.
“I’ll do my best. Where would you like me to begin? Fire away.”
The class snickers with uncertain amusement, which must amuse him because there’s a flash of humor in his intense green eyes. His response is thoughtful, voice clear, and deep, as he considers my question.
It’s the first time I get a good look at him this morning. His dress shirt — a crisply ironed periwinkle blue — is tucked snuggly into his black dress trousers, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to show off the light golden-brown hair on his forearms, his arms crossed over his chest. The blue enhances the color of his eyes which are pinned on me in consternation.
To the rest of the class, his posture appears to be calm, but I notice the nuances of the rigid tautness of his muscles pulled tightly underneath the collar of his shirt. His cheek twitching under the scrutiny of his hard gaze.
“We were discussing how the industrial-age and the analysis of the human spirit influenced modernism art in the late 19th century and turn of the 20th century. Would you like to discuss these paintings and give us your educated viewpoint on how the technique used by the artist drew from a more realistic human experience?”
I switch my gaze from Lucas to the screen and notice the painting he has displayed for the class and stammer unimpressively before I can find my words.
Staring at it, my mind works through my memory bank of art I’ve studied and seen over the years.
“It’s a Picasso. Weeping Woman, I believe.”
I snap my gaze back to Lucas who gives me an appreciative head nod. “Very good, Mr. Scott. And what does it depict?”
My comeback is notoriously snarky – an autopilot response. “A woman weeping?”
The class stifles their laughter as Lucas peers over the rim of his glasses, immediately shutting down any more of their encouragement of the class clown.
“That much is obvious, yes. But what is it actually meant to say? What aspect of the woman’s emotional bank is he trying to express?”
I straighten my posture in my seat and thoughtfully assess the painting, my gaze flicking over the sweeping lines and artistry of the portrait.
“Well,” I begin, fascinated now by the piece in front of me. “It’s obviously a woman in anguish.”
“Over what, do you suppose?”
I chew a corner of my lip, suddenly filled with an emotion that bubbles up from the pit of my stomach. “A man. A loss. Someone who couldn’t or wouldn’t love her enough. Maybe he took her for granted or didn’t reciprocate her feelings. Or didn’t want the same things.”
My voice grows weak, the end of my statement coming out like a sob.
“Thank you, Mr. Scott. That is very insightful,” he offers, a look passing between us that tells me he’s proud of me and glad I made it to class. At least, that’s what I think he says.
“Okay class, let’s move on.”
I sit through the remainder of the hour in a stupor of sorts. Stunned at the depth of emotion that erupted from me without any warning.
Making me realize how much I may still grieve from the sudden loss of Max’s love, as well as my father's. Both men who dropped me without a moment’s notice because I no longer fulfilled their requirements of love.
The very reason I don’t ever want to love another man again.
13
Lucas
Shit, the minute I saw Kyler’s expression change from that smug boy grin to the painful grimace, and I heard the rough grainy tone of his voice, it was evident something was wrong.
Everything I’ve learned thus far about Kyler—both in and out of the classroom—is that he loves attention and is always up for a little fun. It’s the only reason I called him out in front of the class the way I did. I rarely do that to students or put them on the spot, especially if I didn’t know their personality or what cloth they’re cut from. For some, it can be torture to be singled out like that.
Heading out of the lecture hall, I check my phone and calendar, preparing myself to spend the next hour directly with Kyler. But a tap on my shoulder grabs my attention.
“Professor Mathiasson?” The female voice is tentative, a bit nervous, as I turn my head behind my shoulder to get a glimpse of one of the students from my last class.
Jessica, I think. She smiles a girlish smile – one her parents obviously paid dearly for with years of orthodontia – her cheeks reddening like apple blossoms.
“Yes, what I can do for you, Jessica?”
I continue walking as she moves along-side me, fiddling nervously with the strap of her designer bag.
“It’s just Jess,” she stammers, her chin dipping self-consciously.
We get to the door of my office and I unlock it, swinging it wide and kicking the doorstop to prop it open. A habit I have continued since beginning this career. A habit out of pure protection.