"Understanding and regurgitating aren't the same thing, Mr. Moretti." Professor Harrington leans back in his chair, his perpetually rumpled corduroy jacket somehow looking both unprofessional and perfect. His rescue greyhound, Freud, dozes in a corner of the office on an expensive-looking dog bed that probably costs more than my textbooks.
What the hell in an Eurgo-pupp… never mind. Focus dammit.
"I've aced every other course I've taken," I counter. "I can handle this one."
"Your last paper on social influence theory was technically flawless," he concedes, "and utterly devoid of human insight. You analyzed peer pressure like you were describing a chemical reaction."
"Isn't that the point? To be objective?"
He sighs, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Psychology isn't just about memorizing theories, Sebastian. It's about understanding people; messy, contradictory, irrational people." He puts his glasses back on and fixes me with a penetrating look. "People like your future patients."
That stings because he knows exactly where to hit me.
"My applications are due in four months," I say, hating the hint of desperation in my voice. "I can't afford to get a C in this class."
"Precisely why I've arranged a tutor." He shuffles through some papers on his desk. "One of my best students. He has a natural talent for human behavior and has agreed to take you on… Which wasn't easy to get anyone to do. All my students are very busy with their own studies."
"I can study harder." I don't need help. I don't have time for help. And I definitely don't need some stranger analyzing me like I'm a broken machine that needs fixing.
"This isn't about studying harder. It's about seeing things differently." He leans forward. "Medical schools don't just want students who can memorize symptoms. They want doctors who can connect with patients, who understand the psychological aspects of illness."
I open my mouth to protest again, but he holds up a hand.
"Besides, your public speaking skills could use some work. Gavin can help with that, too."
Now I'm truly offended.I thought I pulled it off last time."What's wrong with my public speaking?"Wait, why does 'Gavin' sound familiar?
"You presented your last project like you were reading a grocery list. Technically flawless. Completely lifeless. You made emotional intelligence sound like tax code."
"The spleen is underappreciated," I mutter defensively.
"And then there's the matter of finding you in the bathroom beforehand," he continues, his voice gentler now. "Sebastian, that level of anxiety before presentations isn't normal or sustainable. Especially not for someone planning to defend a dissertation one day."
Heat floods my face. Of course, he would walk in at just the wrong time. "That was just?—"
"A one-time thing? I've seen you turn green before every presentation this semester." He leans forward slightly. "Medical schools conduct multiple interview rounds. Residency programs are even more intense. You can't vomit your way through your career."
The truth of it stings worse than any failing grade could.
"Sebastian," his voice softens further, "you're brilliant. You know that. I know that. But brilliance without communication skills will limit your potential as a doctor. And anxiety this severe will eat you alive in medical school. You need this."
I slump back in my chair, recognizing defeat when it's staring me in the face, wearing elbow patches. "Fine. How much will this cost me?"
"That's for you two to work out. Most departmental tutors charge fifteen to twenty dollars an hour."
I mentally calculate the hit to my carefully budgeted expenses. Another dent in my savings, but still cheaper than retaking the course.
"When do I meet this paragon of psychological insight?" I ask, not bothering to hide my sarcasm.
As if on cue, there's a knock at the office door. Professor Harrington smiles. "That would be him now."
The door swings open before he can say "come in," and I turn, already compiling a mental list of cutting remarks for whoever this tutor is?—
Golden hair. Six foot four of solid muscle. A smile that could power a small city.
It's the walking wet dream from the library, the one whose massive hands doing completely innocent things with books, somehow became the star of my most embarrassing—Stop. Brain, we are not doing this. Not here. Not when he's about to be responsible for my academic survival.
Oh no. Not him. Anyone but him. This can't be who Professor Harrington means.
