Running my hand through my hair, I tip my head back and blow out a breath. “Yeah. She was out sick for a week or something and wasn’t responding to emails, so I got her address from Deborah and went over there.”
Leo snorts and shakes his head, looking down at his beer. “And how’d that go over?”
I smile, remembering how uncomfortable Alis felt at first, but then how she opened up to me before I left. “Good, man. Really good. At first, she was caught off guard, but I think it was because of her kid. I had no idea she was a mom, but it makes sense given how cagey she’d been. I don’t buy the professor/student excuse because she knows she’ll never be in one of my classes, but she’s clinging to it.”
“Have you mentioned any of this to Abigail?” Leo asks.
“No, but that’s a thought. Maybe if I clear it with Abigail first I can assuage Alis’s fears of crossing this imaginary line she’s created. I’ve been trying to figure out how to move forward with her without disrespecting her boundaries, but I swear, man, her words and her body language say two completely different things.”
“Body language?” Leo asks.
“Yeah. Like when we co-taught that fall break intensive for Abigail, I swear I caught her staring at me with fuck-me eyes at least ten times.”
“Don’t most female students stare at you that way?”
I scoff. “You know what I mean. With her, it’s different. It’s not like the twenty-year-olds who look at me like they want to suck me off because I’m forbidden fruit. When Alis looks at me it’s because she wantsme, not her professor.”
“So he looks at you like Savannah does,” Leo smirks right before taking another swig of his beer.
I kick his shin under the table. “Fuck off. You know it’s not like that, either.”
I stand to check the steaks before he can return the jab, and thankfully Leo doesn’t say anything more on the topic. I pull the steaks from the grill and we head inside for an evening of yelling at the television, none of which includes talk about women.
Perhaps Leo is right, and I should talk to Abigail before I try anything further with Alis. Women like it when men take charge of things like this, right?
TWENTY-THREE
Dexter
The next morningI head into my weekly catch-up with Abigail. I have the proposed syllabus for the Ryan intensive ready to go, and I’m hoping for an update on whether or not he’ll be joining us.
“Good morning, Amelia,” I greet Dr. Matthews’ administrative assistant on my way to her office.
“Good morning, Dr. Belanger,” she greets. “You can head on in.”
I nod my thanks and continue to Abigail’s office door, rapping my knuckles twice as I enter.
Abigail Matthews is a powerhouse, a woman to be respected. She’s sitting at her desk, glasses on, as she types away on her computer. “Just one moment, Dexter. I’ll be with you as soon as I finish this email.”
I make my way to the chairs across from her and take a seat, crossing my ankle over my knee as I take in the killer view to my left. I know better than to speak and interrupt her while she’s in the middle of something. Let’s just say I’ve been on the receiving end of her death glare a time or twelve.
While I emailed a copy of the syllabus to her this morning before making my way up here, I retrieve the printed copy from my bagwhile I wait. Glancing over it one last time, I feel confident in what I’ve put together. I’m open to any tweaks Dr. Matthews recommends, but it would feel fucking fantastic to get her stamp of approval as-is. I’ve never worked directly with Jonathan Ryan, and for this class to happen would be a dream come true.
“Right. Good morning,” Abigail says as she looks up from her computer screen and removes her glasses.
“Good morning,” I respond. “I emailed you the proposed syllabus for the Ryan class, and have a printed copy for you here.” Dr. Matthews grins in approval as I hand her the printed copy — after all, what English professor doesn’t love any opportunity to bust out their trusty red pen. Sure enough, she snags the red sitting on top of her keyboard and removes the cap, using it as a cursor as she reads through the syllabus content.
She makes a few notes in the margins but doesn’t cross out entire sections, so I’m feeling optimistic about my proposal.
“You reached out to Ryan’s assistant for the lecture series structure, yes?” she asks, not looking up from the papers in front of her.
“I did, yes.” I know better than to call her ma’am. I struggled when I first moved here to drop the formality, considering my upbringing requiredmonsieurandmadamewhen responding to any person of authority. The first time I ever called Abigail madame, she gave me the first of many cutting glares and said, “I don’t run a brothel. Dr. Matthews is fine.” Considering we were in Montreal at the time, I didn’t anticipate her pushing back on a French custom. However, as I said before, Abigail Matthews is a powerhouse and stands her ground, cultural niceties be damned. Upon successful completion of my dissertation defense, she asked me to call her Abigail. I was no longer a student, after all. I was now Dexter Belanger, PhD. I was her peer.
“I like it,” she nods and hands the syllabus back to me. “I noted a few changes, but nothing major. What do you think?” Another reason I respect her so very much — she values others’ opinions and welcomes push-back.
I read through her notes, nodding along as I silently agree witheach one. “I’ll make the changes as soon as we’re finished here. Do you think he’s actually going to say yes?” I ask.
Abigail smiles, the excitement in her eyes a confirmation of her scheming being successful. “I do. I’ve been emailing with him for the last few weeks, and he wants this, I can tell. If we can send him the finalized syllabus today, we should hear back by the end of the week.”
