Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Alis
Dexter: Tu es libre pour déjeuner aujourd'hui? (Are you free for lunch today?)
My phone buzzed earlier during class, but I waited to check it until my lecture was finished.
I am free for lunch today, but I’ve done a stellar job at avoiding Dexter since we basically held hands last week during our evening conversation.
A text not responded to is akin to the red notification bubble on my phone screen — that is, nails on a chalkboard — so I have to respond.
I consider texting Skye to ask her opinion, but I already know what she’ll say. Why am I overthinking this? It’s just lunch.
Alis: Oui, ca me ferait plaisir. (Yes, I’d like that.)
No going back now. I don’t have to wait a full minute before he responds.
Dexter: Merveilleux. On se retrouve à mon bureau à midi? (Wonderful. Shall we meet at my office at noon?)
Alis: à plus tard. (See you later.)
At ten to noon I walk into L&L and see Dexter coming out of his office before I even have the chance to greet Deborah. He looks up and smiles when he sees me — a full-on, no-holding-back smile as opposed to his typical half smile.
“Hey,” he says. “You hungry?”
His smile is contagious. I can’t figure out if my carefully constructed wall of defense is in ruins or temporarily unguarded since I’m willingly here as Alis, the woman, and not Alis, the grader and student.
He’s Dexter, the man, to me right now, and it’s evident from the light in his eyes that he knows it.
I haven’t seen him this transparent since the night at the bar.
I’ve spent the last few months fighting my attraction to him, hiding large pieces of myself during every interaction out of fear and self-preservation.
My heart feels lighter right now than it has in God only knows how long.
I can breathe. I can smile. I can … not stop thinking about touching him and kissing him.
Shit. Good feeling’s gone. We’re on campus, in L&L, with Deborah not ten feet away. Oh, Dexter. That megawatt smile is not appropriate for campus use. My brain drifts off to cartoon land, replacing Dexter’s smile with a banana, and I try not to laugh.
What was it Monty Python said about defending oneself from a man with a banana?
Now, it’s quite simple to defend yourself against a man armed with a banana.
First of all, you force him to drop the banana — don’t think he can drop a mouth attached to his face, but he could dial it back a bit.
Bring back the half smile that’s only slightly less swoon-worthy.
Then, second, you eat the banana, thus disarming him — that’s a negative, ghost rider.
I can’t eat his smile. Not in public. Thinking about kissing him is what has me raising my defenses in the first place. You have now rendered him helpless.
Oh, but how wrong you are, Monty Python. The only helpless one in this lobby right now is me.
“Alis?” Dexter asks. I blink and return his smile, “Yeah, sorry. I’m ready.” I nod my head toward the exit and turn to walk that way, Dexter falling into step beside me.
“What are you hungry for?” His jovial attitude would be contagious if I wasn’t so dumbstruck by how beautiful he is.
“I’m fine with whatever.” I shrug. “I’m not due anywhere until Sunny gets out of school, so I just need to leave campus around 2:30. Nico’s is fine.”
Once we exit the building, Dexter starts walking toward the parking lot, as opposed to across campus to the popular pizza joint. “Not Nico’s,” he says. “Let’s go somewhere off campus. Somewhere we can talk.”
“Should we take two cars?” I adjust the messenger bag on my shoulder and keep in step with him.
“Not necessary. We won’t venture too far,” he assures. I nod in assent and Dexter places a hand at the small of my back, steering me toward his car. The black Range Rover is not what I expected Dexter Belanger to drive, especially since it looks brand new.
“You drive a Range Rover?! How do you afford that on a professor’s salary?” Please don’t tell me he’s one of those secret millionaires like the men in romance novels. I swear those unrealistic characters piss me off. Just be a professor, for the love of Pete.
Dexter laughs at my incredulous expression. “Well, for starters, it’s about ten years old and I bought it when I moved here three years ago.”
“Ten years old?” I’m unapologetically dumbstruck by this revelation. “But it’s so shiny!”
“What can I say?” he shrugs. “I take care of my things.” Does that mean he’d take care of Sunny and me as well? Pause. Where did that thought come from? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself thankyouverymuch, brain.
Dexter opens the passenger door and I climb in, equally as impressed with the inside.
“I’m surprised your car is this clean on the inside,” I say, a hint of mischief in my tone.
“Oh, la vache. I told you, I take care of my things.” He pulls out of the parking space, heading toward the exit. Heading out of the safe campus bubble where I’m tightly insulated in imaginary bubble wrap, also known as my titles of grader and student.
“From the state of your desk, you could have fooled me.” I expect a scoff, but Dexter just chuckles and shakes his head.
“My workspace and my living space are two very different things.”
I’m not sure where to take the conversation from here, and Dexter seems to sense my anxiety. Thankfully, he takes the reins.
“I don’t want to beat around the bush, and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable if I can help it.” Diving right in, then.
“I appreciate that,” I say, looking over at him.
He looks so handsome right now. So confident.
I’ve never understood how he can be so comfortable engaging with me in a non-student/professor relationship, but from the day we ‘met’ in his office he’s never been anyone other than the same man I met at the bar a few days before — albeit the professional version.
“I’m not going to put you on the spot and ask why you agreed to have lunch with me today, knowing full well it isn’t for our weekly meeting. You aren’t ignorant about my attraction to you, and I’ve given a solid effort to maintaining a professional relationship with you these past few months.”
I nod in agreement, giving him the words I know he wants as affirmation. “You have.” I feel like I should offer more in the way of encouragement, but I’m too curious about his obviously planned monologue to interrupt.
“Last week, in my office, am I wrong to think something shifted between us? You let me touch you, didn’t pull away. You didn’t even flinch but instead seemed to relax more as I held your hand.”
I can’t deny what he’s saying is true, but I also don’t want to sound like a child offering single and double-word answers to his questions. Instead of verbalizing my affirmation, I rest my forearm up against his on the center console. Dexter takes my cue and continues.
“The more time I spend with you, the more confident I am that we could be great together — not just as colleagues or as friends. You’re smart, funny, witty — not to mention fucking beautiful.
” Dexter glances my way and smiles as he says this, clearly anticipating the blush that creeps onto my face at his compliments.
“I haven’t been attracted to anyone so fully in my entire life, and I’d be an idiot not to tell you exactly how I feel.
I’m not trying to pressure you, and I wouldn’t have even brought this up if I didn’t sense a natural progression toward more in our relationship.
But, Alis, I want to be with you. And I honestly believe you want to be with me, as well. ”
We’re at a stop light now and he doesn’t end on a question, rather, a statement.
As if he sees my walls for the bullshit they are and refuses to let me hide behind them a moment longer.
Some could argue his insistence is the opposite of respecting my boundaries, but I don’t feel that way.
I know he respects me as a person, as a professional, as a friend.
He’s simply less willing to hide and pretend the pull between us doesn’t exist.
Am I ready to stop pretending? Not necessarily. But why? Why am I so afraid of this? Why can’t I simply give in to how I feel, free of worry?
Simply put, I don’t like surprises. Good or bad.
I like to see what’s ahead, to plan my steps in advance.
I like to analyze every possible outcome and make decisions based on what best aligns with my goals and priorities and Sunny.
Could I analyze my relationship with Dexter and a potential future between us?
Sure. But I haven’t yet let myself venture down that path because I’m terrified I will get my hopes up, feel alive for the first time in nearly a decade, and then have it all ripped away from me once again.
God, I miss my sister. She knew how to live, to love.
She knew how to let loose and encouraged me to do the same.
I didn’t just lose my best friend the day she died — I lost a piece of myself.
The piece that felt safe enough to step out of bounds and try new things.
The piece that threw caution to the wind because I knew if I stumbled or fell, Belle would be there to help me back up again.
I don’t notice I’m crying, or that I’ve been lost in my thoughts for who knows how long, until I feel Dexter’s thumb swipe away a tear from my cheek. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I didn’t realize I was crying. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. I’m often sucked into my thoughts, my memories, my emotions, only resurfacing when someone or something intentionally forces my attention back to reality.
I wipe underneath my eyes, careful not to smear my mascara. “I’m fine. I’m sorry. I was just… just… remembering,” I say.