37. Running Up That Hill
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
running up that hill
IMOGEN
My laptop is sitting on the podium, my presentation on the big screen, demanding everyone’s attention— and the best part? There are people in the audience, waiting for me to speak.
This is it, it’s my big fucking moment.
I was up at the crack of dawn; I prepped my notes, picked a cute outfit, and spent half the morning fighting Logan for the bathroom because I needed to do my hair. Despite his hangover, he was in pretty good spirits, even helping Roman make pancakes before we headed over to the conference center.
I’m shaking, the lavender pantsuit I picked out already starting to suffocate me.
Why did I choose vintage polyester?
I reach into a pocket and pull out my inhaler, taking a puff and holding my breath. The last thing I need to do is give myself an asthma attack, like the day I presented my master’s thesis. I wound myself up so tight that my lungs decided to turn on me, and my professor had to take me to the hospital. I was so embarrassed I never wanted to show my face on campus again.
My phone buzzes.
ROMAN: Kick some ass and take no prisoners up there.
He finished his presentation earlier in the day and he’s sitting in the audience now. He seemed so casual about it before he got onstage, but when he was up there it was almost robotic. It was like his heart wasn’t really in it.
I hadn’t thought about it before, but he’s probably done so many of these that this must be just part of the job for him by now. I’ve read through his publication history: he’s written over thirty papers, co-edited five books, and given tons of talks, but all that stopped after he lost his wife. It makes sense. Grief can take so much from you, your passions, your hobbies, your routines. Some people throw themselves into their work, others just go numb, or sink into a deep depression.
About a year after my dad died, I was coming out of the subway and got hit with a massive whiff of the exact same cologne he was wearing when he passed. I thought I was having a panic attack; it felt like I was reliving his death all over again. Turns out smell is one of our most powerful senses when it comes to memory.
“You can do this,” Logan tells me, pulling me from my thoughts with a gentle shake. “I believe you.”
“You mean you believe in me,” I laugh.
Logan blinks, brows knit together. Despite the long shower and painkillers, he looks like he’s going to puke up the pancakes he ate this morning.
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Dude, you are hung over ,” I chuckle, patting him on the shoulder.
His eyes are rimmed red, sweat constantly beading on his brow no matter how many times he wipes it away. I feel like I should be able to see the alcohol fumes wafting off of him.
“Yeah, really? Those Advil were like throwing pennies at an armored truck, but I’m here. I’m going to be here for you the whole time. Right here.”
“Unless he’s gotta throw up,” Abi chimes in. “Then he’ll be somewhere else, hopefully.”
Logan ignores her, giving me a hug before the host begins to announce my presentation. I can barely process what he’s saying, pulling my phone out of my pocket out of sheer habit.
Three missed texts that have all come in within the last couple of minutes.
PIPES: YOU’RE GONNA FUCKING KILL IT!
JAY: YOOOOO! Iggy! You got this!
MOM: I’m so proud of you, drink water, don’t pass out, and remember to celebrate YOU. Shine bright, baby girl. Your dad would be SO proud of you right now. I know he’s watching.
Before I can even think of replying to any of them, the host calls my name. Applause rings out and I step onto the stage, my heart in my throat. To a lot of attendees, this is just another lecture; something routine that they do every few months. But to me, it’s a huge stepping stone.
I just have to get over the anxiety first.
“Hey, Iggy!” Logan shouts out from backstage. “Shine bright, kiddo!”
I have fifteen minutes to demonstrate what I know and what I plan to do with my dissertation. Even if I fumble words or have technical difficulties, it’ll be fine. I know this paper inside and out.
My hands are cold, yet incredibly sweaty at the same time. Needles prick my throat. I glance down to see a bottle of water tucked beneath the podium, and I snatch it up before looking out at a sea of faces I don’t recognize. As I scan the crowd, I spot Roman up front and I smile back nervously.
“Hi—” the mic whines a little and I take a step back, chuckling. “Look, I’ve been up here for five seconds and I’m already causing technical difficulties.”
The little wave of laughter makes everything a bit easier, my anxiety beginning to melt away. The only thing that would make this better would be seeing my dad front and center.
I clear my throat, willing myself not to get misty eyed.
“My name is Imogen Flynn, I’m a PhD student at Emerald Bay University.” I take a sip of water, steadying myself. “I’d actually like to start this presentation with a question: What do you think you know about kink or BDSM?”
I grab the remote, clicking to the slide with a big question mark and a pair of leather cuffs on it. It gets a few giggles but a surprising number of people raise their hands, and I pick a few out of the audience one by one.
“Whips,” someone suggests.
There’s another ripple of laughter and I click the remote and the word appears on the slide.
“Another one,” I call, pointing to someone else.
“Bondage.”
I click the remote again, the word popping up on the big screen behind me.
“Good one. This is like a kinky little game show.”
That gets more giggles from the crowd as I take a few more suggestions.
Ropes, torture, sadism… all the standard responses I’ve come to expect doing this work.
“Most of the things you named can absolutely factor into kink, but the core of it is trust.” I clear my throat, tapping my pocket to make sure my inhaler didn’t fall out. “This paper is going to explore identity management, how people balance who they are in the kink space with who they are in their professional lives. I’ll be speaking to participants with high profile and public facing jobs about the judgment they face, the ways in which they obscure their identity in online spaces, and how they walk the line between kink and their personal or professional lifestyles.”
I sink into the presentation, alternating between discussing facts and using small anecdotes from other papers and theses I’ve written. I’ve been working in this area since my bachelor’s degree, so I know the literature well. I don’t think I stumble or forget anything, but even if I did, who gives a shit? It doesn’t have to be perfect, but it should be fun. Today, I’m giving myself some grace.
I go over every detail of my project, spending a little extra time on my methodology and ethics sections, going through the finer details and what I hope to accomplish. I watch as people check their phones, slip in and out to take calls, or go to the bathroom, but not Roman.
He doesn’t look away for a second.
When I get to the end of the presentation, I want nothing more than to run straight into his arms. Knowing I can’t is a lot more heartbreaking than I’d care to admit. I field a few questions about methodology and ethics, which I handle with relative ease, before a hand goes up: a young woman with long blonde hair in a pink blazer.
“I’m just curious about what led you to this research topic?”
I glance off to the side and see Logan giving me the thumbs up. When I first expressed this interest as a thesis, I told him I had a friend who was involved in the scene. It wasn’t necessarily untrue, but I wasn’t ready to reveal just how personal it all was to me.
“I’ve been involved in kink for a couple of years now and I’ve always been interested in how people manage their identities— including me. Kink was a way to deal with a personal tragedy in my life. It gave me the space and freedom to tap into those emotions and work through them. It’s a delicate balance, and I’m curious about how others approach it.”
The woman nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer, and I glance around, catching another hand in the air. I recognize Dr. Simon Wallace, a man who taught a couple of my courses at NYU. He was the kind of professor who said that nobody would get an A in his class, and I could never forget the tiny round glasses that frame his large dark eyes.
“Stigma tends to be viewed, theoretically, as the outcome of a series of interpersonal encounters and attitudes. Do you think that people’s attitudes toward sex and kink have become more open in recent years, and if so, how are you going to account for that in your work?”
It’s clearly a softball question, especially from a professor who made two people cry when I was in his class, but there’s no way I’m complaining.
“This audience just proved that their immediate responses to kink are primarily stereotypes surrounding BDSM, all of which can contribute to stigma. I’m hoping to look at people who are into things like consensual non-consent, a total power exchange, pet play, dumbification, all of these things that conjure specific negative images for people who aren’t experienced in the scene.”
“Thank you.”
There’s a pang of discomfort in my belly as his eyes glide up and down my body. I blow out a breath, shaking it off before moving on to take a few more questions. When my time is finally up, I exit the stage to respectable applause, and Logan is there to greet me.
“You fucking killed it out there!” He laughs, pulling me in for a big hug.
My body slumps with relief against his, all of my anxiety and adrenaline rushing out of me at the same time.
“It was surprisingly easy once I got into it.”
“You handled those questions well,” Abi chimes in.
“Very well,” Roman says, beaming as he strides toward us. “You’re a natural.”
I have to ball my hands up into fists to keep from reaching for him, and judging by the look in his eye, he’s thinking the same thing. I want him to take me in his arms and kiss me, but instead all I can say is…
“Thanks, Dr. Burke.”
“Okay, we need to celebrate!” Logan exclaims. “Lunch is on me, and then tonight, we’re doing that fundraiser.”
Shit, I forgot about that. Another few hours where Roman and I have to keep our hands off each other.
“Oh! Before I forget, Iggy, I want to introduce you to some people who work for Oxford University Press.”
“Wait… How fancy is this party?” Roman asks.
“Fancy enough for you to be wearing dress pants, cowboy,” Logan quips, elbowing him in the ribs. “And no plaid shirts, you’ll bring shame to the university!”
“You really wanna drink more after last night, Logan?” Abi asks.
“Hell no,” he replies. “But I don’t wanna stay cooped up in a cabin playing Monopoly again— and the three of you can get hammered and then I can listen to you puke all night while I’m cozy in my bed.”
Logan leads us out of the conference room and down a long hallway toward the lounge. He and Abi quickly pull a little ways ahead, and I feel Roman snatch my wrist from behind, tugging me back into a small enclave just out of sight.
He gently pushes me up against the wall, grasping my chin and tipping my head up, those gorgeous eyes dancing over my face. It’s killing me that we have to do this in secret. That he can’t just grab me and lift me off the ground in front of everyone. This whole thing was fun at first, sneaking around and not taking things seriously, but after I told him I loved him, things got more intense.
Suddenly it all mattered so much more.
Suddenly there was so much more to lose.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hey.”
“This is risky, you know.”
“I don’t care. All that confidence made you look so goddamn sexy.”
He nuzzles against me, the scent of his cologne bringing me back to last night in his room. I can still see the faint marks that the ropes left on his wrists.
“If you were teaching a class, I’d show up 15 minutes early and leave 15 minutes late just so I could spend some more time with you.”
My whole face gets hot and I shove him away, trying to turn my head, but Roman holds it in place.
“So cheesy, Dr. Burke.”
He smiles.
“You just bring something out in me, darlin’.”
He presses his lips to mine and my heart races. If Logan doubles back and finds us, this is all over. That’s the thing that terrifies me the most.
“Come on.” He flicks his head toward the lounge. “Let’s go before they get suspicious.”