Chapter One
Rosie
“Schopenhauer said regarding love, ‘It’s nature’s trick — a bait to make us reproduce.
What you call ‘true love’ is biology laughing at your emotions.
’ He often framed love as a biological force dressed up as poetry.
” Professor Wilder leans against the edge of his desk and stares up into the crowd of students before him.
The man is a giant. A huge, towering, wide, bearded, inked-up, giant in sensible slacks and a button-up sweater.
The dichotomy is intriguing. Sort of like when you see a grizzly bear eating berries.
He’s clearly built for raw power, but he’s standing before us in cozy knits, inciting a philosophical conversation about the part hormones play in emotions.
I should insert myself in the conversation. I have enough to say about the topic that I could rattle on all day, but I could never talk out loud in this class, not with a man that looks like that, poised and ready to question my thoughts.
I’d turn to mush. I’d make no sense. I’d make a total fool out of myself, and everyone would know without a shadow of a doubt that I had private fantasies about the philosophizing grizzly bear at the front of the class.
“I think love is real,” some flirty, little blonde in the front row begins saying out of turn. “I mean, sometimes you just know things. Your heart starts racing, and your body reacts.” She draws circles on her forearm as she talks to him, never dropping eye contact.
Okay, so everyone notices how handsome he is. I’d wager a bet the better part of this classroom has fantasies about the man.
Professor Wilder nods slowly toward the blonde. “An elevated heart rate is also a symptom of anxiety, not the best diagnostic tool for love. To your first point, many would argue that love feels profound because the chemicals involved are persuasive, not because the feeling is accurate.”
“Is that what you feel too,” the blonde presses, now twisting her hair around her index finger, “or do you believe love is real?”
“Before I answer that question, I’d like to turn the inquiry back to you. For tonight’s homework, I’d like you all to write me a five-thousand-word essay on what ‘real’ means. Emotionally, biologically, ontologically. We can’t debate the existence of something we haven’t defined.”
I jot down the assignment and tap my pencil against my iPad as I stare at the giant man rattling off tasks. I’m not sure what I feel about the blonde, but I really wanted to know the answer to her question.
Does Professor Wilder think love is real? It’s important for my fantasies to know whether we’re just fucking or whether we’re in it for the long haul. I mean, both are intriguing, but one means we’re in it for the marriage and the baby carriage. The other… we’re just two bodies having fun.
“Class is dismissed, but Rosie Carmichael, can I see you at my desk, please.” His voice is like warm, frayed leather, sending a shock of something electric between my legs as my stomach drops.
I try to memorize the way it sounds on his tongue for my late-night delusions, though there might not be a later because I may very well die on my way to his desk.
Why is he calling me up there? I haven’t done anything wrong.
Or have I?
The last paper we turned in was on the dual nature of human attachment. Maybe I said something weird. Worse yet, maybe he can tell I didn’t actually read the book I was supposed to in order to write sensibly on the topic.
My heart hammers against my chest as students disperse from the tiered lecture hall. I’m not sure how many people this place holds, but it’s taking forever to empty out.
Come on, people! Move! I can’t take the anxiety! I need to know why he called me to the front of the class!
It has to be the reading thing. I haven’t done anything else wrong.
I show up on time, I don’t leave early, and I always turn in my homework on time.
I should fess up to it right away. People respect you more if you admit your mistakes.
I think it was Nietzsche who said that ‘mistakes are growth’ or ‘to error is to learn’ or something like that.
Heat crawls up my neck. I don’t remember the quote now, probably because I didn’t read the book!
When the classroom is empty, I stand from the chair with hollow knees and make my way to the front of the classroom, my pulse pounding in my temples as I approach the grizzly bear in the shawl collared cardigan.
He’s intoxicating!
Green eyes, salt and pepper hair, muscles stacked on muscles, and a deeply arboreous scent surrounding him like he’s just finished chopping firewood.
Dear Lord, please help me not make a complete idiot of myself.
“Ms. Carmichael. Thank you for staying late. I hope I’m not keeping you from your next class.”
“No,” I laugh, tugging at the sleeve of my shirt.
“I’m going home after this. If this is about the reading assignment for last week’s paper, I just want to let you know that I didn’t do it.
” My throat tightens. “I wanted to do it, but I have so much going on at home, and I let it slide. I’m sorry.
” Most people would stop here, but I keep going.
“I’m usually very organized, but lately, I’m so scattered.
My dad is an alcoholic, and I’ve been working full-time to pay for rent while attending classes.
Plus,” I stupidly continue, “my cat, Arlo, just passed, and he’s been my best friend since my mom passed away two years ago, and now… I’m pretty lost.”
Oh, my freaking God! What am I doing?
My face flushes with red-hot heat like a wildfire that’s run into an oil tanker on an Arizona highway.
This is bad! Really, really bad!
“I’m so sorry.” I close my eyes, hoping to disappear, then flash them open and pinch my lips together in an attempt to quiet my rambling.
Professor Wilder smiles and scrubs his big, square hand down over his beard before landing it on my arm.
His actual hand is on top of me!
His hand!
His big, rough, sandpaper hand!
It’s on me!
“I’m sorry. That much weight can be exhausting. If you ever need an extension on homework, just let me know.” His gaze holds with mine like he’s really listening, which apparently, I’ve never experienced before because it’s a little unsettling. “Are you making time for yourself at all?”
Time for myself? Well, I masturbate to thoughts of you every night, so… I guess.
“You mean like a spa day or something?”
“Or a nice long walk in the park. There are some great trails up at Vista Point.” He looks at me with a quiet intensity that makes my pulse stumble. “If you’re not familiar with the area, I’d be happy to show you around. That’s actually why I called you up here.”
My chest tightens as I sit on the precipice of every fantasy I’ve ever had. “You called me up here to ask me to the park?”
He grins and reaches for a manila folder with my name on it.
“Not exactly, but I was hoping to spend some time with you so I could pick your brain. I read your most recent work on the dual nature of human attachment, and I was intrigued. Your view of connection as a form of vigilance is unique. Most of the papers I get speak of dependency or biology. Your use of the language shows a personal layer.” He hands me the folder and pulls a chair closer to his desk, offering me a seat.
I take a load off, though I have no idea what I have to add to this conversation.
“That’s super nice of you to say, and I’ll take an ‘A’ if that’s what you want to give me, but I’m not sure I have anything very smart to say on the topic.
I wrote that paper in an hour between calls at work. It wasn’t very well thought out.”
“What do you do for work, Ms. Carmichael?”
“I work customer service for the phone company.”
He nods slowly. “How much is the phone company paying you?”
“I’m sorry?”
He clears his throat as he pulls out the leather chair behind his desk and sits.
“I’m writing a book about the relationship between attachment and desire.
How early experiences shape the way we seek connection as adults.
Your paper touched something I’ve been struggling to articulate.
You have a sensitivity to emotional nuance that I find academically valuable.
I’d like to offer you a paid research assistant position.
You’d summarize my notes, prepare reading lists, give feedback on drafts, and help with literature reviews.
” He raises his cheeks in a slight smile.
“This, of course, would mean you’d have to do the required reading. ”
I’m not sure what to say, or think, or do. I can barely manage my way through this conversation. How the hell would I ever give him feedback on drafts? I’d be a bumbling idiot.
“I think you may be overselling my work. Like I said, I wrote that paper in under an hour, and it’s not that great.”
He flips to the last page of my paper, slides on a pair of black reading glasses, and recites a line. “… and then attachment becomes something else. Something physical. The person you lean toward becomes the one you ache for, the one your body craves, the one you can’t live without.”
My face goes back to overheating. “I wrote that?”
He slides his glasses off and leans forward slightly, his broad shoulders reshaping the cables on his knit sweater.
“You wrote that. It shows a sensitivity to attachment that I can’t get from theory alone.
I can offer you a full-time position at twenty-five dollars an hour.
I see on your student file that you’re majoring in psychology.
This would look great on your resume or your applications to graduate school. ”
Twenty-five dollars an hour is almost twice what I’m making at the call center.
“I’m assuming the position is temporary?”
“The position will need to be filled for the duration of my deadline, which is October of this year.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t quit my job to take a position that ends in October. I need the money. Like I said, I’m the only one bringing in a paycheck at home. Well, the only one bringing in pay that actually goes to bills.”
He nods slowly as I speak, his gaze never leaving mine, as though I’m saying the most interesting things. “I see. Maybe then I could take you for coffee and a walk. I could show you that park, and we could discuss theories.”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was into me.
I mean, he wants my personal thoughts on desire and attachment.
I do know better though, and I’m pretty sure if he were the type to seduce students, he’d choose the blonde with the tiny waist, the big tits, and full midriff on display.
Not me, the thick ginger with tight red curls and a cluster of freckles on each cheek.
That revelation makes it even clearer that this assignment is not for me. I’m already dreaming about this guy. The last thing I need is a one-sided, unhealthy attachment to the man. I have way too much going on for that.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, standing from the chair. “I’m really flattered, but I don’t even know when I’d find time. Some days, I struggle to shower.” Wow, did I really need to say that?
He reaches into the top drawer of his desk, pulls out a card, and hands it to me.
“This has my personal cell number. Call me when you’re free.
I’ll make it worth your while.” His gaze drops down to my lips and up again, sending moisture to my panties as I take the card, the edge of my finger brushing against his.
Okay, that just happened. He definitely said, ‘He’d make it worth my time,’ and ‘Call me!’
I want to read into it. I want to believe there’s something about me that could get the attention of this big, older, smart, hot as hell, inked-up grizzly bear, but the truth is, he has dozens of students, and I’m not even the tenth most attractive girl he sees every day, nor am I the smartest.
Maybe a man like Professor Wilder isn’t looking for the prettiest or the smartest girl? Maybe he’s evolved beyond that. Maybe he doesn’t see beauty as a skinny, little blonde with shiny hair and amazing tits. Maybe he has his own standards. Maybe he likes chubby little redheads with full cheeks.
I laugh to myself as I make my way out of the lecture hall and toward the west end parking lot as a text comes in from my dad.
Another request from the couch for beer, I’m sure.
I ignore the message and stay sunk in the fantasy that Professor Wilder likes chubby, little redheads with subpar intellect.
It’s about as ridiculous as believing in unicorns, but I’m okay with that.
Sometimes, reality isn’t meant to be real. It’s meant to be manageable.
I’m halfway to the parking lot when I hear his deep, graveled voice calling my name. At first, I think I’m imagining it, but when I turn back, there he is. My big, giant professor with a note in his hand.