Chapter 10
TEN
Alis
The following two weeks are, thankfully, uneventful. Sunny made a few friends in her class and she’s starting to feel more comfortable in her new school. Skye got a job at a locally-owned coffee house downtown, and I am officially ready for the semester to begin on Monday.
“Navigating your filing system is like going digital spelunking. I have no idea how you find anything in all those subfolders.” Skye is sitting next to me on the couch while I finish setting up grading folders in my drive.
“At least I have a system. You just dump everything onto your desktop. I have no idea how you find anything.” Skye scoffs and presses her pointer finger to my right glasses lens.
I immediately react by slapping her arm, using my other hand to slide my laptop to the coffee table as she tries to scurry away.
I grab her ankle before she succeeds, only to be met with a pillow to the face courtesy of Sunny.
“Ugh, Skye! Why do you always do that?!” Skye and Sunny are laughing hysterically while I dig around in the side table drawer for a lens wipe, to no avail. Dammit, I forgot to add a new pack of them to my grocery order.
I have issues with dirty lenses. The easiest way to avoid this pet peeve is to wear contacts, but no thanks. However, my glasses have to be spotless or I can’t focus on anything else until they’re cleaned. Smudged lenses are like gnats — all up in my face and annoying as hell.
After finally finding a microfiber cloth in the kitchen, I clean my glasses and go to retrieve my computer. Skye and Sunny are once again curled up on the couch, entranced in some reality show as if they didn’t just team up and attack me.
“I’m going to bed. Sunny, you have school tomorrow so make sure you’re in bed by nine.”
She looks up at me and pouts, “But the show goes until 9:30!”
“Sorry, kid. Nine. No later. You can catch up on whatever you miss tomorrow on Hulu. Spoiler alert — she says ‘yes’ to the dress.” In true nine-going-on-nineteen fashion, she rolls her eyes and huffs, “Fine.”
I grab my mug of ginger tea off the side table, tuck my laptop under my arm, and turn toward the hallway to head to my room.
“Night!” They don’t respond; the show has sucked them in.
I’d understand the draw if they were hooked on true crime documentaries or even period dramas, but their love for reality TV makes no sense to me.
I used to arguing with them about how reality TV is basically garbage and a waste of time, until one day Skye snatched the remote from my hand, gave me a death glare, and said, “Just because you watch TV to think doesn’t mean everyone else has to.
We watch TV to veg out, not for a mental workout.
Some people just like to be entertained. ”
I’d never thought of it that way until she said it, but she was right.
After that, I never again fought Skye or Sunny on their shows of choice.
My idea of vegging out is reading a book or working on a puzzle; they prefer to burrito themselves in throw blankets on the couch and watch crazy people try on wedding dresses or attempt to buy million-dollar houses on shoe-string budgets. Whatever floats your boat.
I enter my room and close the door, leaning my back against it.
Now that I’m alone without any distractions, the dam breaks on my anxiety about being back on campus tomorrow.
I’ve done so well at compartmentalizing anxious thoughts this week, but now that I’m one sleep away from potentially seeing Dexter again, my mind is racing and my heart is pounding.
I remember the words he spoke to me in his office, and I close my eyes at the memory of how he looked at me, eyes full of confidence and desire, unapologetically telling me how he wanted to recreate our incredible kiss.
“Je veux encore t'embrasser.” Gah, that man and his French. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t fantasized about him a time or six this past week.
Remembering that night at the club, his fingers tracing my jawline — only in my fantasies he whispers enticing promises into my ear while his fingers trace down my arms and then up the sides of my body.
“J'ai tellement hate de te go?ter,” he whispers, nibbling my ear lobe before kissing down my neck.
“Je veux lécher chaque centimètre de ton corps.
Je veux te mettre sur mon lit, les jambes écartées, et te baiser jusqu'à ce que tu perdes ta voix en criant mon nom.
T'es une déesse, t'es parfaite, t'es à moi.”
Is it getting hot in here? Somebody turn the fan on before I combust. Ok, Alis, get a grip, calm down. Touching yourself to thoughts of Dexter Belanger is not helping the situation.
“T'es à moi.” If only.
I’ve spent the last nine years of my life working my butt off, raising my daughter, living with my parents, and I haven’t once — not once — had any desire to start any sort of romantic relationship with a man.
No boyfriends, no app hookups (because, ew), no casual flings with guys from around town — nada.
And now that I’m “getting out there,” chasing my dreams with a basically revirginated vagina, the one guy in a decade who has caught my interest is off limits.
Who the hell is writing this story? What kind of sick joke is it to dangle Mr. Sexy Man Bun in front of me, light my panties on fire, and then snatch him back, saying, “psych!”
Author of my life, I think I hate you. Can’t a woman catch a break?!
You’re the one who turned him down. Screw you, self.
Twice. Ugh!
I flop over onto my stomach and bury my face into my pillow.
I have to be making a bigger deal out of this than is necessary.
Sure, Dexter is the first guy in a decade I’ve wanted, but that’s probably just because I’m in a new place with new people and thinking about my wants and needs for the first time in forever.
It’s not because he’s special or one of a kind; not because his fingers on my skin made my heart race and his kiss felt like coming home. Nope. Nope. Nope.
Tomorrow I’ll go to class, meet new people, spend time in the library prepping for my first Comp lecture, and not think about Dexter Belanger. If I run into him, no biggie. He’s one of many hot guys I’ve seen in my life. He’s a professor. He’s my boss (kind of).
I didn’t uproot my life and move four hours away from home only to detour from my goals once again. I have a degree to finish, a career to pursue, a daughter to raise. My life has enough responsibilities as it is.
Just as I’m diving headfirst into “woe is me” territory, Stewie’s incessant nagging from my bedside table snaps me out of this pity party.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. How are things? Have you girls had a good first week?”
“Yeah. It’s been good.”
“How did your meeting go with Dr. Matthews? Are you two a good fit? I know you were nervous about that.”
“She’s great. Very nice.”
Mom is silent for a beat, obviously waiting for me to expound. “And? Tell me about your meeting! I want to hear all about it.
I exhale. “The meeting was fine. We just went over the upcoming semester, her class list, my teaching responsibilities — the same stuff I used to do.”
“Well, that sounds nice. Are you teaching at all this semester?”
“Yeah, I’m teaching one of her classes. I was originally supposed to teach more, I think, but something happened with the budget and they weren’t able to bring on new people they’d planned on having, so I’m taking on more grading and less teaching.”
“More grading?”
“Yeah. Two other profs needed help so I’m grading for them as well. Nothing too difficult, just Comp and French.”
“Three professors? That sounds like a lot to take on in your first semester, Alis.” She sounds worried, but she shouldn’t.
“Just grading. No teaching. Besides, Martin is an online-only prof so my grading is more basic moderating. Belanger is on campus, but he only teaches three classes so it’s not anything I can’t handle.”
“He?” I close my eyes and clench my teeth. Why did I say that?!
I swallow. “Yeah. He. I’m just grading for him; it’s not like he’s my advisor or anything.” Crap. Now I sound defensive.
“I know, honey, but the main reason you chose Middle Peak was so that you’d work for a female professor. I just want to make sure you’re going to be okay with this new arrangement.”
I’m not a child, mother. I’ll be fine. Can’t say that to her, though.
“I’m fine, mom. Really. Dr. Belanger is a nice guy. He’s young, too. That caught me off guard. I was expecting some old, graying pretentious guy, but, nope.”
I hear clicking in the background before mom says, “Oh my. He’s beautiful.”
I huff, “I know, right?” Oh, shit. Now I’ve done it.
I can hear the smile in her response. “You think so, too. How old is he? Is he single?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Mom. Stop.”
“What? He is handsome. And you’re right, he’s young. You two would make the prettiest babies!”
“MOM! STOP IT.”
“You can’t really blame me for wanting more grandbabies. I won’t be around forever, and I have so much more love to go around. Enough for a whole brood of grandbabies. Four? Five?”
Someone — anyone — save me from this conversation.
My silence lets her know I’m done talking about this. Thankfully, she takes the hint.
“Speaking of grandbabies, how is my darling Sunny? I miss her sweet face in our home every day.”
“She’s good, I think. Seems to be adjusting well at school and making some new friends. Everything is so different here, though. Not like home.”
“That’s definitely true, but what exactly do you mean by ‘different’?” Thankfully, she doesn’t sound worried, just inquisitive.