Page 34 of Office Hours
“Hi, I’m Claire,” the woman asks, sensing something in the air. “Have you two met before?”
“No,” Liam says, at the same time that I say “yes.”
Claire’s brows go up, and she puts on a smile.
“Well, that’s an interesting answer,” she laughs. “I’m a friend of Liam’s from way back when. And you are?”
I shake her hand, which is soft and cold, her nails glossy red. “Simone,” I say. “I’m an English major at Century.”
Liam’s lips twitch again, but he still doesn’t speak.
Dylan, ever the puppy, bounds back with both our coats, grinning like he just set a world record. “Hey, Professor Thomas,” he says, giving the older man a head-tilt. “Didn’t know you liked Italian food.”
“I don’t,” Thomas says, smooth as glass. “But Claire does.” He squeezes the woman’s waist, a gesture so studied it might as well be an answer on a pop quiz.
“Oh, are you guys…?” Dylan’s hand flaps vaguely in the air. I’m not sure he even knows what gesture he’s making.
“Old friends,” Claire says. “But tonight, I get to claim him as my date.” She leans in, the perfume wafting off her like a warning. “It’s strictly pleasure.”
“Strictly pleasure,” Liam repeats, gaze boring into me. I swallow hard as my skin goes electric. I have no idea if Dylan feels the vibe in the air, but his hand finds the small of my back and tugs me close, fingers warm through the fabric.
Liam’s date is sweet, almost too sweet, as she smiles. “So, are you two the same year?” she asks.
Dylan shakes his head. “We’re both seniors, but Simone’s like a genius or something. She’ll probably graduate before I do.” He laughs, then adds, “If I ever pass American Lit.”
Liam’s mouth is a straight line. “I’m sure you’ll find a way, Mr. Tourneau,” he says. “Student athletes always do.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that makes even the wait staff slow their step.
Dylan blinks, not sure if it’s a joke. “Yeah, well, the Student Learning Center has tutors just for athletes, so we get the help we need. It’s one of the bonuses of dedicating so much to your sport.” He laughs, but there’s an edge of confusion, like he doesn’t know why he’s being needled.
Claire jumps in, eager to smooth the waters. “Oh, that’s clever! I wish they had tutors for my job.”
“What do you do?” I ask, mostly to be polite.
She shrugs, a silky movement that sets her hair swishing. “PR. I spin disaster for a living.”
Liam’s hand is still tight on her waist. He hasn’t looked away from me for a second. “Simone is one of my best students,” he says, and the compliment is so sudden I almost flinch. “Her last paper was remarkable.”
Claire claps, delighted. “Oh, how wonderful! What did you write about?”
I want to say “how professors ruin their students,” but instead I murmur, “The American obsession with failure. Through Melville, mostly.”
Claire seems genuinely impressed. “That’s so much deeper than anything I did in college. I just got drunk and played Ultimate Frisbee.”
There’s another silence, but it’s gentler this time. I sense we’re all waiting for Liam to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at Dylan, then back to me, then at Claire, as if he can’t remember whose arm he’s supposed to be holding.
Finally, Claire breaks the spell. “Well, we’d better get going. I’m hungry and we have a reservation! It was lovely to meet you both.” She means it, I think.
“Good night, Simone,” Liam says. “Dylan.”
Dylan gives a salute, like he’s about to dive into the pool. “See you in class, Professor.”
They walk in, the red of her dress fluttering as she passes. For a second, I stand frozen, watching them vanish into the depths of the restaurant, the two of them so perfectly matched, so appropriate together, that it almost makes me want to cry.
Dylan is busy wrangling my coat onto my shoulders. “Was that weird?” he asks. “It felt kind of weird.”
I shrug. “Professor Thomas is always like that. Intense.”
