Page 212 of The Professor's Wife

I placed the lipstick into my clutch and stepped out of the women’s bathroom.

I paused at the threshold of the dining area in the lavish oceanfront restaurant and watched Oliver mingle with his faculty companions. He was in the middle of an animated conversation.

Or, rather, he was in the middle of a long story, and they were watching him, bewitched by his words. I bet they hadn’t even touched their wine, they were so immersed in whatever horseshit he was spewing.

They didn’t know that only weeks ago, he had been in a panic. That he had come home one night disheveled and filthy.That every day he stopped those cameras from recording, he was testing me to see whether I would flee.

He had wanted me to fail, but when I didn’t, Oliver looked at me with such surprise that it was almost as though he didn’t know what to do with me.

The first time he came home to a freshly cooked meal and found me standing by the staircase, pleased to see him, something monumental happened inside him.

In his eyes, he had achieved his ultimate goal.

He had carved the perfect wife out of a broken young woman full of holes, sins, and faults.

Hooray for him.

At least I didn’t have his sporadic mood swings to endure.

I wondered if I’d cracked it, then. If, in a way, I had finally molded my professor in return, allowing him to lower his guard.

He had spent years controlling my every move. Now he no longer believed that much effort was necessary.

He believed I thought him omniscient.

In a way, I did.

He was always, and would always be, one step ahead of me.

I looked at the empty spot next to him, where I should have been sitting. Then I heaved a sigh and glanced at the clock on the wall.

It was only seven.

We were going to be here for a while, and I was going to sit there the entire time with a tight smile on my face as they talked about philosophy and their big houses and their trips around the world.

I would laugh on cue even when I didn’t find their jokes funny. I would provide my brief statement about how philosophy had helped shape our world.

I would feel Oliver’s eyes on me the entire time, and if I performed correctly, he would give me that smile.

The one that told me I wasn’t going to eat a pill and wake up chained in a cabin shed with theClassic Philosopherstextbook open before me.

Seneca.

Plato.

Socrates.

And Nietzsche, whose work I enjoyed immensely because he challenged conventional principles and truth itself.

Nietzsche always got under Oliver’s skin. He was the one philosopher Oliver couldn’t crack or bond with.

“I don’t understand how anyone can find comfort in chaos,” he’d growled once. “Nietzsche talks like rules are cages, but without them, what are we? Just animals clawing for meaning in the dark. Such pretentious nihilism.”

He was the one philosopher I could have consumed if Oliver had left more of his work around.

The restaurant was loud, the smell of cooked spices and chargrilled meat heavy in the air. A brief breeze moved through the open patio doors.

I watched a group of women step outside. Their companion had waved them over and looked excited about something.