Page 94 of The Professor's Wife

He scooped me into his arms and pulled me against him. My back pressed against his hard chest as he cradled me. After my heart slowed and my panic ebbed away, I opened my eyes.

We lay like that in silence until I couldn’t bear it anymore.

I turned my head toward him and kissed him.

I needed him.

I needed him to make me feel good.

Tristan understood straight away.

Within minutes, our clothes were gone, and he was inside me, moving at the pace of my frenzied heart.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

TRISTAN

I’m ten and at a campground. Dad is getting the barbecue ready—charcoal bag open, lighter fluid in hand—and he’s already told me twice that I can wander but not too far. The place is packed. Every site is full of adults drinking beer, laughing too loudly, and talking about sports I don’t care about. There aren’t any kids my age, just a few teenagers who look like they’d rather be anywhere else.

I’m kicking at pine needles, trying to decide whether boredom or hunger will get me first, when I feel someone watching me.

She’s sitting at a picnic table a few sites over, a woman about the same age as Dad with dark hair pulled back in a loose braid. She doesn’t look away when I notice her. If anything, her eyes sharpen, like she’s been waiting for me to look back. Then she lifts her hand and motions me over with two fingers.

I hesitate—Dad would probably tell me not to bother strangers—but she doesn’t look dangerous. Just curious. And honestly, I’m curious too.

When I get close, she smiles like she already knows me.

“Out exploring?” she asks.

I shrug. “Nothing to do.”

“That’s usually when the interesting things happen.” Her voice is warm, a little scratchy, like she’s been talking all day. “What’s your name?”

“Tristan.”

“Well, Tristan, I’m Mara.” She gestures to the table. “You can sit, if you want. Let’s be bored together.”

I climb onto the bench, and that’s when I notice the cups—three of them—turned upside down on small saucers. Their rims are stained with something dark, almost muddy.

“What’re you doing?” I ask.

Mara’s smile widens, pleased by the question. “Reading fortunes.”

I blink. “Like…magic?”

“Not quite.” She taps one of the overturned cups. “You drink a certain tea, then turn the cup over and let it dry. The leaves settle into shapes. Symbols. Stories.” She nods toward a group of women sitting in lawn chairs nearby, chatting and glancing over every so often. “Some of them are waiting for theirs.”

I look at the cups again, fascinated despite myself. “Can I try?”

She studies me for a moment, as if weighing something invisible. Then she reaches for a clean cup. “If you want to.”

She pours a small amount of tea from a thermos. The steam smells earthy, like wet leaves after rain. I take a sip and nearly gag; it’s bitter and green and tastes like something I wasn’t supposed to put in my mouth. I hope Dad’s not watching. He really wouldn’t like this.

Mara laughs softly. “It grows on you.”

I doubt it, but I finish the cup because she’s watching, and because I want to see what happens next.

She takes the empty cup from my hands, flips it upside down onto the saucer, and sets it aside. “Now we wait.”