Page 50 of Misadventures with a Professor
By the time my timer goes off, I’ve dried my tears and started packing. And by the time Oliver notices I’m missing, it will be far too late.
Two Days Later…
My father’s voice is echoing off the kitchen tile in a dry rumble that used to put me to sleep every night as he read to me when I was a child. The familiar sound of it makes me want to cry, but I can’t tell if that’s lingering jet lag or the baby hormones.
“Yes, she’s here,” I hear him say, and then there’s a long pause. “She’s sleeping now. But I can tell her you’ve called. Again.”
I bury my face in my pillow, wishing my bedroom weren’t just right up the stairs from the kitchen. Wishing I didn’t have to hear the phone ring over and over again with Oliver trying to talk to me.
In a flash of masochism, I lift up my own phone to peek at the screen. Tens, if not hundreds, of notifications, emails, texts, phone calls, everything—all from Oliver.
All from my terrifyingly sexy professor.
It was awful sneaking out of the cottage—more than awful. I thought I was dying as I climbed into the cab waiting outside, as Beatrix sat perched on the stone bench inside the front garden and tilted her little cat head at me. I hated leaving. I hated walking away from the cottage, with its blown flowers and leafy vines and old stone walls. I hated hearing the river nearby, shallow and bright, knowing I’d never hear it again. And I even hated poor little Beatrix for making me love her when she should have known better.
I hated leaving Oliver.
I hated knowing that his polished voice and mysterious eyes wouldn’t be mine to hear and to see any longer. I hated how hard it was to sneak away because I also hated how impossible it would be to say goodbye. I would try to leave, and he’d be too handsome, too smart, too magnetic, and I’d stay anyway, even though my staying would wreck his life and ultimately make him loathe me for the part I played in wrecking it.
No, this was the way it was always going to be.
And I hated that most of all.
It only took Oliver an hour or so to realize I was gone, but an hour was all I needed. I was most of the way to Birmingham by then, and I made my way through security and to a flight before he could reach me. Then, like with all the calls and emails today, he was acting out of duty, and I bet even now the relief is starting to creep in. The relief that I won’t be ruining his life after all.
I don’t read the emails or the texts. I don’t let myself. Because as much as I want Oliver to be feeling relief right now, as much as I want to think I’ve found a way to walk out of this with my head held high, I feel nothing but agony.
Maybe there’s a tiny part of me that hopes he’ll board a plane to America. That he’ll come chasing after me.
It’s ridiculous and childish—sheer nonsense given what I’ve done and how I’ve refused to talk to him—but maybe I’m too Zandy Lynch not to be ridiculous and childish sometimes. Yet another reason Oliver and I would never have worked.
My father appears in my doorway, holding out a mug of coffee for me, which I take even though I won’t drink it. I haven’t told him about the pregnancy yet—or even that Oliver and I were briefly a thing—although I think he’s pieced that together from my unexpected arrival home and Oliver’s many phone calls.
“Do you want me to take you to your apartment?” Dad asks softly. “At least to get some fresh clothes?”
I look down at my flannel unicorn pajamas—a relic from my high school years that I found in my old dresser. “I guess I should. But…can I stay here for a few more days?”
He softens, trundling over and sitting on the edge of my bed. “You know I’m always happy to have you here, Zandy. No matter what’s going on.”
He takes my hand, and I try not to cry in earnest. My dad has always been like this—loyal and quiet and easy. God, how I wish I’d been born the same! Instead of messy and loud and too much.
“Dad? Were you ever scared about having me?”
He looks down at my face, and understanding rearranges the smile on his face into something both kinder and sadder.
He knows.
Maybe it’s my question or his fatherly intuition, but it’s plain that he’s just figured it out, and he squeezes my hand.
“When I found out your mother was pregnant, I felt nothing but excitement, because I knew I could do anything with that amazing woman at my side. But when she died…” His eyes grow glassy, and I know he’s seeing memories I’m too young to remember. Memories of hospital beds and doctor visits. “I was mo
re than scared. I was paralyzed. Because I didn’t think I could do it without her. You were six then and still so young, and every good part of you was because of her. What if I ruined you somehow? What if I stifled all the parts of you that had only flowered because of your mother?”
He’s never told me this before, and I sit up a little, curious. “What do you mean, because of her?”
Dad smiles fondly. “I’ve told you how smart and driven she was, but have I ever told you how funny and friendly she was? How determined? How brave? She could march into a room full of strangers and have them loving her within minutes. She could travel to a country she’d never been to, and within a day, she was already learning the language and having adventures. She was the opposite of me and perfect in every way. And when I saw how like her you were…I wanted to treasure that at all costs. I still do.”
I give him a hug, overcome, swelling with pain and pride. “I never knew,” I whisper, my eyes leaking tears onto his shoulder.
