The Professor by Lauren Nossett

Author:Lauren Nossett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Flatiron Books

* * *

I’ve never been so happy to see the sloping bricks and crowded streets of downtown.

It must be close to Family Weekend, because the sidewalks are already filled with visiting parents, students realizing for the first time they’re not so bad now that they’re treating them to lunch and filtering in and out of the Clayton Street boutiques in search of tokens to illustrate their love. Tourists take photos with painted fiberglass bulldogs, and I spend ten minutes looking for a parking space. But I wouldn’t trade any of it for the soulless house in the suburbs, the white walls, the endless number of unused rooms, and oppressive tension stretched between the halls.

I didn’t get what I went there for. As I stared into Angie’s eyes—Ethan’s eyes—all the words I’d prepared disintegrated in my mouth. How could I ask this mother, who’d lost her only child, if he stalked his teachers? If he did drugs? Even if he was afraid of anyone? How could I look at her as she frowned after her husband while trying to hide her tremors and accuse her son of being a liar?

I’m so distracted by the thoughts of families and lies, the feel of the warm sun against my skin, that I don’t notice the woman at first. She’s lingering at the periphery of Artisan’s Corner, head down, but looks up, alert and wide-eyed, when she sees me.

As I pass, I give her a second glance and slow when she holds my gaze.

“Do we know each other?” I ask.

She flinches, a sudden jerk of the shoulders to find herself addressed directly. Her blond hair is swept behind her ears in an angled bob. Everything about her is neat and polished. And I see the shift as determination settles in her face.

“We don’t,” she declares coldly. “But we have a friend in common.”

“Ethan,” I breathe, arching an eyebrow at her with interest.

She gives an exasperated huff, like I should know who she’s talking about.

“Spencer,” she corrects.

I frown. “Yeah,” I say, confused. “I live with him.”

“I know.” She takes a step toward me. “And you should know that we’re dating, and he’s not interested, so back off.”

I open my mouth and then shut it again.

She pauses just long enough to make sure her message has sunk in, turns on her heels, and strides purposefully back to the intersection. And as I watch her retreating form, I realize she’s been lingering here with the sole intention of saying that to me.

“Wait.”

She turns, and I catch the hot edge of a glare that doesn’t abate when I lift my palms.

“I have a boyfriend,” I lie. “I’m not interested in Spencer.”

I can tell she doesn’t believe me, but there’s a slight loosening of her shoulders. It makes sense, I think, as I look her over. This woman and Spencer. She’s petite and slim, wearing a tailored navy skirt and striped silk blouse. Not a strand of hair or smudge of lipstick out of place, she’s dressed for the

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