Page 30 of Prosecco with My Professor
Then I have to listen to Emma discuss her coursework with Bell and that gets them talking about Vincente. I should leave them to it and put Zola back in my apartment, but I look down and tell myself that Zola is comfortable and my unwillingness to leave has nothing to do with hearing about Emma’s life outside the university and everything to do with pampering my cat who merely tolerates me.
Finally, the conversation wraps up and we say goodbye. Bell and I troop back to my apartment.
The door shuts behind us, and Bell rounds on me.
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
“You were tongue-tied. That makes no sense. Who was that man out in the hallway?”
“She’s my student.”
Bell raises an eyebrow. “You also gritted your teeth when I said that Vincente was cute. Might your feelings be more complicated than you know how to handle?” She grins.
“Not exactly,” I hedge. “I don’t know her very well.”
“Well, quit being weird. You should ask her out.”
Bell starts to gather her things, and I roll my eyes. “Yes, that will make it less weird. I could get fired.”
“Okay, thenbefriendher.” She puts her bag over her shoulder and pulls her loose hair out from underneath the strap. “You take things too seriously.”
I snort.
Bell kisses my cheek. “Call me next time you are on my side of town.”
“Love you,” I tell her, even though she annoys me with her insight.
“Love you too.”
Bell scratches Zola on the head and calls goodbye, shutting the door behind her.
I sit on the couch before turning and slowly lying down. Zola stands on my chest, all four and a half kilos of her focused on her four paws, which makes it feel like ten kilos hampering my breathing, but then she settles down again.
I stroke her back as she purrs. Will anyone else catch on that I am attracted to my student and that we’ve already had a near-miss of a fling? The purring rumbles, battling the anxiety in my chest that tells me becoming friends with Emma wouldn’t make the situation any better.
15
Emma
I try notto be too upset about missing out on Thanksgiving. It’s a stupid, genocidal, oppressive holiday anyway, and it was fine to not have my kids come home for it, and I didn’t want to spend all day cooking a big meal where I would inevitably screw up at least two dishes, but because Parker is a whiz in the kitchen, it would eventually all pull through, and we would sit down to our Thanksgiving day dinner and eat ourselves silly.
I amliving in Rome. This was way better, obviously, even if I have a full week of classes.
But still.
My kids are even spending it apart, although Hattie is going to be with Bruce and his parents. I wonder if they’d all be together if I had flown home. Bruce and I had discussed holidays in the divorce as if they were custody, and I suppose, since the kids are grown, that’s the closest thing to it. Having the kids so far apart now meant that having them all together was harder, so Bruce and I would strive not to force them to split their time between us for the holidays.
Shonda and I decided to host our own Thanksgiving but keep it light. I wasn’t sure I could find a sixteen-pound turkey in Rome anyway (or fit one in my oven), so we agreed on roasting a chicken. Shonda offered to make macaroni and cheese and sweet potato pie. Cranberry sauce was the last thing on my list, and two stores didn’t have it, but I had found an expat forum that suggested a place on Cola di Rienzo a few blocks from the school. I return home triumphant on Saturday afternoon, and a few minutes later, there is a knock on my door.
I open it, and Santo and Bell are standing outside. Outside of the classroom, I hadn’t seen Santo since Zola had come for a visit last week and I’d met Bell.
“Professor Offredi. Hi.”
“Ms. Chance,” he greets me. “You remember Abelie?”
“Yes, hi.” We smile at each other.
