Page 59 of Prosecco with My Professor
“But he knew about us?”
“Yes, but not…notdetails. I told him at the start of the term that nothing had happened, and I told him yesterday that nothing is going on between us, which is a lie of omission. But he didn’t really believe me and made some accusations.”
“So, you were upset that he accused you of sleeping with me?”
I look at Emma, finally. Her brows are drawn together, and I can see the self-consciousness warring with her desire for self-protection.
“I was upset,” I say carefully, “because he said I was just like my father.”
The wrinkle between her eyebrows deepens. “That was an insult?”
“My father had an affair with his young, naive secretary who got pregnant. Most people don’t know about it because my father threatened and bought off the woman, but I told Vincente, and I was upset that he was right. I don’t like the comparison, but I don’t blame him for making it.”
Emma’s mouth purses. “That’s bullshit.”
“What is?”
“He wasn’t right. You aren’t like your father.”
I snort. “You didn’t know my father.”
“Okay, fine, but here are some differences that I know.” She holds out a finger and starts counting. “One; you aren’t married. I’m pretty confident in this since I’ve met Abelie, and she would have said something. Two; how young was this secretary? I’m probably twice her age.”
“Twenty,” I admit.
“Three; I am not naive.”
I raise an eyebrow, and Emma flushes before lifting her chin. “Maybe I’m inexperienced with some things, but I am not naive. I’ve been married, had kids, started a business, and got divorced.” She sniffs. “I’m worldly now. Four; I can’t get pregnant.”
My other eyebrow joins the first.
“I had a procedure after kiddo number three,” she explains. “Five; while you could certainly make my time in the program difficult, having an illicit affair with someone you depend completely on for your job is different. There are procedures in place to handle student discipline; you can’t unilaterally fire me. Need I go on?”
I know Emma is trying to make me feel better. She stands there with her hand in the air, fingers outstretched, a flush on her cheeks.
But there’s a part of me that hopes that she’s making this argument not just so I’ll feel better, but to talk us into doing something more. Even thinking that she might fight for us this fervently has my heart racing.
I am so fucked.
30
Santo
Chiara cutsme off of the prescription painkillers, and I make do with over-the-counter pills. I’m still stiff and sore, and in my worst moments, I wonder if I’ll ever play football again. It seems unlikely when I’m still coming back from the university aching and spending whole evenings on the couch.
Vincente and I are not talking.
Bell came by to check on me last night, declared me “mopey,” and cooked me dinner.
Tonight, though, I grit my teeth and climb the stairs. It still hurts, but Chiara says it’ll get better if I keep moving.
When I reach the top of the stairs, my eye catches on Emma. She’s sitting outside her door, on the floor, back propped up against the wall.
She’s already blushing. I stop at her feet and look down at her.
“Are you okay?”
“I, uh…locked myself out. Probably.”
