When It's Love (12 page)

Knowing Henry, his date will be anything but boring. I feel a smidgen of envy at the thought of Henry on a hot date, but I promptly assert to myself that it’s just because I’m lonely. Surely the sentiment has nothing to do with the way it felt to be in Henry’s arms wearing nothing but a towel.

I get my laptop and take it into bed with me. There are messages from Jake and from P.Sparling. I open Jake’s first. I’m a “first the bad news” kind of person. I like to save the “good news” for last.

Dear Sydney,

I’m so sorry I upset you today. I was trying to help. I hope you know that. It looks like you have someone taking care of you in Addison. I’m glad. I will stay away from you, but I’m here if you need me. Good luck with everything. And love, as always.

Jake

My heart knots up. This turn of events with Jake is both surprising and inevitable. He will always be my first love and he will always be the one who tried to help me float when all I wanted to do was sink. Now, however, I want to push Jake and the memories of the past away. I don’t want to think about my father and the hell that would break loose if Jake’s information is correct. Could my father really have had the nerve to return to U.S. soil? And if it’s true, what does he want, and why now? All I want to do is go back 24 hours to the time when I was lost in my lust for Professor Sparling. That was more than enough commotion for me.

And now, for the “good news,” I click to my message from Professor Sparling.

Dear Sydney,

I’m the safest secret you’ll ever have. I know you want me to see you naked. Send me a picture. I’m imagining you taking off your top, and your breasts falling out of the cups of your bra as you yank it down to show me your gorgeous assets. I want to work my tongue on your nipples. I want to put my hand between your legs and feel how much you want me. You want me so much, Sydney. I told you before, you don’t need to be shy with me. Send me a picture.

Waiting,

Paul

To think that Professor Sparling is this into me is incomprehensible. He is a famous writer, a brilliant professor with deep green mesmerizing eyes. He is utterly handsome and he could have any woman on earth. What could he possibly see in me? I’m so plain and unsophisticated. I’m pale and depressing.

I wish I could talk to Henry about this now. I suppose, though, that it would be inappropriate to text him questions about emailing naked photos of myself while he’s out on a date. To send or not to send? That is a question I should write into one of those women’s magazines:

Dear Janis,

Please advise. I’m having a virtual sexual relationship with my former professor who is a few decades older than me. He wants me to send him pictures of myself naked. What should I do?

Confused,

Miss Morrison

I don’t suppose I’d get a very quick answer if I sent my question to a magazine. The next best thing I can do is to ask the cats so I look to Tiny and Little for help. They don’t seem to be saying much more than “feed us tuna.” Those cats, they’ve always got fish on the brain.

I click open the picture I took of myself yesterday and study it closely. My breasts are in full view and perfectly in focus, but only part of my face is visible since my hair had fallen over my eyes and cheeks as I’d reached forward to take the photo. As I weigh my current options, I ogle the picture, like I’m a teenage boy seeing a pair of tits for the first time. It’s not that I’m scrutinizing the picture for flaws. I’m simply having a hard time believing it’s me. This erotic journey I’ve ventured into is taking turns I never imagined.

While I stare at the picture I think about the pros and cons of sending it to Professor Sparling. What do I have to lose if I email it, and what do I have to gain? I conclude that at worst, he could circulate the photo online, but he strikes me as one of those older people who doesn’t even know how to tweet. And if he does know how, who would retweet it? It’s just one of a zillion tit pics out there. I’m not a celebrity. There’s nothing spectacular about my picture. Why would anyone but Professor Sparling care? They wouldn’t. So, I should send the picture. Since I don’t expect Professor Sparling to find me unattractive, the picture will likely pique his interest even more. And that is a definite gain. Decision made.

I open a new message to Professor Sparling and prepare to attach my picture, but instead I do something else. Something that shocks me. It’s as though my fingers have taken over my brain and are typing all on their own.

Dear Professor Sparling,

I have a picture prepared and I was about to send it. But then it dawned on me: why do you want a picture when you could have the real thing?

Hot for you,

Sydney

I receive an immediate reply.

I’m away for the holiday. Send the picture. I’ll consider it your Christmas gift to me. I’m waiting.

The mention of a Christmas gift brings me back to reality for a moment. I need to buy something for the Harts. And I must get something for Henry. But what can I buy the guy who already has everything he wants? Perhaps I’ll just mock up my naked picture with a Santa Claus hat and use it as a Christmas card. That would sort of count as a Christmas gift, I think sarcastically. As if. But I bet Henry would find it hysterical. Henry! I need his advice so badly, but since he’s on a date, I’ll have to go with my gut on this one. I attach my picture to a new email and send it to Professor Sparling with only three words. Me. Naked. Attached. I close my eyes. It’s done and there’s no going back.

If there has ever been a moment in the history of Sydney Morrison that calls for a chocolate chip cookie, this is it. Wishing Henry were here with me, I sit down at the table, bite into the cookie and let the chocolate melt on my tongue. It’s heavenly. When I’m done indulging in the sweetness I go back to my laptop. My insanely arousing professor has replied!

I brace myself for disaster before I read the message. It’s highly possible my picture was of no interest and I have to be ready for that. If Professor Sparling hasn’t written something complimentary, I promise myself I won’t go to pieces. After slowly counting to ten in attempt to calm my racing heart, I fretfully open the email.

Dear Lovely Sydney,

Your precious beauty is overwhelming. And you are so fucking hot. You have that rare combination of natural beauty, sexiness, and a sharp mind to boot. You are every man’s dream, but my privilege only (I hope). I quite admire your photography. Show me more of your work.

Dazzled,

Paul

I read Professor Sparling’s message over and over again and with full concentration, as if I’m trying to memorize it. It seems too good to be true, and I’m absorbed so deeply in his flattery that I lose track of time. Have I been reading these same five lines for ten minutes or 30 minutes? Finally, I cannot contain myself any longer and I let out a high-pitched squeal that startles the cats. “Kitties! He called me ‘so fucking hot!’ Me? The girl in the gray sweatshirts. Not Melanie. Not Scarlett Johansson. Me! Sydney Morrison.” Apparently sweet talk is the way to my you-know-what because I am so turned on I feel like I am going to explode. Hey, Cosmo, I’ve got some news for you: way to feel sexy #2 is to take a naked selfie and send it to the man you want.

For the first time since I was with Jake all those years ago, I feel my body aching to have a man inside of me. I imagine lying naked beneath Professor Sparling, relishing the weight of his body on mine and the force of his erection pressing against my core. My fantasy is so vivid, it’s almost like I can feel him gently pushing at the entrance to that part of me that has been empty, lonely, and neglected for so long.

My doorbell rings and startles me out of my reverie. I hesitate for a minute, but before I can get worried I hear the familiar sound of Henry’s baritone. “Syd,” it’s me. “Open up!”

“One sec,” I say, trying to collect myself, though there’s probably no point. Henry will look at me and immediately know that something is up with Professor Sparling. “I’m warning you, I’m in my nightshirt. I don’t even have socks on,” I call.

I open the door and icy air comes in from the unheated hallway of my building. Goosebumps erupt on my bare legs and I shiver. Henry is standing before me in a tight black fleece that shows off his broad shoulders. He’s wearing a little black and white pin-stripped newsboy cap, slanted just a bit so its brim partially covers his right eye. He has a long baguette tucked into his armpit and he’s holding a big Tupperware container wrapped in thick, white dishtowels. Henry holds the container out to me. “It’s the soup Jerry made for you. Pumpkin with nutmeg and cinnamon.”

I’m so surprised to see Henry that I do nothing but stare at him for a few seconds. Then I realize I’m absolutely freezing with the door open. I snap to it and reach out to take the soup container from him. “Come in,” I say.

“Thanks, babe,” he says. “Did I catch you in the middle of something?”

“Uh, sort of.”

“Lemme guess. Sparling?”

Henry sets the food down in my tiny kitchen.

“How did you know?” I ask, grinning.

“Lucky guess,” Henry says.

“What are you doing here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be on a date?”

“I cancelled. I didn’t want to be out on the town while your soup was getting cold.”

“You seemed so angry when you left this afternoon,” I say.

“I’m not angry,” Henry says gently. “I just get aggravated when you shut me out.”

“Aw, Henry,” I say and pull him into a hug. “You’re so sweet to me.”

“I know it’s been a hard day for you,” Henry says as he pulls the cap off of his head and puts it on mine. “I’m sorry for adding pressure to it.” He nudges my chin up with his fingers so I look him in the eyes. I admire his beautiful, sparkling baby blues.

“You look pretty damn cute in my cap,” Henry says. “I’m going to make you keep it.”

I walk over to the bathroom and check myself out in the mirror. “It is kind of cute,” I say.

“It’s actually more than cute,” Henry says. “It’s sexy.”

“Is it now, my darling?” I giggle. “Speaking of sexy … I need your advice. I need a lot of advice.”

“First we’re eating,” Henry says. He opens my cupboard and finds my one and only pot. He pours the soup into it, puts it on the burner to warm and turns to look at me with a mischievous grin on his face. “You got it baaaaad for the old man,” he practically sings. Then he actually does begin to sing to the tune of the French nursery rhyme

Frère Jacques:

Geriatric, Geriatric

Professor Sparling, Professor Sparling …

I giggle and breathe a sigh of relief as I see that my buddy Henry is back to himself, and things seem to have returned normal between us. I grab the baguette off the counter and bop Henry on the head with it. He deserves it for totally teasing me. He grabs the baguette out of my hands and holds it like a baseball bat. I’m laughing so hard I double over. “Are you up for a game of bread ball?” Henry asks.

“You bet I am,” I say. “But if we keep playing with this baguette it will get too yucky to eat.”

“You started this,” Henry says. Then he lowers the bread bat and taps me on the bottom with it.

“Yowzers!” I shriek and swat at him. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“You fainted this morning and you didn’t tell me the real reason why.”

Now it’s my turn to take the baguette. “I don’t have to tell you everything,” I say and I tap his (noticeably nice) ass.

“Hold it right there,” Henry says. He reaches for his phone. “You look so adorable. I’m taking a picture.”

“I’m in a nightshirt, your newsboy hat and I’m holding French bread! I look absurd.”

“That’s why it’s so cute,” Henry declares.

I go with the flow and pose with the baguette baseball batter-style with my knees bent and my ass thrust out. I give Henry a giant, genuine smile.

“Awesome,” Henry says. “If you ever become normal enough to open a Facebook account, this pic is going on your page.”

“Speaking of pictures … Do you want to know the latest in the Sparling saga?”

“But of course, my lady,” Henry says. “Let me guess … he just moved into a retirement home?”

“Ha ha,” I sneer. “Stop chiding me and let’s have some soup ‘n’ saga,” I joke as I inhale the delightful aroma of pumpkin and spices that’s filling my apartment. My stomach begins to growl, and I grab a couple of bowls and spoons. I don’t have a ladle so I have to pour the soup straight out of the pot. Remarkably, I manage to do so without spilling, and I carry the bowls over to the table. I am so grateful that Henry is taking care of me. Would I have eaten a thing today if he hadn’t brought food? I don’t think so. Without Henry I’d be lost somewhere between the terrorizing thought of my father being back in Clarksville twenty-three years after he fled, and the unreal and oh-so-hot exchange I’m having with Professor Sparling. How did this become my life in just a few days’ time? A week ago I was a lonely girl in gray sweats fantasizing about her professor, and doing her best to stay solid despite the past that was eating away at her, a past she revealed for the first time in a personal essay assignment.

I think back to some of the lines I wrote in my essay. It had taken so much courage to write out my feelings, and I’m proud of myself for finding the strength to do it. Before I submitted the essay I’d read it over so many times that I could recite whole paragraphs by heart. There was one sentence that told the whole truth of the problem and I was impressed that I was able to articulate it so succinctly:

“After what my father did to my mother, the only thing alive in her was me.”

“Earth to Sydney,” Henry says. “Your soup is getting cold.”