Kissing Galileo: Dear Professor Book #2

by Penny Reid

  “Like hell it isn’t.”

  “It’s not. Even if I do get the surgery, I still won’t be with Emily.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because she was my student.” I tried the words on again as an excuse, this time they didn’t fit. That wasn’t the reason.

  Andy seemed to read my mind because he made the “wrong buzzer” sound, “Eeeeeerrrnt. Survey says, bullshit. Try again.”

  I searched my mind for the other reasons. “Because she’s very young.”

  “Uh, something tells me she’s got more maturity and experience than you. So, again, bullshit.”

  “Because she’s—”

  “Beautiful.”

  Dammit.

  “It’s because she’s beautiful.” He nodded at his own statement, smirking at me. “See, I know you. I know how your mind works, because I was you. You don’t think you’re worthy of her.”

  “That’s not it. It’s not about worth.” I glanced at my greasy hands.

  “Then what’s it about?”

  I thought about that, really and truly thought about it, and decided to tell him the truth. “What can I offer her? As you so frequently like to remind me, I’m a thirty-year-old virgin. I have nothing to offer.”

  “Uh, I’ve seen your dick. You’ve got plenty to offer.”

  Scowling at him, I shook my head. “What difference does that make if I don’t know how to use it?”

  He chuckled. “You don’t think it’ll be fun figuring that out? For the both of you?”

  “It’s never going to happen,” I said firmly, mostly because I needed to hear it. “We’re incompatible.”

  “Give me one good reason, other than you being a virgin.”

  “She doesn’t notice when people look at her.”

  “So?”

  “She’s used to being subjectively attractive. She takes it for granted.”

  “And you’re not/you don’t.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Don’t you think you could? Over time?”

  “I honestly don’t think so.” And that was the truth. I couldn’t imagine ever getting used to it.

  Andy seemed to contemplate me for a long time before sighing and nodding. “Okay. So. You’ve gone your whole life—prior to now—without anyone telling you you’re attractive. Again, I say, so what? Some people go their whole life without someone telling them that they’re good or smart. Or talented. Or interesting or funny. Not everyone is good, smart, or talented, or interesting or funny, and not everyone is good-looking. What’s the big deal? You think fat people don’t have great sex? Or stupid people? I had tons of great sex before I joined the marines. And you know I’ve had bigger girlfriends, and sex was never the problem. Man, you know Tasha was a—” He whistled, then sighed. “I wonder what she’s up to.”

  “The big deal is that subjective attractiveness—more than any of those other traits—is biologically programmed to be the main factor in whether or not a human passes on their genes.”

  “Their jeans?” Clearly, Andy was only half-listening as he picked through the Craftsman toolbox.

  “Genes. Procreation.”

  “Ah.”

  “You can be morally bankrupt, stupid, talentless, boring, and humorless, and yet still have the opportunity to procreate with very little effort if you’re attractive.”

  He tilted his head back and forth in a considering motion. “Okay. Fair point. But would you want to be that person? Would you want to live that life? Isn’t your dad that guy? He’s miserable. And attractiveness is relative. And! It doesn’t matter who you are, attractiveness fades. Time stops for no person, except maybe Paul Rudd. You know that guy is fifty?”

  “What? Are you serious?” Fifty?!

  “Yeah, man. He’s like that book you gave me, the one with the picture in the attic somewhere.”

  “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

  “Exactly. And from the way you talk about Emily, it sounds like her inside matches the outside.”

  “It certainly appears to,” I agreed absentmindedly. Paul Rudd is fifty?

  “Or, and I’m just spitballing here, maybe you like the way the outside looks so much because of what’s on the inside?”

  “No.”

  He pulled a face, but I had to be honest.

  “No, Andy. I mean, she is great. She’s funny and smart and a good, kind person. But also, she’s . . . “

  “What?”

  “She’s so fucking hot.” I blew out a breath, shaking my head at my use of the expletive, but it had to be said. “Every time I’m around her, I can’t think straight. Her eyes are amazing, gorgeous, this very particular shade of brown and gold, like honey. And she has this oval face, a perfect oval, and her lips. Her top lip is larger than the bottom, with a cupid’s bow—do you know what that is?”

  “Na-ah.” He didn’t sound interested. “I guess she’s pretty, but she’s not my type. Not the way I order my hamburger. Therefore professor, I still think you like her outside so much because you like her inside a lot.”

  I scratched the back of my neck, thinking about her lips. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It is.”

  “How is her being beautiful a bad thing?” Andy glared at the stubborn bolt, as though he could intimidate it into moving.

  “Because . . .”

  “Because?”

  I’d committed to being honest thus far. “Because it means I’ll never be able to date her.”

  Andy shifted his eyes from the bolt to me. “Are we back to this again? Why?”

  Wasn’t it obvious? “How do I know it’s not just her outside I want? That it’s not just strictly physical? I’ve determined it’s unwise for me to date physically attractive people.”

  He wiped his forehead, smearing a trail of grease over his eyebrow, grumbling, “What are you going on about? That’s not a thing.”

  “It’s a thing.”

  “It’s not. Everyone is interested in people they find physically attractive. It’s the thing, the one misguided habit every single person on this planet has in common. It’s inescapable.”

  “Not for me.” I shook my head.

  “So you’re saying you’ll only go out with ugly people? That’s the plan?”

  “No one is ever truly ugly.”

  “Fake news.”

  “Name one ugly person.”

  “Price Cooper is one ugly sonofabitch. Fight me.”

  A protest died on my lips. Price Cooper was a guy we’d gone to high school with. He’d been good-looking then, and an asshole. Now he was ugly, and still an asshole. I studied Andy thoughtfully as he crossed to where I sat, his grin stretching the closer he got.

  “Ugly, right?”

  I stood and shoved my hands in my pockets. “It’s his personality.”

  “It’s his face.” He backed away, gesturing to his own face.

  “It’s both.”

  “Whatever. Point is, there are ugly—objectively ugly—people out there. Denying their existence is stupid. Just like there are morally bankrupt people, and dumb people, and humorless people. But being ugly doesn’t make a person bad, just like being stupid doesn’t make a person bad, or being humorless. The key thing here is that ugly people exist—fact. And you’re telling me—now that your interest has finally been piqued—that you want to exclusively date the ugly folk?”

  “No,” I drawled out, trying not to laugh at how he said the ugly folk, like unattractive people were fairies or leprechauns. “I’m saying I don’t want to spend time dating anyone who is objectively attractive, and definitely not someone beautiful.” Like Emily.

  “And yet, you still haven’t told me why. Do you even know?”

  “Because I want to be with someone based on who they are on the inside, not based on something illusory and meaningless like ‘good looks.’”

  He pulled another face, placing his hands on his hips a
nd lifting an eyebrow. “What you’re saying here is pretty darn twisted.”

  “How is it twisted?”

  “You’re assuming good-looking people have nothing going for them other than their looks, right? But take me for instance.” He gestured to himself with both thumbs. “I’m one seriously handsome bastard and the funniest, coolest, smartest guy you hang out with on the weekend in a hangar, am I right?”

  “You’re the only guy I hang out with on the weekend in a hangar.”

  “Admit it, it’s pretty shitty of you to assume just because a person is good-looking they’re not worth your time. Good, worthy people come in all shapes and sizes and attractiveness.”

  I pushed a hand through my hair. “I’m not saying that. I merely hypothesize that people who aren’t objectively attractive have—in general terms, as a generalization to the population at large—more going for them by all other quality measures than objectively attractive people, and are therefore more worth my time. What? Why are you shaking your head?”

  Andy gave me a pitying glance, chuckling again. “You dumb, sweet, clueless man-child.”

  “I’m clueless? How am I clueless?”

  “That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.”

  “Maybe not for you, but for me—”

  “Nope. Not for you, either. You are not special, Victor. Listen—” he took a step closer, placing a hand on my shoulder as though to confide in me “—you want to eat cow tongue?”

  Cow tongue?

  “What?”

  “Do. You. Want. To. Eat. Cow. Tongue?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “It’s full of essential vitamins and minerals and omega-3 fatty acids. All that good shit.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Just pretend for a minute that it is. Just pretend it’s the healthiest food in the whole damn world, all right? Now, knowing it’s the best thing for you, do you want to eat it? Or how about monkey ass? Or sheep’s balls? The hair is the best part, full of fiber.”

  I glared at my friend.

  “Exactly.” He nodded once, definitively, as though I’d just proved a point.

  “What, exactly?”

  “Fucking other people is like eating food. Yeah, if you’re starving, it doesn’t matter all that much. You might be able to gag down a sea urchin toenail or two.”

  “Sea urchins don’t have toenails.”

  He ignored me. “But usually, you want to eat something that looks and tastes and smells good—to you—and makes you feel good. One person’s cow tongue is another person’s filet mignon. Personal taste and texture matters, presentation matters. Choking on octopus intestines every day is going to get old real fast, unless you just love yourself some octopus intestines. Sooner or later, if you try to force it with someone you’re not attracted to, you’ll get tired of fucking with the lights off.”

  With one last squeeze of my shoulder and a tight smile, Andy turned away, strolling toward the power wrench in the corner of the shop.

  Conflicted, I watched him go. What he said made sense, and I hated that it made sense, but—

  “Do whatever you want, Victor. Pretend you worked day and night to fix her car and make it like new because you wanted to be a good friend, pretend you’ve got everything under control, pretend you’re not in love with her.” His shoulders rose and fell, calling, “But do you really think she’s going to wait around forever?”

  I stiffened. “What does that mean?”

  “Like you said before, she gets hit on all the time. How long before she finds her own filet mignon and leaves you with an empty plate?”

  Do you really think she’s going to wait around forever?

  Even before Andy gave voice to it, this question had been stalking me. Just the thought of Emily with someone else, a boyfriend she’d probably introduce me to, made me feel as though I might go insane. I didn’t like this feeling.

  I am not myself.

  I’d shrugged off checking my phone constantly throughout any given day, hoping that she’d messaged, my heart jumping whenever she did. I’d explained away this new, persistent panic every time I stepped on the scale and the pressing urge to lose even more weight as a passing phase. I’d rationalized spending the majority of my free hours either with her or doing something for her as temporary. She was a new friend. So what if I prioritized our dinners over going out with my other friends?

  And so what if I thought about her constantly, missed her constantly, had difficulty concentrating at home and at work, rearranged my schedule to move all my shifts at the airfield to when I knew she’d be busy?

  Staring at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes moved over the loose skin on my chest. Drifting past the defined muscles of my upper stomach, I pushed the towel around my waist lower so I could see the sagging folds at my lower abdomen.

  I’d told Andy the truth about why I’d decided to have the surgery. The skin was uncomfortable, especially when working out or when I was active. He was right about why I’d held off for so long, I’d allowed other people and their opinions dictate my decisions. I’d held off to spite them, because I—as he put it—clung to my moral superiority like a life raft.

  But he was also right about Emily being one of the reasons. I didn’t like what that said about me. I didn’t like how I’d allowed her to change me, how I’d let her influence my motivations, how I thought about her before making decisions. I didn’t like that her opinion mattered so much.

  And what would happen when she did find someone else?

  “I’m not myself,” I said on a tired sigh.

  Wrapping the towel once more around my waist, I left the bathroom. She was coming over tonight. It was my turn to cook, and I’d been planning this dinner for over a week. But after my conversation with Andy this afternoon, I’d wanted to cancel.

  I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that to her. I knew she cared about me, in her own way, and I wouldn’t just disappear on her without an explanation. I owed her more than that.

  When the time came for us to part ways, when our friendship ended—and I was convinced it would have to come to an end eventually—I would tell her the truth: I love you, it hurts too much to see you with someone else, I know nothing can ever happen between us and that’s fine, I wish you nothing but happiness. That’s what I’d resolved to do.

  But until that day, until she introduced me to the man she loved, I’d want to be her friend. I’d want to support her, take care of her in my small way, and spend as much time as possible in her company.

  It would be enough.

  I’d picked up the lobsters from a fish market across from the university. Presently, they were still alive, crawling around a makeshift fish tank in my garage. I’d made bread earlier in the day, before my shift at the airfield, letting it rise and then baking it while I took a shower. A friend of mine near Umbria, Italy had sent me truffles, parmesan, balsamic glaze, and homemade pasta from a market near his house. I already had a few bottles of Chianti, prosecco, and olive oil from a shipment over winter break.

  Tonight, we would have wine, fresh bread with olive oil and garlic, truffle carbonara, and fresh steamed lobsters. I hadn’t eaten dinner yesterday or any food today, saving my calories for the planned feast.

  Therefore, I was a little dizzy when I opened the door, made dizzier still by Emily’s giant smile.

  “Hello!” She leaned forward.

  Low on food, my brain wasn’t working properly. I just stood there, tense and unmoving. I couldn’t decide whether to greet her with a cheek kiss, or a hug, or a handshake, or—

  “Bah!” she said, grabbing me and hugging me and then huffing as she pulled away and stepped into my house. “We’ve got to do something about this. We’re never on the same page.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean with how we greet each other. Sometimes, you extend your hand. Sometimes I do, and then you go in for the hug. Or I go in for the kiss and you’re going for the shake a
nd we sort of, you know, smash together.” She laughed, pulling off her coat, her eyes bright and happy.

  “I guess we do need to work on it,” I agreed absentmindedly, distracted by her happy expression.

  “So, which is it? Hmm? What are we doing? High five, handshake, air kiss, hug? What?” She moved her arms with each suggestion as though miming the actions as they were listed.

  I shoved my hands in my pockets. “We’re deciding?”

  “Yes. How are we friend greeting each other from now on? I need directions. I need—”

  “Kiss on the cheek.”

  Her eyebrows jumped. “Kiss on the cheek?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly, committing to it. It had slipped out, a desire spoken, but I wanted her kisses on me, even if I had to settle for the cheek. It was selfish and reckless, and I didn’t fucking care.

  “Okay. Kiss on the cheek.” She nodded, like it was decided. “Which way are you going?”

  “Going?” Did she mean the kitchen or . . .?

  “Left or right? We need to work it out so we don’t both go the same direction and then more smashing occurs. Oh my God, why does it smell like fresh bread in here? Did you bake bread?”

  “I did bake bread, and I’ll go to my le—uh, my right?”

  “You’re left-handed or right-handed?” She walked past me toward the kitchen, her steps hurried.

  I followed behind, checking her out, as was my habit. Tonight, she wore snug black pants—maybe they were yoga pants?—and a pink T-shirt with nothing on it.

  “I’m left-handed,” I said, tearing my eyes away from her ass.

  “Then you should go to the left, that’ll be your first instinct. I can go left because I swing both ways.”

  I choked. “Pardon?”

  “I’m ambidextrous.” She glanced at me fleetingly as she entered the kitchen, her attention immediately arrested by the bread and olive oil mixture I’d placed on the counter. “I can go either way, so I’ll just follow your lead. I can’t believe you baked bread. I never eat bread like this.” Dipping a slice into the olive oil, garlic, balsamic, and spices, she shoved the piece into her mouth, her eyes rolling back in her head as she groaned and chewed. “One piece,” she moaned around a mouthful. “Only let me have one piece. Otherwise I have to spend four hours at the gym tomorrow and I hate the gym.”