Professor Adorkable

by Edie Danford

  “I think we should date,” I say.

  “Date?” He weighs down the word with shock and disbelief, saying it like my department head would say, “You lost your data for your eight-million-dollar grant proposal?”

  “Yes.” My voice is maybe a little too loud. I try to modulate. “Go out together. Have fun. Have sex. Real sex where we touch each other as much as we want. In a bed or on a couch or the floor. Wherever. But mostly it would be about caring for each other in a different way than we have before—you see?”

  He raises his mug to his mouth, still staring into my eyes. The mug clacks into his teeth, and he winces as he sets it down on the counter again.

  “What?” I ask. I take a deep breath. Confidence, confidence. “You know what I mean by dating, right?”

  “I’ve been on a few.”

  “And so…”

  “I don’t date anymore.”

  I lean back on the stool and cross my arms. I’ve been expecting this response because he’s mentioned this ridonkulous (as Zoe would say) policy before. “I am not such a fan of dating, either. But dating each other would be different. Feel different. Because I am myself and you are you, and when we’re together we make something different. A different thing than what either of us had in the past.”

  He stares at me for a few moments before saying, “You’re different, all right.”

  I smile again. “And this is good.”

  “Wrong.” He shakes his head. “I mean, you as a person? You’re good. Amazing, in fact. But you and me together? No.”

  “Why no?”

  “I don’t want a relationship.”

  “How do you know this so certainly when you haven’t tried to have one with me?”

  “I’ve spent the last six months with you practically 24/7. I know you pretty well, Mar.”

  “This only proves my point. You get me. You care for me.”

  “I take care of you. And that proves my point. I’ve made you believe there could be something personal… Um, you know, that we could have a serious relationship with sex and everything, when really I’m the worst prospect for that in all of Chicagoland.”

  “I don’t think so. Eight million people—it’s a lot. I can think of several within the surrounding three blocks who would be much worse prospects. Mrs. Carmichael. Zoe. Zoe’s dad. Terry Wong. Jeff Bezinger. Otto the pug. Lynn Franklin. Mark and David—”

  He laughs again, and I feel another small surge of victory. “Okay,” he says, “stop with the examples. I get it. But you get what I’m saying too.”

  I reach over and take his hand. Maybe too tentative with the reach, but once our skin touches, I hold his fingers solidly. Slightly stickily too. “I don’t really get what you’re saying. You’re excellent relationship material. I know you. And I… I want to be with you. As a boyfriend. A lover. Because I think I might love you, Pete. In fact, I’m almost sure of it.”

  He’s been staring down at our joined hands, his brow wrinkling. My sticky fingers are probably annoying. But when he looks up into my eyes again, I see he isn’t annoyed. His expression seems fearful. Horror or terror or dismay. Those words might describe it.

  I open my mouth. Shut it. Take a deep breath. And, in those few seconds where I try to come up with what to say next, to maybe qualify my feelings, to explain that love maybe didn’t translate very well between Czech feelings and American feelings, his expression changes.

  Again, it’s hard to discern, to describe. Mostly it strikes me as a mask. A shield or a veil coming down over his forehead, eyes, mouth, chin. His lips curve into a stiff smile. Usually, I adore Pete’s smiles. Not this one.

  “You can’t love me,” he says, still with the forced smile.

  “I can’t?”

  “Marek, you don’t know me. Not really. Living together here these past several months—I think it’s given both of us a…a weird, fake-y sense of reality.”

  “Fake-y?”

  “Yeah. It’s a proximity thing. Your family hired me to take care of you because they can’t be here. And so I’ve kind of become a little like your family. You feel close to me because I’m here all the time, here making you food you like, here laughing at your goofball jokes, here making sure your super-dork clothes are clean and easy to find…”

  I stare down at the delicious breakfast he’s made, feeling suddenly like a “super-dork” chore and not so much like a potential love interest. Or even a friend.

  Of course—and I don’t know what it says about me that I can’t seem to remember this—Pete isn’t working here because he thinks I’m irresistible or lovable or friendship-worthy.

  He hadn’t even met me when he’d signed on to take the job. He had been hired by my uncle. My uncle who thought I was a social imbecile, who thought I’d starve, or perhaps burn down my home without supervision.

  I want Pete to stop talking. I want to re-examine the faulty data that has led me down this fucking awful conversational path. I want to turn around, go upstairs, and begin this day again, but my ears keep listening to what he’s saying.

  “If you’d known me in high school, or even a couple years back, you probably wouldn’t have liked me.” He runs his hand over his hair and grimaces. “One of my nicknames was Pete the Party. I’d thought it was edgy and fun back then, but now…” He makes another pained sound. “You know how you don’t care about how people dress or look or what they do for a living? Well, that’s all I used to care about. I had a few close friends who put up with me, but, in the end, I pushed them away too, because I was always doing stupid shit to prove how fabulous and popular I was all the time. I was not the kind of guy you’d want as a friend, let alone as someone to date. And lord knows, I wouldn’t have wanted to date you.”

  “Oh.” I push away the plate of pancakes.

  I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but there is a sad truth in his words. Of course Pete wouldn’t want to date me. We’re so different. Perhaps it’s those differences—his warmth, his care, his energy—that makes me, a man who has been lonely much of his life, want to soak him up like he’s warm syrup. But that doesn’t mean he feels the same way about me, and I also have to admit that maybe my need for him, like syrup, isn’t exactly a healthy thing.

  This idea of mine has been the wrong approach. A horrible hypothesis, a terrible setup—

  “Marek.” He reaches for my hand, wrapping his fingers around mine.

  “What?” I hate having to ask him to explain himself over and over. It reminds me of the days when I’d first moved to the U.S. and everything had been so uncertain, and I’d felt so fucking alone—

  “This doesn’t mean I don’t want to be friends.” He lifts his hand from mine. “It doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep working here, keep taking care of you.” The sticky pull of our skin has a surprisingly sharp sting. But it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the way he’s looking at me. First with guilt and sadness darkening his eyes, and then with that mask that makes him look…not like the Pete I know.

  “Yes,” I say, my lips struggling with the single syllable. “Thank you for that. For your friendship. And care.” I take a breath. Another. “I am sorry.”

  “God, Mar. Please don’t be sorry. I think I’m totally fucking up this conversation. Somehow giving you the impression that I don’t like you, or that you did something—”

  “No. I meant I’m sorry I won’t be able to eat this breakfast you made. My stomach.” I have no problem making an appropriately sick-looking face. “It’s feeling…off this morning.”

  He fixes his gaze on my plate. “You always eat pancakes. Even that time you were really hungover, and I didn’t want to give you more than four ’cause I was afraid you might barf.” He glances at my face. His mask slips, eyes wide, lips parting.

  I can tell what he’s seeing in my eyes, in my expression. He knows I’m hurting. Now he’s feeling guilty. Feeling sorry for me.

  I stand abruptly. Or I try to stand. My foot gets stuck on the stool’s base a
nd my balance becomes iffy. My arm, an appendage I can usually rely on, juts out across the counter and swiftly goes wide, sweeping mugs, plates, silver, napkins, a small vase with flowers onto the floor.

  I stare down at my arm, the sound of things breaking, falling and rolling around ringing in my ears. I glance at Pete. He’s staring at the mess, his eyes wide, skin pale and eyebrows high. Shocked.

  “I’ll clean it up.” I kick the stool away, finally figuring out how to separate myself from the fucking thing, then bend to pick up the nearest, biggest chunk of mess. My fingers are shaking. I’ve never done something so embarrassingly uncontrolled before. Well, except for the night before when I’d fallen on top of Pete. And then kissed him. And then—

  “No, you will fucking not. That’s my job.” His shocked expression has made a fast departure. His cheeks are turning pink, his eyes darkening, mouth twisting. Frustration, impatience.

  Fine. I’m feeling frustrated too. “Well, you will not be the one to clean it,” I state. I drop half of my favorite mug onto the counter. “I was the child who threw the tantrum. Now I will have to deal with my own fucking mess.” I wave a hand toward his room. “Go.”

  “You’re not wearing shoes. You’re shitty at cleaning up messes.”

  “But I am good at shouldering the consequences of my own fuck-ups.” I pick up a wad of pancakes and toss them into the sink. “Or, at least, trying to be better at it.”

  Pete stares at me.

  “What?” I ask, yet again. “Shouldering was the wrong word, wasn’t it?”

  “Shouldering? God, Mar, who the fuck cares? You need to get away from all that broken shit before you hurt yourself.”

  I shake my head. Pick up another chunk of pancakes. “I will do this.”

  Pete walks away.

  I fall to my knees, landing in the muck and mess. I begin to carefully pick out broken china from the food. Hard because my vision is blurry. I blink. So much for control and confidence. A hysterical blast of laughter erupts from my throat.

  The sound must’ve drowned out Pete’s footsteps, because I’m completely surprised when a big plastic bucket lands next to me, followed by Pete himself.

  “Here,” he says, gently taking a piece of plate from my trembling fingers. “Put the stuff that’s not food in the bucket. We might be able to repair some things. When we’ve picked out all of that, we can sweep up the food.”

  We work together quietly for a few minutes. I have to snuffle a few times to keep my nose from running. Very attractive, I’m sure.

  “Marek.”

  Raising my shoulder to my cheek to swipe at the remnants of pancake particles or snot or whatever, I finally let my gaze travel to his face. “Yes?”

  “Are you okay? Because if you aren’t—if you feel like last night made it too awkward for me to keep working here, or if all the shitty mixed signals I’ve been sending have ruined things—then I should leave—”

  “No! I mean, yes, I’m okay.” I can’t get the words out fast enough. The thought of him leaving is infinitely worse than the thought of me having to deal with the aftermath of my communication breakdown. “We’ll go back to the way things were. Forget this—” I gesture at the remnants of breakfast. “—this mess.”

  He stares down at the syrup dispenser. It’s empty, but not broken. He finally says, “Even if I didn’t work here, there are reasons why we shouldn’t be more than friends. I’ve made it a policy to never talk about my past, but since my policies have proven to be stupid lately—”

  “Pete—”

  “No, let me finish. When I was in California, at my old job, I pretended not to see ugly things, hurtful things. People didn’t respect each other, you know? And I didn’t do anything about it. I want to put that kind of life behind me. The thought of it now…it makes me ashamed.”

  “I’m sorry, Pete. Truly. We’ve all done things we’re ashamed of—”

  “I’m trying hard to be a better person. Not such an asshole. I’d never want to disrespect you, or hang on to a job where interactions would be frustrating or have double meanings all the time. I’ve done that and it sucks.”

  It seems as though he’s going to say something more, but when he doesn’t, I nod and say, “I’ve been around you a lot for the last several months. I’m responsible for the awkwardness around here. And I’ve never witnessed you being an asshole.”

  “A total lie.”

  “I’ve seen you be a dick. But dicks are different from assholes.”

  “Thank God.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I hope you understand why I have to say no to anything other than a work and friendship thing with you. There are professional reasons, of course—I’m here to take care of you, not fuck you. But there are personal reasons too. I’m carrying a lot of shit around with me right now. And I don’t want any of it to spill out on you.”

  We’re currently kneeling in a pile of shit that I’ve made, but I don’t point that out to him. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance to get things right, to try to understand what’s happening between us.

  “Thank you for protecting me from shit.” I gesture at the mound of now very gross-looking food at our knees. “All kinds of it.”

  He smiles, his mouth soft-looking. Maybe slightly sad. “You’re welcome.”

  “So,” I say. How to make him happy? How to make him want to keep putting up with me and my messes? “Here’s what we will do.”

  “Yes?” He stands and carries the bucket over to the back door. I want to rush to carry it for him, but that would not make him happy.

  When he turns to come back, I stand so I can look down at him. I sense this will be easier to say if I’m taller. “We will forget everything from last night’s glass breaking to this morning’s breakfast flinging. We will simply function as if those hours from break to fling did not happen. Erase that data. It was a glitch.”

  “Um…” He runs his wrist across his forehead. “But some stuff that happened in those hours was important, Mar. And what we discussed. Like, how we can’t be together anymore. Alone, I mean, especially at night. As if we were boyfriends.” He gives my sock-covered foot a gentle nudge with his broom. “We’ll figure out new ways for you to relax and have fun. You need to branch out, stop hanging only with me. I don’t want to be a hard-ass, but it should be a condition for me to keep working here. Okay?”

  I don’t want to agree, but I don’t want him to leave. So I nod once.

  I try not to think about how last night’s awkwardness was all my fault. My infatuation with Pete had made me misread the situation. I’d thought I could make things more comfortable between us by showing him what I wanted. Instead, I’d made things beyond awkward.

  “You’ll be late to class.” He glances at the big clock over the window. “Better haul ass upstairs.”

  “I have twenty minutes.”

  “Not if you have to change and wash up. Go on. I’ll pack you something to eat.”

  I look down at my food-covered pants, my sticky hands. It will be hard to think of ways to make myself more attractive to him when it’s his job to remind me of the dumb things I always forget.

  But then he smiles and gives me another push, bossy yet caring. Fuel that jacks me higher than pancakes and syrup.

  I gaze down at him. This issue of our friendship, of the rules between us—it’s complicated, sure. But I can deal with exercises in hard thinking. In fact, I’m known to be sort of a genius at it.

  “Will you be here for lunch?” I ask.

  “No. Not today. I have a meeting with the Domesticates in Lakeview. I’ll see you at dinner, though.”

  “Okay. Let’s have pizza. No cooking or cleaning.”

  He looks over at the mess on the floor and winces. “Good idea.”

  “Leave it, and I’ll clean it over my lunch hour.”

  His “yeah, right” eye roll is oddly comforting. I hustle out to the hallway. If I hurry, I can change, wash, and still have ten minutes to help him.

  P
ete

  Usually, I take the Metra or the bus or a combo of both to the Loop and any points north, but since there’s a chance I might have time to check in on my mom, I decide to drive. Marek owns a BMW—the cute, hipster-nerdish, electric model. It suits him, but he hates to drive, so I’m the only one who uses it.

  Around Thanksgiving time, I’d turned my ankle while wrangling my wheeled shopping basket during a nasty sleet storm. I’d been pissed off to lose a load of groceries over a dirty Chicago curb, but Marek had been mad for other reasons.

  He’d gone into his rare stern-professor mode, citing stats about personal safety and coming up with formulas for time spent and mileage and stress and related crap. He’d insisted I think of the car as an appliance, like the refrigerator or the toaster. I’d pointed out that the toaster cost approximately $59,950 less than the car, but he’d just laughed.

  Mar is loaded—when he’d been an undergrad, he’d patented some technology that was coveted by every computer-design engineer on the planet—but you’d never know it. He just doesn’t seem to care about…stuff.

  Clothes, cars, furniture, accessories, the two-million-dollar townhouse—he thinks all of it is boring and refuses to be bothered with it. Although he might live in a material world, Mar is in no way a material boy.

  Kind of a radical concept for me to get used to, really.

  Ninety-nine percent of the guys I’d known in California had cared more about image than substance. And I was talking about every image—from an extra-extra Gucci phone case to a 12k-a-month apartment in a new high-rise off Doheny.

  Who cares if a cocktail tastes like ass, as long as the club or the party where it’s served is on the “it” list? Why should it matter if a guy was a douche or a dummy or a double-crosser? All that matters is the label on his shirt, the cut of his abs, and the people he knows.

  I know so much about image-driven dudes because I used to be one of them.

  I’ve changed in some big ways, but I have to admit that I get a much bigger charge out of driving Mar’s baby Beemer than I get out of taking the bus or walking.

  This morning, after turning off Lake Shore Drive and immediately becoming part of a traffic snarl, I realize that, even with the convenience of the car, I’ve been dreaming to believe I could pack so many things into my day.