Kissing Galileo Read online

  Chapter 10

  *Emily*

  I’d never seen the room empty so slowly. My classmates had been possessed by sloths. Excited, whispering, staring, wide-eyed sloths. Make no mistake, they were excited. And I did not doubt for one second that a contingent of them would loiter outside the lecture hall, waiting for me to emerge.

  I guess I understood their curiosity. What kind of crazy person would contradict Dr. Hanover in his domain, argue the point, and then call him a hypocrite?

  I mentally pointed at myself using both my thumbs. This crazy person. This one. Right here.

  Yet, I didn’t feel like a crazy person. I felt indignant and irritated. These emotions provided me sufficient wreckage upon which to cling to after my Titanic performance, a door large enough to float upon during the sluggish progress of my fellow students.

  Also, for the record, there was no room for Dr. Hanover on this hypothetical floating door. He could die a cold death at the bottom of the icy sea, where all the other frigid creatures dwelt while I lounged on my spacious buoyant debris.

  Eventually, my classmates did leave, the last departing footstep followed by the last reverberating slam of the door. And then we were left entirely and utterly alone.

  “Please.” His attention focused on the tabletop and papers scattered before him, Dr. Hanover motioned with his hand that I should come join him at the front of the class.

  “No, thank you. I prefer to stay where I am,” I said, tearing my eyes from his downturned head, standing, and reaching for my backpack. For some reason, the fact that he hadn’t looked up yet, that he hadn’t looked at me since dismissing my challenge as rude, really pissed me off. It pissed me off so much, the near constant fluttering in my chest since spotting him three hours ago finally, finally stopped.

  Good riddance.

  A moment later, I thought I felt the weight of his gaze, but I was too busy packing up my stuff to look, and too irritated to care. I made a mental note: hope and fear froze me, but anger and righteousness were apparently lubricants for recklessness.

  “Emily, you—”

  “Dr. Hanover, unless you’re planning to apologize—” I shoved my laptop into my backpack with more force than necessary “—then I’m not really interested in anything you have to say.”

  Whoa. Go Emily. I deserve a new set of D&D dice for that.

  “Apologize for what?” He didn’t sound upset. He sounded curious. And closer.

  I kept my attention fastened to where I was working to fit both my notebook and my textbook in the main pocket of my bag. “Apologize for insinuating that I was rude.”

  “I didn’t insinuate. I said, quite ubiquitously, that you were rude.” Footsteps on linoleum, his voice was even closer. He was climbing the stairs toward me.

  But the shiver of anticipatory anxiety was chased away by a renewed burst of irritation at his words.

  Pausing my efforts, I turned to face Dr. Hanover. He was still several steps away, his pace unhurried, his eyes on me.

  My dumb heart twisted. I ignored it. “I wasn’t rude. But if I were—being rude—you said yourself that challenging perspectives in research design, in science, was not just necessary, it was expected. So, either way, you’re a hypocrite.”

  He nodded faintly, his gaze holding mine as he approached, reaching the step just below my row. “So, what you really want is for me to apologize for being a hypocrite?”

  I huffed a laugh. “Nope. Everyone is a hypocrite. If I asked you to apologize for being one, then I’d have to apologize too. Nice try, though.”

  Dr. Hanover smiled. It was a very brief smile, looked completely involuntary, and it definitely wasn’t my imagination.

  Shoving my notebook into my bag, I zipped it, not allowing myself to think about his not-imaginary-but-definitely-involuntary smile. “So, if we’re finished, then I have—”

  “No. We’re not finished.” He now stood at the end of my row, his hands stuffed in his ugly brown pants that were too big, his intelligent eyes sparking with either irritation or humor or both, but his voice was gentle. “You can’t fight with me during class because you’re upset about us.”

  Uhhh . . . what?

  He’d stunned me. I was stunned.

  Therefore, I could only manage an inelegant, “What?”

  “You said, the other night, that I hurt your feelings.” His tone was now not only gentle, it was intimate.

  “So?” Blinking uncontrollably, I crossed my arms, standing straighter. What did this have to do with anything?

  He seemed to be studying me, which was a heady experience given the intellectual intensity of his gaze. “It was not—and never has been—my intention to hurt you.” His words were quietly spoken, but the combination of gentleness and intimacy, affection and regret paired with the heated way he was looking at me felt considerably more forceful than when he’d all but shouted at me in front of the class ten minutes earlier.

  Such tenderness. Such genuine regret! The statement felt like an assault of softness, of vulnerability. Abruptly, my skin felt too tight and my chest hurt. He had me caught in his magnetic field of boyish and sharply intelligent accidental attractiveness. ALERT ALERT ALERT!

  Victor took a step forward. I tensed. He halted, lifting his hands, his actions reminding me of the time my mom tried to rescue a cluster of feral kittens.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice roughened with some unknown emotion. “I don’t know how to be with—or, I guess, around someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?” I parroted unthinkingly, turning the words over and over in my brain as I tried to make sense of them, my earlier anger eclipsed by this extraordinary turn of events and subject change.

  “Someone I . . .” He breathed out, but didn’t finish that thought, instead saying, “Emily, my point is, you’re upset. But taking it out on me during class is not the right answer. You’re better than that. If you’re angry, come talk to me.”

  What?

  Wait. . . ohhhhh!

  Right.

  That’s right.

  This is the thing we’re talking about. Not the other thing. And this thing has nothing to do with the other thing.

  And just like that, the wonderful web of potentially good feelings was shattered.

  I chuckled, closing my eyes just briefly and shaking my head at myself, my skin relaxing, the ache in my chest easing. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be distracted from the original topic, especially because—though he was too blind or self-absorbed to admit it—our brief attraction had nothing to do with what had happened during class.

  “Listen, Dr. Hanover—” I picked up my bag and hooked it over my shoulder “—I’m fine with teaching myself the remainder of this semester’s material and finishing up my tests and assignments with Gloria. If being challenged by a student pushes you outside of your comfort zone, just say so. But don’t justify your inability to engage in a debate by deluding yourself that this—” I gestured the lecture hall with a waving arm “—had anything to do with the three seconds I thought you were worth getting to know.”

  “That’s exactly what this—” he mimicked my waving arm movement, gaining another step forward, his brilliant eyes crackling with something I refused to label “—was about, Emily.”

  Oh no he didn’t!

  My anger doubled-down.

  “No, professor. It was about deception studies and—apparently—your failure and lack of willingness to engage in and foster healthy conversation. I believe deception studies have their place in the research design spectrum. Therefore, I disagree with you. I’m allowed to disagree with you and challenge you.”

  “You have no idea,” Victor mumbled, an amused yet rueful grin claiming his mouth. He glanced away from me while drawing his bottom lip between his teeth.

  He was now approximately two feet away and I was close enough—and the light was good enough—for me to discern the details of him. Each individual eyelash, the faint creases and lines around his eyes, the dark pointillism of his day beard, the chest hair peeking out of his shirt’s collar, the sharp angle of his jaw and cheekbones.

  In addition to the small details, I both saw and felt the difference in our sizes and shapes, how tall he was, how big his shoulders were, how strong. Even though I was certain he’d never rely on his strength to intimidate, I felt oddly intimidated.

  I say oddly because it was a thrilling type of intimidation I’d never experienced before rather than the scary one that left me feeling powerless. Usually, I hated feeling intimidated. Hated it. I’d had anxiety attacks just standing next to tall, athletic men when not enough people were nearby.

  So the fact that I felt thrilled by his proximity and strength was obviously odd. Or it made me odd.

  Probably, it was me. Because I am odd.

  Moving on.

  What were we talking about?

  Peering down at me—specifically, peering at my mouth—Victor exhaled softly. “Fine. Let’s say, hypothetically, that your disruption during class—”

  “Disruption?!”

  “—was actually about the subject being discussed.”

  “Deception studies were the subject. And, for the record, my opinion on the subject is well researched because I found it fascinating when I read the materials, so I took it upon myself to read up on the subject. If dissenting opinions make you uncomfortable, nothing I can do about that. But I am ready to discuss the merits and appropriateness of deception studies whenever you locate your big boy pants and put them on. That is, if you own any big boy pants.”

  Something unexpected happened then, something I couldn’t have predicted. All through my little speech, he’d been watching me with a faint smile on his lips and infuriating warmth in his eyes, like he thought I was wond
erful and fascinating and special, and it reactivated my heart flutters.

  But that wasn’t the something unexpected (even though it certainly wasn’t expected).

  The something unexpected happened the moment the words big boy pants and put them on left my mouth. Victor flinched, his eyebrows drawing low—like he was confused, or caught unaware, or had just been slapped—and his stare flashed with clear and present hurt.

  He took an immediate step back, color draining from his face, his eyes moving between mine. I watched his withdrawing reaction with confusion, especially as a flush crept up his neck, overtaking the paleness of his cheeks, leaving them and his ears red and splotchy.

  Victor dropped his eyes, the muscle at his jaw ticking. “I see.”

  He sees? He sees what?

  “What? Wait. What do you see?”

  He shook his head, his eyes still fastened to the ground. “You’re right, Ms. Von,” his voice was rough, coldly distant, “please accept my apology.”

  I blinked my astonishment. He looked . . . hurt. Like I’d hurt him. Not just a little hurt, a big hurt.

  Drowning in confusion, I took an automatic step forward, following his retreat. “Wait a second.” I grabbed his arm—another automatic movement—keeping him from turning away from me, and studied the face angled toward the floor.

  He was . . . off. After our handful of one-on-one run-ins and experiencing him in class three hours twice a week for the last several months, I could tell something was very, very wrong.

  “Ms. Von—”

  “You’re acting weird. What just happened? Why are you apologizing?” I shuffled closer, bending my knees and trying to capture his gaze, asking softly, “And why do I suddenly feel like I should be apologizing to you?”

  His eyes lifted then, mossy jade, fancy, brilliant. So sexy. But also uncertain, questioning, cautious.

  He cleared his throat, his gaze flickering like he was trying to pull it away from mine but couldn’t. “I’m used to the jokes,” he said quietly, it sounded like both a confession and an absolution. “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “Jokes?” I asked, just as quietly.

  “Come on.” His jaw ticked again, as though he were grinding his teeth. “Big boy pants?”

  I squinted at him, allowing the full force of my confusion to play out over my features.

  Big boy pants . . .?

  What could he—

  Oh no!

  I sucked in a sudden breath, my eyes growing round with abrupt understanding. He looked embarrassed. So embarrassed. And I’d embarrassed him. He thought my use of big boy pants had been making fun of his previous weight, or his weight loss, or something related, and that realization felt like another sucker punch.

  He shook his head, his voice gravelly, tearing his eyes away to roll them.

  “Victor.” I invaded his space, my face and limbs hot with mortified urgency. “It’s an expression I use with my friend, Anna and her cousin, Abram. It’s just an expression. It wasn’t a reference to . . . it’s just an expression.”

  I watched his Adam’s apple move up and down, and then he laughed lightly, self-deprecatingly, still not looking at me. “Okay. No big deal.”

  Ugh and blarg.

  I felt so gross and I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not. He absolutely had to believe me.

  “Victor, I was not making a joke. I’m not—I don’t—that would be reprehensible. And, besides, size doesn’t matter.”

  I winced. At myself.

  AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!

  Shut up, Emily. Shut up!

  Did I just say that?

  God, why am I such a socially defunct doofus?

  His eyes cut to mine, affection tinged with bitterness, both hinting to a lifetime of unpleasant experiences. “Now, that’s something I know is absolutely false.” He covered my hand on his arm and gently pried it away, swallowing thickly. “Size does matter, and no one lets you forget it.”

  Chapter 11

  *Emily*

  I was on a carousel, but without the fiberglass horses, and the lights, and the general majesty and splendor. Okay, so, the carousel was figurative, meant to represent the cycle that held my emotions hostage this semester, ever since Dr. Hanover—Victor—made me feel hot and bothered while stage three naked.

  One minute, I was daydreaming about Victor and his sexy intelligence. The next minute, I was hurt or confused by something he’d done or said, and then I was angry with him. And the minute after that? I was apologizing. The cycle would start again: crush, hurt, anger, apology. Repeat.

  As I studied him now, and the vulnerability that served only to increase his allure, I made a conscious decision to step off the carousel of crazy. According to my calculations, next up was the crush and daydream cycle.

  Instead of giving into it, instead of focusing on how delectably dreamy he was, and allowing myself to be curious about him, how I—Emily Von, strong woman, emotionally available maverick—could step in and fix this sexy, brilliant man, and find the one thing he so obviously needed in order for a romantic relationship between us to be possible, I decided to just be a friend.

  I sighed, giving him a tight, compassionate smile, and stuck out my hand. “Hi. I’m Emily.”

  Victor’s eyebrow arced, a movement I recognized as being entirely involuntary, something he did when faced with a surprising statement or situation. Glancing between me and my hand, he gave his head a subtle shake.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re going to start over.”

  “Start over.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, like he was holding them ransom. Or maybe in escrow...

  I didn’t drop my fingers, instead wiggling them a little. “Yes. We’re starting over. I’m introducing myself. This is the part where you shake my hand and we chitchat about the weather, or traffic, or what’s wrong with homeowners' associations, or why deception studies are scientifically valid.”

  The eyebrow dropped, his eyes narrowed, but his lips tugged to the side. “You’re not going to let that go."

  I made my face innocent. “Let what go? We’ve never spoken before. We’re just meeting now.”

  He shook his head. “Emily—”

  “Yes. That’s my name. And yours?”

  Breathing in and out through his nose, he took his right hand out of his pocket and shook my hand. “Fine. Victor Hanover. How do you do?” His voice was flat, like a salt field, and just as dry.

  And that made me smile. Actually, it made me laugh. He’s so cute. . .

  Ah-ah-ah! No. None of that! No thoughts allowed about his cuteness.

  “We are now friendly acquaintances, Victor Hanover,” I announced, even though he’d made no move to drop my hand. Similarly, I’d made no move to drop his hand.

  “Friendly acquaintances,” he repeated, sounding like he didn’t know whether to be amused or irritated.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me? I know a great Ethiopian place. The last guy who took me there was a real jerk.” I said this last part using my Patty and Selma voice (Marge’s sisters from The Simpsons).

  Victor laughed, his eyebrows moving down, and then up, like he still couldn’t decide how to take me.

  And you know what? That was fine. He didn’t have to be my friendly acquaintance. He could take me or leave me and, since I’d removed the crush/daydream portion of the cycle, I was officially off the carousel. If he walked away, fine. If not, also fine.

  As the kids say today, whatevs, yo. At least, that’s what my twelve-year-old cousin says. He also does this weird thing called dub step. It makes me feel soooooo ooooold.

  But I digress.

  “Fine.” Victor’s gaze dropped to my mouth, but then immediately moved beyond me. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, bit it, frowned, and said more determinedly, “Fine. Let’s go.”

  “Cool, cool, cool." Now who's old, Carter? Not Cousin Emily!

  I tugged on my hand. He held it for a beat, and then let it go, shoving his back into his pocket.

  Still looking beyond me, he asked, “I need to take some papers to my office, and then I’ll meet you there?”

  “Sure. I’ll go ahead and order.” I hitched my backpack higher on my shoulder. “You like lentils? Or what’s your favorite?”