Kissing Galileo Page 9

  So hot.

  “I’m—sorry, but this is all very surprising.” Anna shook her head, looking like she was about to sneeze. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “Why not?” I sent her a side-eye.

  “Well, he seems . . . old.”

  “He’s a year older than Luca.”

  “Is he?” She made a face. “He seems a lot older.”

  “Because he’s serious?”

  “No. Luca is serious. It’s just everything. He’s stodgy.”

  “Who is stodgy?” Luca asked as he walked in, carrying two large glasses of wine. He handed the first to me, giving me a small, supportive looking smile. “Here. I thought you might need this.”

  “Thank you, Luca.” Returning his smile with a small one of my own, I accepted the wine. I did need it, so I gulped it.

  Luca handed the second glass to Anna. She accepted it with a hazy, lovesick grin while he settled in behind her, his arm coming around my friend’s waist.

  “Who are we talking about?” he asked, looking to me.

  I made a face, a pleading face, an entreaty to my best friend not to divulge anything to her hot boyfriend while placing my glass on the table. She didn’t see me as she’d turned her head to aforementioned hot boyfriend.

  “Uh, so, Emily has a little thing for Dr. Hanover and he kissed her. Don’t worry, he arranged for an advocate.”

  “Oh. Good.” Luca nodded.

  “Oh my God.” Again, my face fell to my hands. “Thanks, Anna. Thanks.”

  “What?”

  “BEST FRIEND CODE!” I shouted, but the shout was muffled by my hands.

  Luca laughed, a deep, rumbly, man sound. He had a nice laugh.

  “Emily, after that night with Anna—and everything that came after—I hate to break it to you, but you and I are friends.” His voice held humor, but also affection.

  I peeked at him, reaching for my wine again. “But, in this case, you’re the enemy.”

  His mouth dropped open. “I’m the enemy?”

  Gesturing to him wildly with my free hand, because it really should have been obvious, I said, “You are a male. You are a professor. Your situational resemblance to the—the—the doofus in question means you can’t be trusted.”

  A charming little grin twinkled behind his fancy blue eyes. Yes. Fancy. They were the color of blue topaz, and that made them fancy. Likewise, Anna’s eyes were the color of brown topaz and twinkled in a similar fashion, so also fancy.

  “Shouldn’t that make me more trustworthy? Or at least, my opinion is valid because of the—what did you call it?—situational resemblance?”

  “Whatever, fancy eyes,” I mumbled, taking another gulp of my wine. “Just let me sit here on this couch for ten minutes, finish my wine, discuss the pollination of vanilla orchids outside of Mexico, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Anna sighed. “Emily—”

  “Same goes for you, fancy eyes.” I gave her my best disgruntled look. “I’m not talking to you about anything but pollination.”

  Anna smirked suggestively, lifting one eyebrow.

  “Of VANILLA!” I clarified. “Pollination of vanilla outside of Mexico. Perv.”

  She chuckled, but then stopped abruptly. “Wait, which one of us is fancy eyes?”

  “You both are. You have that gemstone eye thing going on. Pair of fancy-eyed Benedict Arnolds.” This time I sipped the wine, because it was really good and I wanted it to last. Plus, I was cozy. This house, this room was cozy. No wonder Anna spends so much time here.

  Anna seamlessly handed her wineglass to Luca, he took a drink, and then the three of us sat in quiet contemplation for a few seconds. For my part, I strategized ways to avoid Victor over the next few weeks leading to the final exam.

  Perhaps I could email both him and Gloria, and suggest I teach myself the material. No need to return to class. . .

  “Dr. Hanover,” Luca interrupted my silent strategizing, passing the wineglass back to Anna. “Engineering?”

  “No. Math and Sciences,” Anna said.

  “Hmm. What does he look like?”

  Anna took a sip of wine, swallowed. “He’s tall, maybe your height, white skin, brown hair, I don’t know what color his eyes are—”

  “Dark green, like a mossy jade. So, also gemstone fancy,” I said, taking another gulp of wine and changing my plan. Instead of savoring the wine, maybe if I finished it quickly, they’d give me a second glass.

  “And he’s a big guy, like my dad,” Anna added.

  I sent her another side-eye. Victor was not husky, and he looked nothing like Anna’s dad. “What are you talking about? He’s the same size as Luca. Sure, maybe his shoulders are a little wider, but—”

  “Emily. He’s big. He’s got to be three hundred pounds if not three fifty.” She lifted her hands before I could contradict her, adding, “No judgment, because I like a cuddly guy. You know my first boyfriend was a big teddy bear, and my dad has always been larger. To be honest, Dr. Hanover’s size is why I’m so surprised you have a thing for him. You’ve always been attracted to short, super lanky guys. Short, anti-athletic, sweet nerds.”

  I was shaking my head so hard I almost spilled the remainder of my wine; thankfully, I saved it from splashing at the last minute, setting the glass on the coffee table. “Anna, you know I only prefer smaller guys because I don’t enjoy feeling like someone could overpower me.”

  One time in high school with a football player was all it took to put me off athletic men. We’d been dating for three months (and having sex for two months and three-weeks of the three months), and he’d made me uncomfortable, telling me he wasn’t going to let me leave his truck until I gave him a blow job.

  When he crowded me, holding my wrists, uncomfortable turned to fear and I screamed. As soon as I screamed, he realized how scared I was and he let me go. He seemed stunned but quickly apologized, horrified and immediately remorseful that I’d taken him seriously.

  It was too late. I broke up with him, and though we remained friendly until graduation, me and ripped, muscly guys were over forever.

  Until Victor.

  “Yes,” her gaze turned sympathetic, “I know. But—”

  “I would have no problem admitting Dr. Hanover was husky if he was—in fact—husky. But he’s not. Nor is he—as you say—lanky like I usually go for. So, admittedly, that does make it unusual for me to be attracted to him. Victor might be strong and works out, but he’s definitely not big like your sweetheart of a dad.”

  Luca snapped his fingers, sitting up straighter and pointing at me. “Victor! Victor Hanover!”

  “Yes. Victor Hanover.” I glanced between Luca and Anna, sharing a look of confusion with my BFF.

  “I do know him. Or, I know of him. He raised a hundred and fifty thousand dollars last year for charity,” Luca said with more outward expression than I’d ever seen from him.

  Anna and I continued to swap confused stares, but she was the one who asked, “That’s a lot of money. How’d he do that?”

  “It was—ah—a faculty wellness challenge put on by one of the endowed chair sponsors for sports medicine, an ex-pro athlete. A number of faculty and staff created a wellness group, or a club, and the endowed chair promised to donate a thousand dollars per pound lost for whichever of the group reduced their weight the most.”

  I reared back. My mother had always struggled with weight issues, placing too much importance on a number rather than on how she felt.

  Therefore, my immediate reaction was to be horrified. “Uh, weight is not the only determination of health. Some ‘heavier’ people are much healthier than some ‘light’ people.” I used air quotes around heavier and light; yes, I was so riled up—and tipsy from one glass of wine after not drinking for the last several months—that I was using air quotes. “In fact, we went over a study that showed people who are just above the max BMI for ‘healthy’ are—in fact—generally healthier by nonobjective scales than those at the lower end. And, furthermore, additional research has shown that focus on weight loss is at least partially responsible for the increase in anorexia and—”

  “Okay, Emily.” Anna held up her hands. She was doing this a lot tonight. Luca took advantage of her hand placement by stealing the wineglass from her. “We aren’t arguing with you.”

  “Yes. Sorry. I know.” I closed my eyes, rubbing my forehead. “Sorry. I guess I’m all worked up from events.”

  I was overwrought. Tired. Tipsy. I didn’t want to think about Victor anymore. And yet, now that his remarkable body metamorphosis had been revealed, I couldn’t help but view his behavior over the last month through the lens of this new information.

  Victor had lost one hundred and fifty pounds. Last year.

  What must that be like for a person? How long had he carried the weight before he lost it? Had he been larger his whole life?

  My mother had never said anything about my body growing up, but I’d listened to her talk about herself constantly, and never in a positive way. No matter how low her weight, it was never enough. I’d witnessed firsthand how weight—so much more than health—impacted a person’s self-worth.

  Anna’s hand came to my shoulder, pulling me from my introspection, and she rubbed my arm. “Hey. Are you okay? What can I do?”

  Taking a deep breath, I glanced between Luca and Anna, their concerned and supportive expressions mirrors of each other.

  “Wine?” Luca offered.

  I breathed a laugh, shaking my head and pushing to my feet. “Uh, no thanks. Actually, I guess I should go.”

  “No. Stay.” Anna also stood. “If you leave now, we’ll fail the Bechdel test.”

  “Fine. How do they pollinate vanilla outside of Mexico?” I turned, searching for my bag.

  “By ha
nd.”

  I stiffened, shifting just my eyes to her. “Is that supposed to be some kind of dirty botany joke?”

  Anna opened her mouth, maybe to deny it, but then her gaze lost focus. I could see that she was thinking about it.

  “Vanilla? Hand pollination?” I prompted. “See where I’m going with this?”

  “Oh yeah. I can work with that.” Her grin was immense. “There’s a punch line in there somewhere.”

  Chuckling, I pulled her into a hug, and whispered, “God, I’m so glad you’re my friend.”

  “Same, my love. Same.”

  “Wrapping up the section on psychosocial study designs, by a show of hands, who among you read—and understood—the purported purpose and use of the deception study design?” Dr. Hanover’s gaze moved over the lecture hall, his eyebrow slightly quirked.

  I was only half paying attention. Actually, it was more like 41 percent. I’d spent most of the last two and half hours writing my art history paper. I had 98 words done, just 6902 left. Go me.

  Mr. Jibbes raised his hand. I was not surprised. He’d been trying to lift himself out of the hole he’d dug early in the semester.

  Dr. Hanover ignored him. “Ms. Limones, explain what a deception study is.”

  That got my attention. I glanced at the clock on my laptop. The fact that he’d gone straight to Limones instead of torturing anyone else usually meant class was almost over. The time on my PC proved me right, five minutes left.

  Thank. God.

  Against my more cowardly judgment, I’d decided to not send an email to Gloria and Dr. Hanover requesting to refrain from attending classes. Instead, I’d attended today’s lecture, deciding that doing so would not only be good for building character, but it would also be a helpful exercise in seeing Dr. Hanover without feeling attraction for him.

  Better to see him now, in a controlled environment, than run into him randomly and become a freaked-out fool.

  So, there I was, in class, sharing space with Dr. Hanover, struggling to write a paper for a different class while not feeling attracted to him. I was failing at both, mostly because he kept saying the most brilliant and poignant things.

  Dumb troublesome heart flutters.

  Sighing silently, I saved my 98 words and closed my laptop, giving the remainder of the lecture my full attention. If I couldn’t enjoy his gorgeous brain in private, at least I’d be able to enjoy it for the next five minutes.

  “Correct,” Dr. Hanover said in reply to whatever Ms. Limones had said. No surprise there, she was always correct, and I loved her for it. “Now,” he continued, “tell me why deception studies are unethical.”

  I started, sitting straighter in my seat, my attention fastened to Vict—Dr. Hanover. His voice sounded funny, just a little off, like he had a bone to pick with deception studies.

  “Deception studies are unethical because they involve lying to participants, and the consent process—which is supposed to be both informative and ethical—is neither. Therefore, subjects cannot give consent,” Ms. Limones said plainly.

  “That’s also correct. Okay, for next week, we’ll be reviewing for the last test. You can submit questions online to either of my TAs. Unless there’s anything else.”

  What?

  That’s it? He asked why deception studies were unethical, but requested no counterpoint or opinion?

  What the heck?

  Riding a cresting wave of insanity, I raised my hand. But I didn’t just raise it. Oh no. I sat forward in my chair and waved it in the air.

  Dr. Hanover scanned the room and did a double take, his gaze snagging on my waving arm. Even though I was sitting some thirty feet away, and even though his eyes were mostly hidden by his glasses, his stare looked wary. He also seemed to hesitate, perhaps deciding whether or not to ignore me.

  But in the end, crossing his arms and clearing his throat, he said, “Yes, Ms. Von. You have a question?”

  “You asked why deception studies are unethical, but you didn’t ask why—or under what circumstances—they might be ethical.”

  “Because they’re not ethical.”

  “That’s not true.”

  A split second of silent shock gripped my classmates, followed by the ripple of subtle movements and the low murmur of whispers. I sensed and heard the rustle and hum of people turning to look at me, disbelieving breaths, felt their eyes and attention on my skin as an eruption of heat.

  But, oddly, I didn’t care. I was irrationally aggravated that he’d neglected to discuss how deception studies could be ethical, if done appropriately. Therefore, all I really saw in the quietly chaotic moments that followed my statement was Dr. Hanover glaring at me.

  “By all means,” he drawled, using his dry as dust voice, “enlighten us.”

  “The debriefing process is meant to counter the unethical nature of deception.”

  “Yes.” He nodded once. “And the debriefing process is wrought with its own process.”

  “But deception is all around us—advertising and politics as an example—why should psychological researchers be held to a higher standard than real life? Especially when it’s their job to explain how we interact with real life.”

  “Science and scientists should always be held to—”

  Holding up my hand, I said firmly, “I’m not finished,” and the quiet chaos reached a crescendo. I ignored the noise. “Furthermore, how can psychological researchers determine answers related to true motivation and attitudes without deception studies? Bias in self-report data is rampant, evidenced by both medical and psychosocial studies. You ask a person how much they’re in debt, nine times out of ten they lie. Why would anyone tell the truth about being a racist? And what if they don’t know they’re a racist? In some cases, deception studies are the only way to obtain accurate data.”

  Dr. Hanover waited a beat, glaring at me obstinately, and then asked, “Are you finished?”

  “For now.” I shrugged, returning his glare with aplomb even as my hands shook. I gripped my notebook to keep them still.

  “For now?” Apparently, he was making no effort to hide his resentment at being challenged.

  “We’re having a conversation, aren’t we? So, after you speak, I’ll offer my counterpoints.”

  “No. We’re not. That’s not how this works, Ms. Von. You are a student, I am the professor. I decide when the conversation is over. And when students are rude, the conversation is over.” Dr. Hanover turned his face from me, looking to his TA, opening his mouth with the clear intention of speaking to her.

  A not so subtle sign that he was done with me.

  But I was not done with him. “Oh? Really? Because, if that’s the case, then you’re a hypocrite.”

  Another split second of shock, and then the room buzzed. Loudly.

  “Is that so?” He spoke over the buzz, his tone authoritative but not quite a shout, his eyes now lowered to the papers on the front table.

  Oh man, he was really pissed.

  For some reason that made me giddy.

  “Yes. That is so.” I lifted my voice to be heard over the commotion. “Weren’t you the one who said research needs conversation and dialogue, and often that dialogue is contentious? You told this entire class that great science never occurs in a vacuum. Seldom with politeness, and never with pleases and thank yous. You asked all of us if we believed we were allowed to hold ideas and beliefs without ever having them openly challenged. You expect to challenge us, but balk at being challenged in return. So yes, you’re being a hypocrite.”

  The ruckus that followed was immediately deafening and continued for several long seconds. But after this initial surge, it abruptly tapered off, with a few students shushing the others, now all eyes on Dr. Hanover at the front.

  Eventually, the room fell to near silence again. The clock had run out on class, our three hours were up, but no one seemed to be in a hurry to leave. Clearly, they were waiting for his brilliant response.

  And so was I. Reason and fear hadn’t seen fit to visit my brain yet. My electrified sense of righteousness hadn’t waned. Yet, I did feel the tiniest bit queasy in my stomach as his shoulders rose and fell with a breath. I thought I saw—though I was probably mistaken, because he was too far away and his face was angled down—the faintest of smiles curve his lips.

  But then, without looking up, and sounding eerily calm, he spoke.

  “Ms. Von, please stay after class. The rest of you are dismissed.”