To Professor, With Love (Forbidden Men 2)

I cleared my throat and took a deep breath before answering. I could do this. I could do this. I could do this. “Hello?”

“Hello, Aspen.” Just hearing my mother’s voice, frigid and businesslike as always, made my heart thump hard in my chest with a combination of hope and intimidation. “As you know, your father had his last treatment this morning.”

Swallowing the suddenly dry piece of bread I’d been chewing, I nodded. “Yes, I...I was going to call after my last class today. How did it go?”

In the past two years, my father had needed to get three toes amputated. His diabetes had progressed so badly he’d just finished a six-week stint of oxygen therapy, visiting a hyperbaric chamber twice a day, to heal from a nasty gash he’d gotten on his calf. If the sore hadn’t healed after his last treatment this morning, his doctor wanted to take his leg next, from the knee joint down.

Holding my breath for the prognosis, I waited tensely for my mother to answer. “They want to extend his therapy another two weeks.”

I exhaled a lungful of air. “Well, that’s...that’s good.” Right? At least they weren’t ready to pull out the ol’ saw and start chopping off limbs yet.

“Really?” My mother’s tone suggested she was frowning with her usual pinched-eyebrow expression.

Oh, shit. Maybe that wasn’t so good.

“And how is this good, Aspen? Your father’s health is still at risk, and you’re…rejoicing?”

I flushed. Even at twenty-three and living eight hundred miles from home, teaching at a top-notch university, I still gave her the power to render me into a blubbering moron with a single question.

“I...” Fumbling blindly, I used my napkin to pat my face free of stray crumbs. My palms began to sweat, so I rubbed them dry too. “I just meant—”

“Stop being facetious. Your attempt at humor is completely uncouth and disrespectful. This is nothing to jest about.”

“But I didn’t mean...” Biting my lip, I hung my head, wishing my hair were down so I could conceal the tears glistening in my eyes. God, why did words to defend myself always fail me when Dr. Mallory Kavanagh attacked? “Yes, you’re right,” I murmured. “I apologize.”

She sniffed in irritation. Not quite a pardon. “I just knew studying that rubbish literature would transform you into some kind of vulgar imbecile. You should’ve listened to us when we tried to steer you toward theoretical physics. Something sensible and worthwhile.”

Studying literature had been my one great rebellion, and neither of my parents had ever forgiven me for it. Briefly, I’d been tempted to appease them by going into the sciences, but I’d never been able to betray my devotion to the written word. And the one thing I hadn’t acquiesced to had led to their eternal scorn.

If it had been up to me, I would’ve been satisfied with a bachelor’s degree in English. I would’ve been fine sharing my love of stories with first graders. But I’d gone all the way through a doctorate program to mollify Richard and Mallory.

It didn’t seem to matter what I did, though. Neither of my parents had ever been “proud” of my accomplishments. They had never shown approval. They had always pushed for something bigger and better.

But their constant disapproval was becoming tiresome. For once, I wished I could simply be good enough in the

ir eyes.

Sadly, today obviously wasn’t going to be that day.

“One would think with your degree, you’d be able to master what words come from your mouth with a little more respect and decorum.”

“Again, I’m sorry. I—”

“Apologies are for the flawed, Aspen. Stop highlighting your imperfections.” She let out a disgusted breath. “I’ll update you on your father’s prognosis again when I deem it necessary.”

She disconnected the line before I could get in another word.

“Crap,” I muttered. Who knew how long it would be before she stooped to call me again. I knew she wouldn’t answer if I tried to patch back through to her with an eloquent apology that didn’t actually sound like the apology of a “flawed, imbecile” daughter.

I just hoped she’d be merciful enough to keep me updated about my father.

This time when I lifted my napkin, I dabbed the base of my lashes instead of my mouth. I had another class to teach in fifteen minutes; I didn’t want to show up with wet, swollen eyes or a runny nose. If my parents had taught me anything, it was that a dignified image meant everything.

But damn it, I wished I knew why I always let my mother’s words get to me. I should expect her chilly, impersonal and condescending treatment by now. Yet I still ached for a little nugget of affection from both of my parents. Ninety percent of everything I did was to win their love. But I couldn’t give up trying. Because honestly, if a girl couldn’t get her own family to care about her, who would?

After putting my cell phone and ereader away, I clasped my briefcase closed and brushed stray crumbs off my lap. Acting as if nothing whatsoever was bothering me, I tossed the rest of my lunch and returned to the English department to finish my last two classes for the day.

The afternoon dragged by, and more than once, I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from thinking about the conversation I’d had with my mother. Good news was it diverted my mind from a certain blue-eyed cretin I wanted to hate.