Dirty Professor

It was Charlie.

My finger hovered over the Delete Message option, but my hand shook violently as I stared at the words on the screen. I moved to delete it again, but couldn't bring myself to do it.

It buzzed again.

I screwed up, I know it now. I miss you so much.

Tears welled up in my eyes. As much as I hated to admit it, I missed him too. Or at least the man I'd always thought him to be. The last few months though, I'd seen somebody entirely different, somebody I hadn't even recognized. And I didn't like it. Not one bit.

I silenced my phone. No need to deal with that at work. Not now. Not ever, honestly.

ooo000ooo

The train ride home was uneventful. Some nights, Charlie joined me on my ride home, coming to my house to spend the night. Other nights, we went to his place. We didn't spend every night together, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to live a double life so easily. But we'd spent enough nights together for this solo train ride to feel extra lonely and depressing.

Charlie tried to call while I was on my way home. A few times actually. I never even bothered to listen to the voice mails. Hearing his voice might break me, might convince me to cave in and see him, and once that happened, I would lose it. I would give in and go back to him. I knew myself well enough to know that.

I was sad, of course, but there was anger seething underneath the surface as well. A deep, abiding, and justifiable anger. We'd been through so much together, how could he do that to me? Did I really matter so little to him that some other woman could take my place so easily?

If you listened to his frantic text messages, you'd think that wasn't the case – that he thought me irreplaceable. But I saw what he'd said to her. I'd read his texts to her. I knew he said the same things to her that he'd said me.

And what he'd told her – as well as what he'd told me – were utter and complete bullshit.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to block out the visions of him with her. I tried to think of anything else, anything at all. And that's when I thought about the night before with Drew. A smile tugged at my lips as I remembered the way he'd touched me, the way he'd kiss

ed me and how good it felt to be with him.

Drew had made me feel desired and sexy – something Charlie hadn't done in a while. Over time, the sex had slowed down between us, but I'd just assumed it was normal. That's what happened when couples were together awhile, right? But eventually it stopped altogether, and I no longer felt that he wanted me in that way. He was always content to keep his distance, and he never looked at me as a sexual being again.

Little did I know at the time, that he was seeing other women in that way.

But Drew – just the way his gaze moved over my body was enough to make me stop doubting my attractiveness. He made me feel beautiful again. Sexy. Desired.

Earlier, when he'd asked me what I needed from our encounter, I'd told the truth. Yes, I wanted to escape the never-ending loneliness that had become a part of my life. And being with someone, even for just one night, was a cure for that. At least temporarily. But it was more than that. I needed a man to make me feel sexy again, to desire me in a way Charlie hadn't in a very long time.

And I'd found that with Drew. He'd given me exactly what I needed. And for that, I was grateful. Eternally grateful. And I always would be for that gift.

Because, while the loneliness was there to stay with me for a while like an unwanted roommate, I could cling to our time together and remind myself that Charlie wasn't the only man in the world. There were others out there who would find me desirable and sexy. And that the loneliness and pain I was feeling so keenly in that moment, wasn't going to last forever.

DREW

“So what happened to you while you were over there?” Dr. Emerson asked. “The notes don't go into too much detail about what you went through, but they mention somebody in your unit named Mason Shoemaker –”

I flinched when she spoke and it was almost as if she'd slapped me. Honestly, I would have preferred it if she had. I probably would have preferred a million other things other than her bringing up Mason. I sat on the couch across from her, doing everything within my power to avoid turning the conversation toward her. The temptation to crack a joke or talk about anything other than Mason or my time overseas was strong. And it was apparently my most common avoidance tactic.

I leaned back on the couch and actually felt myself drawing inward beneath her scrutiny. I wasn't one who could ever be considered a wilting flower. I didn't back down from anybody and always confronted things head on. But for some reason, when it came to Dr. Emerson – specifically, Dr. Emerson prying into my past – I just clammed up. Intimidated wasn't the right word, but it was probably close. That uncertainty was a new, strange feeling – and one I didn't care for, truth be told.

And she knew that cracking jokes or diverting the conversation was my way of getting out of talking about myself, and especially about what happened over there – and called me out on it regularly.

“Who was he, Drew? This – Mason?”

I remained quiet for a moment and tried to sink into the couch cushions. I didn't want to talk about Mason. There were things I didn't want to talk about. Things she wouldn't understand. Things nobody who didn't serve, didn't have to do what we had to do, would understand. There were also things I couldn't talk about – aspects of our missions that were still classified. Aspects that helped shape and define my relationship with Mason. It was a fine line and one that I had to tread carefully. A line I didn't know that I even wanted to approach, let alone cross.

“Drew?” she asked softly.

“Mason was my – best friend,” I finally said in a voice barely more than a whisper.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Her eyes grew wide, her expression one of sympathy. “I'm very sorry for your loss.”