When It's Love (3 page)

My mother did not hold funeral services for either of her parents. She had them cremated, and no one was invited to any sort of ceremony or to say parting words or prayers. That’s just the way my mother does things, as if she has no emotions.

My mother has always been generous with money, but not with love. Throughout my childhood, she’d often hand me a wad of cash and say, “Buy whatever you need,” but she never wanted to buy anything with me and never seemed to connect with me in any way at all. She never acted like it mattered whether or not I was in the house. Since I always felt better at my grandparents’ house, I spent most of my childhood there. My mother didn’t care. In fact, I felt that was how she preferred it. Losing my grandparents so soon after finding out the disturbing truth about myself meant I never had the chance to hear their thoughts on my story. I couldn’t ask them any questions. In fact, I hardly had a chance to mourn their deaths because I was too busy mourning the truth about myself.

The best new way to feel sexy, according to Cosmo, is to skip the panties. Is that new? I don’t think so, but it is definitely sexy. I have one old short denim skirt, and I immediately imagine myself sitting across from Professor Sparling in class and opening my legs just enough for him to get a glimpse of what would be his, if only he’d pay attention to me.
Yo, Prof, over here! Do you find this distracting?
But the semester has been so cold and rainy – it’s Michigan, after all – not even Melanie has worn short skirts. And truthfully, with Melanie around no matter what I wear I’ll be overlooked. I should just be grateful that these feelings of desire have returned to me. It’s like coming into my own all over again, and I can remember the person I used to be.

As I munch on my rice cake a thought hits me like a slap across the face: I do have one last chance to get Professor Sparling’s attention. He likes my writing, so I can write to him. I have his email address, and I have nothing to lose. Worst-case scenario, he doesn’t answer. I don’t even have to worry about seeing him again if I write something really embarrassing. And it’s not like I’m going to declare my lust for him in an out-of-the-blue email, though it’s tempting. I justify my idea by convincing myself I’m writing only to thank Professor Sparling for his kind words about my essay. That’s the proper thing to do when someone pays you a high compliment. In fact, it’s a must. I’m not going to go on and on about how amazing he is, or how much I enjoyed his class. All I’ll write is a simple line of thanks. If he replies, then great. If not, no biggie. It’s time to get over him, anyway, or at least limit my fantasies of stripping for him to no more than once a week.

“It’s now or never,” I say to Tiny, even though just a little while ago I’d sworn to myself I was moving on. But who says I’m not allowed to be fickle?

I open my inbox. I have two messages, one advertising a sale at Walmart and the other is from … P.Sparling. I do a double take. This must be some kind of computer virus or weird spam. But unless my mind is playing tricks on me, there is definitely something from P.Sparling in my inbox. WTF? Could someone have hacked into his account? I click open the message, and the first thing I notice is that the email is not from his university address. That’s odd, too, but never mind the technicalities. Sweet emotion takes over me as I see the words “Dear Sydney,” at the top of my screen. This is not spam! My heart is about to catapult out of my chest. Not only did Professor Sparling talk to me today, he has written to me as well, just at the same time I was going to write to him. It’s uncanny. My body freezes in disbelief. It’s hard to swallow. The shock is almost heart stopping. This message is literally a dream come true, no matter what it says. It takes me a long moment to pull it together and continue reading.

Dear Sydney,

Your essay blew me away. I’ve known that you’re a bright young woman, but I had no idea what a talented writer you are. In your essay, you brought the words on the page to life, and I so admire your work. I’d love to stay in touch.

With Compliments,

Paul Sparling

All I can think is OMG! I blew Professor Sparling away? Impossible. And he wants to stay in touch with me? My heart is soaring with joy. For fourteen weeks, I’ve dreamed of nothing but this. But someone of Professor Sparling’s status and accomplishments seemed out of reach, an unattainable fantasy. The last few hours, though, have proven otherwise. He called my essay extraordinary, he stopped to talk to me alone, and shockingly, he sent me an email full of compliments and wants to stay in touch. This is the best thing ever, but I have to slow the bubbly-with-excitement train of thought that’s sprinting through my head to consider the nitty-gritty. What does he mean by stay in touch? I shouldn’t read into it. I definitely shouldn’t do that. It’s just a standard nicety that people say to one another. It’s nothing more than that. After all, he’s a professor and I’m a student. Is it even legal for us to hook up? Not like I care about that. I’d break the law a thousand times to be in Professor Sparling’s arms. His incredible good looks, his confident gestures, and the sound of his low, soothing voice electrify me. Or, in other words, he totally turns me on. Does it matter that he’s more than twenty years older than I am? I think guys are supposed to like younger women, so I hope not. I hope he doesn’t think of me as childish. Could he think that after reading about everything I’ve been through?

I spend a half hour considering my reply to Professor Sparling, but I don’t feel the time passing. I go back and forth between the idea of just writing “Thanks!” or actually typing out a full response. And should I include something suggestive? It would have to be subtle, of course, but not too subtle to be overlooked. This might be my one and only chance to get Professor’s Sparling to really notice me. I don’t want to miss it. I decide to call Henry before I write anything. I need a guy’s perspective on this.

“Hennnrrryyy,” I screech into the phone.

“Hey, Syd. What’s up?

“You will never believe who sent me an email?”

“The Pope?”

“Very funny,” I say.

“President Obama?”

“Guess again.”

“Ryan Gosling?”

“Someone hotter than Ryan Gosling.”

“I give up,” Henry says.

“Sparling! Professor Sparling sent me an email!”

“Professor Sparling … Who’s that?”

“Very funny, Henry.”

“I’m not a chick, Syd, and no offense, I don’t mean to knock your taste, but there’s no way that old writer dude is hotter than Ryan Gosling.”

“Fine. When it comes to muscles, Gosling takes the cake. I’ll give you that much.”

I’m not sure Henry understands how beautifully written words on a page can affect a girl’s heart. And there’s a lot to be said for lust that comes from the heart.

I read Henry the entire message from Professor Sparling and tell him that it’s not from his university account, so I almost mistook it for spam.

“Everyone’s got Gmail,” Henry says. “What else is there?”

“Hotmail,” I say with a giggle. “As in mail that makes you hot.” I make a little sizzling sound to accompany my dorky comment.

“Sydney! You are getting punchy. Stop it right now.”

If Henry were sitting beside me, he’d give me a playful fist bump on the arm. “Let’s meet for breakfast tomorrow,” I suggest. “It’ll distract me from Professor Sparling fantasies.”

“Deal,” Henry says. “Kuki’s at 9:00?”

“Perfect,” I say. “But, wait. Don’t hang up. You have to tell me what to do. Should I write back to Professor Sparling now or wait a little bit?”

“You should probably wait.”

“I don’t think I can wait,” I practically scream as excitement bubbles inside me.

“In fact, I’m typing a reply as we speak.”

“I told you to wait,” Henry says rather sternly.

“You’re a guy. It’s different for you.”

“If it’s different for me,” Henry says, “it’s because I’m not some old dinosaur professor.”

Henry is always joking about the fact that I fell for a much older man. I usually ignore his comments or else I playfully accuse him of being an ageist.

“I’m going to reply to Professor Sparling now because I’ve been waiting fourteen weeks for this,” I say. “I can’t take it anymore.”

“Of course you can take it,” Henry says.

“I can’t, and you have to help me write this, Henry. I’m terrified I’ll type the wrong thing. Listen for a sec. How does this sound?”

Dear Professor Sparling,

Thank you so much for your message. I believe you deserve much credit for my essay. It was through your guidance that I was able to find my voice. Also, I have to admit, I really did want to impress you.

I, too, would love to stay in touch.

Best,

Sydney

“It sounds really nice,” Henry says. “Completely kiss-ass with a dash of flirtation, but I still think you should wait.”

“Too late,” I say. “I just clicked send.”

I couldn’t have allowed myself to hesitate. I had to type my reply and click send before nervousness could take over. But Henry might be right about waiting. It’s so hard to know. He could also be right about the age issue. It’s not as though I have any experience with forty-somethings, and especially not when they’re genius professors. I have no idea what their expectations are. But the thing is that I don’t want this opportunity to slip away. I really want to be with Professor Sparling. This is no ordinary crush; it’s epic. When I see Professor Sparling and when I think about him, I feel alive in a way I haven’t felt since I learned the horrible truth about myself. Since that time, I’ve felt such shame about my whole existence; I haven’t been able to even conceive of myself being with a man, let alone doing anything to make it happen. It’s not that I haven’t felt sexual urges. (I may be depressed, but I’m still human!) I’m comfortable enough with my body, though, to take care of my physical needs. Sometimes after cuddling with Henry on my futon, watching movies, and making jokes about my ridiculous cats, I’ve gotten a little turned on. I know it’s also happened to Henry. Reaching over him for popcorn or the remote control, I’ve felt the hard proof against my body. Neither of us has ever talked about an attraction, though. We’re best friends. Nothing more.

I’m still sitting in my clothes from class, and the bottoms of my jeans are damp. I need a hot shower. I promise myself not to check email every five minutes waiting for a reply from Professor Sparling. As if you can hold back, Syd, I mumble sarcastically to myself. At least a shower will keep me busy for a little while, and it’s the one place I can’t take my phone or computer.

I take off my bulky hoodie, the t-shirt underneath it, and unhook my bra. I have to get new bras. There is nothing less sexy than the beige granny thing I’m wearing. (At least it’s not gray!) As I pull it off I look down at my breasts. They aren’t so bad at all – generously medium sized, very round, and perky. They deserve better than this full coverage beige bra that must be something my grandmother bought me in 12th grade. I can’t imagine where else I would have gotten such a matronly thing.

I drop the bra on the floor and step on it as I head to the shower. I vow that I’m done with being drab. I am going to write my own list of ways to feel sexy and it’s going to rock. Just sending the email to Professor Sparling has made me so hot that I can now outdo Cosmo and declare ‘write an email to the man who makes you want to get naked’ an official way to feel sexy.

After my shower I put on comfy old gray sweats (not sexy, I know, but perfect for a cold, rainy night) and take my laptop into bed. The cats join me and snuggle up at my side. Over and over I tell myself not to check email. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes since I clicked send. Professor Sparling is divorced, but that doesn’t mean he’s like me – no social life (unless you count my nonstop chatter with Henry). He is probably out having a beer with some other old professors from the English department. I refuse to imagine him out on a date, especially not with Melanie.