My Professor's Secret

39|

thirty-nine

It isn't much longer after I've tucked my phone away that Professor Thornton emerges from his bedroom dressed in attire more fitted for the evening—a pair of grey sweatpants and the only dingy white t-shirt I'd ever seen him wear. He doesn't speak as he passes the living room, but he flashes a grin and signals me towards a chair at the island bar in the kitchen, which I abide by without hesitancy. I watch as he struggles to wrap his signature apron around his body, and instead of waiting on his request for help, I make my way toward him, grab ahold of the strings, and secure the apron around his torso in a tight knot.

"You know," I say, interlocking the strings into a perfect bow behind his back. "I almost refused your offer tonight. Figured it would make me look a lot less of a douche than accepting it, knowing certain tasks have been hard for you to manage with your bandaged arm," I end, making my way back to my chair.

"I'm glad you decided otherwise. Cooking is a hobby of mine, and at the nurse's request, I took time off from Hinkhouse, but being unable to cook in the comfort of my own home wasn't an option."

Trevor pulls a hunk of meat wrapped in brown butcher's paper from the refrigerator and a bowl filled with various vegetables. He promptly runs the bowl through the lukewarm tap and begins pulling pans and spices from his cabinets. I'm tempted to question his preparedness, but at the risk of sounding overbearing—I allow the thought to exit my mind.

I'm confident he didn't invite me over to micromanage his every move and treat him as handicapped, so I let a breath of worry evaporate quietly from my lips and finally find comfort in my chair. I wanted to be here and didn't mind if he had an inkling of confidence in me taking him up on his offer to invite me to his place. It gave me a sense of belonging, knowing he wanted and expected me to be with him tonight.

"Feel free to get comfortable if you'd like. Dinner will take a while, and I don't want you to sit stiffly in that chair if you'd be more comfortable on the sofa."

The view of the living room is a clear one from the kitchen, thanks to the open floor plan of his apartment—but it's much further from him than I wanted it to be. Why waste precious time with him lounging on the sofa when I could use this time to learn more about him? I was overly cautious around him, stressing about what might happen if we were alone, and here we were—alone, and yet I struggled to hold a conversation that didn't include aspects of our everyday life.

"I'm fine," I tell him, though I do rise from my chair in pursuit of my backpack to retrieve my play script. "What's on the menu for us tonight?"

"Seared garlic butter steak, roasted potatoes, and asparagus." My mouth instantly salivates. Though our dining hall served pretty decent food and Hinkhouse offered all employees a fantastic discount, nothing could compare to the comfort of an excellent ole home-cooked meal.

"Sounds amazing."

For a while, the house becomes quiet, apart from the stream of running tap Trevor uses to fill a bowl with potatoes. Working with him for as long as I have, I've grown familiar with watching him in his element behind a stove. But whereas most of the food at Hinkhouse is prepped at the start of the day and packaged until later according to orders, I never really witnessed him in the rawness of the art of preparing food. At least not with my current emotions toward him. Even as he struggled with his arm, his potatoes still came out in perfect cubes before he tossed them into a warm skillet. He removes the butcher paper from the steaks and seasons them to perfection, along with the asparagus. When he finally pivots in my direction, I glance down at my script before he can notice the crimson flush burning my cheeks as I admire him in mundaneness.