“Yes, with a man.”
“Oh, weird. I thought you were a lesbian.”
I frown, looking at her over my shoulder. “Why would you think that?”
“I’ve never heard you talk about guys before.”
I shrug. “That’s because no one has caught my eye until now.”
“How long’s it been?” she asks.
“Couple years.”
She scrunches up her face. “You’re going on the first date you’ve had in a couple of years and you’re wearing that?”
I look at my reflection again. I look fine, I guess, but nothing about this outfit screams “rip off my clothes.”
“I don’t really have anything else to wear,” I say.
“This won’t do.” She goes to the plastic mobile closet she keeps in the corner of the room. The dorms are terrible when it comes to storage space. Or any kind of space for that matter. Our beds are practically on top of each other. Since we’d never met prior to becoming roommates, we had to learn to not be shy really quick. Privacy is not a luxury we have.
“I have the perfect thing,” she says.
She pulls out what I think is a shirt at first, before realizing it’s just a really short, red, spandex-stretchy dress. “Try this on. The color will look stunning with your dark hair,” she says.
I take off my clothes. I’ve been wearing my socks long enough for them to leave a mark around my ankle that I hope fades before I leave. The dress hugs every curve of my body and she’s right, the color really is striking against my pale skin and brown hair. It’s shorter than anything I’m used to wearing, just long enough to hide my butt cheeks. Every time I sit or stand, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t ride up.
I look good, but I can’t help but feel somewhat self-conscious. I don’t wear things like this. Girls with confidence, girls like Serena and my roommate, wear things like this.
“Oh, and you have to wear these with it,” she says, handing me a pair of black six-inch Louis Vuitton stilettos with red soles. It’s a good thing we have the same shoe size as well or I would’ve been wearing scuffed blue flats with it. A bold choice that someone other than me might’ve been able to pull off.
She takes in the entire package, nodding and making faces. “You look amazing, but it’s not finished.”
She does my makeup next. She keeps my eyeshadow neutral, but gives me deep red lips that make them look sensual. I feel like a completely different person. I’m not sure if Mr. Johnson will even recognize me outside of my university sweatshirts and jeans. Most days I don’t even bother to apply mascara, let alone full warpaint.
“I guarantee if you were to walk into a room full of men right now, every head in the room would turn your way,” my roommate says.
I’m only looking to turn one man’s head tonight.
“Well, yeah, because I would be fidgeting so much they’d think I was up to something,” I say.
She laughs. “Shut up. You look hot. If I wasn’t with my boyfriend, I’d totally fuck you.”
I laugh nervously and let out a shaky breath. That’s not the kind of attention I’m used to getting from men. Or women. I get looks sometimes, but the most attention I get at school is guys asking for my help with assignments.
“Now,” she says, giving me one last once-over. “Go get laid. You deserve it.”
My cab takes me to the address Mr. Johnson gave me with two minutes to spare. It’s not a neighborhood I’d expect someone to live at on a teacher’s salary. It’s a large, two-story house with a big landscaped yard, mature palm trees, and a koi pond out front. It’s nestled among other big beautiful houses of the same caliber on the wealthy side of town. It’s a place I’d expect a politician or CEO of a small corporation to live.
Then a terrible thought hits me: what if he’s married? If his wife makes all the money, a house like this would make sense. What if she’s out of town and I’m coming in like a one-woman homewrecking crew in a red dress?
In the year I’ve been in his class I’d never once heard him mention a wife or even a girlfriend. He doesn’t have a picture of anyone on his desk like my other professors do, and he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.
I decide to let it go for now. Once I’m inside I’ll know. It’s impossible to hide a woman’s touch.
Walking up to the door, I feel the warning signs of panic pushing down on me: heart racing, blurry vision, shortness of breath. I’m bombarded with questions and worries. What if he doesn’t even live here and he gave me the wrong address to embarrass me and put me in my place? I’ll get back to school and he’ll be like, that’s what you get for blackmailing me, even though it definitely wasn’t blackmail.
I start to regret sending the cab away. I guess if this doesn’t pan out, I’m close enough to campus to walk. Or, if these miserably sexy shoes destroy my feet, I could just call another cab.
A squeaky porch swing sways with the wind, and next door I hear the trill of chimes. These sounds distract me from my rambling thoughts enough for me to focus on the task at hand. Taking a deep breath, I fix my dress, check to make sure everything is under wraps, and smooth down my hair. Then I knock.
The door is painted red and has a brass lion knocker. It’s a really pretty door. I’m terrified it won’t open. Yet, at the same time, I’m terrified it will.
Feels like forever before the door opens, but it’s probably only been ten seconds or so. The tension in my shoulders eases up just the slightest bit.
Mr. Johnson stands at the threshold and isn’t dressed at all like Mr. Johnson. He’s barefoot, wearing loose jeans and a form-fitting baseball shirt that hugs his toned chest and arms wonderfully. I never would’ve imagined him being a sports fan. I guess with his athletic build, it makes sense. He probably plays sports, too. I’ve never been attracted to jocks in any way, but for some reason, the thought of Mr. Johnson all sweaty and pumped up after a game—doesn’t matter which kind; it could be badminton for all I care—really turns me on.
I feel overdressed. Kind of like a call girl. What the hell was I thinking wearing this thing? It’s so not me.
“Wow,” he says, blue eyes scanning the length of my body. He takes a step back to get the full picture. “That’s some dress.”
I feel really stupid right now, so I try to make light of it. “This old thing? I wanted to keep it casual, you know, just in case I decide to hit the gym after.”
He huffs out silent laughter and opens the door wider for me to enter. “I know what you mean,” he says, “I always keep my mini red dress in my gym bag.”
I smile and roll my eyes as I walk in.
A few silly words exchanged and I’m feeling more at ease. I look around the large room, taking it all in, trying to learn about what kind of person Mr. Johnson is outside of the classroom.
The first thing I notice, besides a serious lack of décor, is the smell of rosemary and basil. He’s cooking something, and whatever it is smells delicious.
The house is a total bachelor pad. From the ratty recliner that’s obviously his favorite piece of furniture, to the posters and signed hockey jerseys on the walls. The place is all male. He’s definitely n
ot married.
Taking it all in, I realize just how big it is. The living room itself is three times the size of my dorm room. It’s a lot of house for just one person.
“You live here by yourself?” I ask.
He looks around and shrugs. “Yep, just me and the cat. He’s around here somewhere.”
Another surprise. I didn’t picture him as a cat person. I didn’t picture him with animals at all, but if I had to guess, I would’ve thought he’d own a bulldog or mastiff. Something macho to complement his size.
“I can’t picture you with a cat,” I say, unable to contain my smile. He’s just so incredibly adorable, and nothing like I was expecting outside of the classroom.
“He’s not mine. He just comes around when he wants food.”
“I don’t blame him,” I say, sniffing the air. “Smells good in here.”
“Good. I hope you’re hungry. I made fresh pasta.”
And he can cook? Jesus, this man is perfect.
“Starving,” I say.
He leads me to the kitchen nook. The kitchen too is just as spectacular as the rest of the house. Custom everything, including a fridge that matches the dark wood of the cabinets, glass tile back splashes, and granite countertops. I’m not much of a cook myself, but my mom would’ve sacrificed me to the nearest god for a kitchen like this when my siblings and I were growing up. She always complained about not having any counter space. The counters in here are big enough to land a plane on.
The table has already been set for two. Champagne on ice, candles lit. When he gave me his address, I was just expecting a longer version of the preview I’d seen earlier in the classroom, and most likely—if I was lucky—an awkward quickie. I’d satisfy my curiosity and that would be that. What I wasn’t expecting was a romantic dinner. Not that I’m complaining. I’m just confused about what all this means. I already told him this wasn’t a blackmail situation, so he didn’t have to go to all the trouble.