THIRTY-FIVE: Perhaps You Should Look Into Therapy

That is it. I've seen her name before – first on the letter that I'd seen on his desk, and again after I'd found that picture of him in the article about his parents. It was so much to take in, and at the time, I was so laser-focused on Harlan and only Harlan, that I didn't remember the name of his parents.

I'm not sure if Harlan is completely in the mood to open up to me, but I am grateful that he's started nonetheless. I can't help but smile, losing the fight against the corners of my lips that lift upward as my heart fills with warmth.

I've always imagined Harlan as a lone wolf because, well, he is. It is hard to imagine that he has a family out there somewhere. Now there is a name to the woman who'd raised him.

And then lost him.

"I remember now. I read about her," I admit. "And your father."

Harlan huffs. At least I've gotten him to open up for a moment. Even as I feel him shutting down again, his walls rebuilding themselves, it’s still progress.

"I'm sure you have," he says, not unlike a sneering ten-year-old, and lays back down, snatching the blankets up and over his shoulders, his eyes back to fixating on the ceiling above him as if it is the most interesting thing in the world.

Jesus Christ, he is a professor for God's sake, but somehow, he is practically a child.

"You grew up too fast, didn't you?" I blurt before I can stop myself.

It isn't as if I've already come to that conclusion long before, but saying it out loud, for the first time – Harlan's head snaps towards my direction so quickly, I’m pretty sure I’m a dead woman.

"I don't remember asking you to analyse my personal life," he snaps venomously.

"You're the one who taught me everything I know about interpretation and analysation," I remind him.

"Well, maybe you should keep it to your books."

I blink in shock, stunned by his sudden hostility. Christ, the man can turn on a dime, and I don't know why I expect anything different.

"Who's the one who woke me up, asking why we hadn't talked about what happened between you and your family over the weekend?"

He huffs again, placing his hands behind his head, arms bent at the elbows. Expressionless, he averts my gaze, staring lifelessly at the chandelier that hangs above our heads. "Perhaps you should look into becoming a therapist."

"Perhaps you should look into therapy," I quip quickly in response.

Harlan closes the distance between us before I can blink.

Perhaps I didn't fully see him sit up under the heavy weight of the darkness, or perhaps he was so quick that I missed it, but before I can take a full breath, his face is in front of mine, separated by mere inches. I inhale sharply, breath hitching on its way into my lungs, the force of the air scratching my throat.

In this proximity, I can make him out, just so. His jaw is clenched, almost trembling, lips slightly curled. Hot air huffs out of his nose, like an angry bull, and his eyes hold only coldness. A coldness that I know all too well.

"I was willing to talk about what transpired over the last few days," Harlan tells me, voice dripping with anger. "But there's a line to what I'm willing to discuss, and how. You just crossed it." The words spit furiously and unequivocally from his mouth, leaving no room for argument or debate.

I feel my lip tremble as I take shaky inhales through my nose. I feel my teeth clench together in fear so hard that it is impossible to breathe regularly. Every muscle in my body tenses, and his harsh words cause my heart to drop to my stomach.

I could burst into tears here and now. I almost do, but I will myself so aggressively to stay firm and grounded.

He can't scare me. He can't treat me like he is indifferent towards me. Internally, I remind myself that he's opened up to me already, and that can't be taken back. Acting callous or cruel when he wants to take it back is a defence mechanism. It has to be.

Why else is he so impetuously abrupt and indecisive?

I lift my chin, a small indication of the dignity and courage I refuse to release, even as they batter at their cages, desperate to be free and wisp away into the night, leaving me alone. I hold fast onto them, needing them now more than ever.

"My dad's had cancer twice," I tell him.

His eyes twitch, and I half expect him to blink, but his face is frozen. He looks like a statue, magnificent and angular. He could have been carved by Michelangelo or Donatello; even when he is this angry, he is still so beautiful.

"He had it first when I was in high school. He recovered, but it came back my freshman year of college. My mom... I love her to death, but we just don't get along like my dad and I do," I admit. "He's the one person in the world that I don't think I can live without." My voice drops to a whisper. I feel the familiar swell of emotion blooming in my chest, the tightness in my throat, and I fight the sensation.

"I almost didn't finish out my first year of college," I continue. "Sometimes I don't know what I'm still doing here in Boston. And I think about the fact that... that I'm moving here after college. And eventually, on to New York, if I'm lucky. I always knew that my life would take me away from my hometown, and it was never a discussion with my parents. I wonder every day if my purpose lies with them instead. If I'm selfish for starting a life for myself so far away from them. Especially with my dad and his track record. Half the time, I feel like a horrible person," I whisper.

"But they supported and embraced the path my life was taking. Never asking me to come home, but figuring out how they are going to help me conquer my future. All the time, I wonder if I'm a bad daughter. But the thing about good parents is that they're always there to support us, whether they agree with the choices we're making or not. And they're always there to forgive us."

I watch as the hardness in his eyes falters, but doesn't break. Something in him softens, however, his muscles relaxing, jaw slowly getting less tense. Just barely, his eyelids twitch, as if he is keeping himself from blinking. His lashes flutter like the wings of a moth, but he doesn't let himself draw out of the intoxicating bond we share as both stare intently into the other's eyes.

"I understand you more than you think I do," I whisper, gentle but firm. "We don't have to unpack that tonight. I know I'm your student, but we're more similar than you know. We're separated by seven years, not a lifetime. I may be younger than you, but I'm old for my age. And you're young for a professor," I point out with a small smile, twinges of lightness and warmth in my eyes. I hope that they reach him.

Finally, I sense the resolute anger in Harlan give way.

His body relaxes, and his eyes turn gentle again, or whatever is akin to gentleness in a person like Harlan. Eyes that are blank and distant, mysterious and impenetrable, eyes that I love, and eyes that hurt my heart because I know that is the best they can be. But impenetrability and distance are better than anger and darkness, if only by a small stretch.

Harlan sighs, the tension leaving his muscles as he does. With lips slightly pursed, he examines me in silence. His palm finds the side of my cheek and settles there gently, making my skin buzz and tingle as it brushes lightly against me. And after what feels like a lifetime of waiting, he finally speaks.

"If I ever want to discuss my childhood, I'll tell you. Don't be so presumptuous to assume that I do."

With that, Harlan retracts his hand and lays back down, turning on his side, one arm stretched underneath his pillows. He settles within the blankets until he is still and soon, his breathing even and steady.