careful days

part 1

 "Hey, Frank." You clear your throat theatrically as you lean your hip bone against his door, toeing cutely at the rubber stop wedging it open. "Oh, I'm sorry. Are you busy?"

 His left eye twitches slightly. "I'm clearly in the middle of office hours."

 The two students facing Frank now turn to you, their grins giving away their shared joy. "It's okay, we can come back later." They close their notebooks, gather their purple pens, chirp "Have a good afternoon, Professor Adler!" and duck outside, giggling.

 Frank waits until they're out of earshot before cracking his neck, annoyed. "I swear, you like doing that."

 You laugh. "What?"

 "Convincing half the undergraduate population that we're secretly sleeping together." He rakes his hand through his short brown hair, slumping in his seat and groaning.

 Your nose scrunches. "It's 'cause they all have a big fat crush on you, and I like seeing 'em squirm."

 Frank grinds his teeth as he stares at his white speckled ceiling, identical to the one in your office down the hall. "Big fat crush?" he repeats woefully.

 "Do you not read your own course evaluations?" You partially close the door, fake-quoting: "You have to take Truth and Logic with Professor Adler. He's so sexy and tall, and he grades easy."

 "Well, that has nothing to do with my course." He spins his chair, grimacing. "And I'm not even that tall."

 "Why do you think those girls were just here, huh?" You narrow your eyes. "To have a rousing academic discussion?"

 "You're just jealous." His gaze drops to you, tongue in cheek.

 Your thumb runs over the printed flyer folded in your palm, which you ripped from a bulletin board by the women's bathroom.

  "I'm trying to look out for you, Adler." Shrugging, you sink into the stiff wooden chair his overeager student once occupied. "If you end up sleeping with an undergrad, it would devastate your career," you laugh, "or whatever it is you philosophers do, exactly."

 Frank blinks in disbelief, but you know when he's stamping down a smile. He rotates his seat and logs into his computer. "What do you want?"

 You unfold the paper, inhaling, then nudge aside his philosophy texts to spread it flat in the middle of his desk. "I see your mom's coming to campus."

 His brow furrows at the academic portrait of the woman centered on the page, the black-and-white wash making her appear austere, distant, and pale. "Uh, yeah."

 You straighten your spine, proud of the accuracy of your guess. With two Professor Adlers in Boston—one at BU and one at MIT—you figured this mysterious third Adler must be related. "I wanna meet her."

 His long eyelashes flutter shut. "Why?"

 "To see if the apple fell far from the tree." You'd bet good money on this woman being as grumpy as her son.

 He laughs briefly, then stands, stacking some paper packets and moving them to the other side of the room.

 A couple sheets float to the floor, yet you forge on. "Did you ever have a British accent?"

 He probably called her Mum. Went to some fancy primary school and wore those tiny schoolboy uniforms. The thought brings you delight.

 "I never lived in England."

 You frown. "You could have inherited one from her."

 "Seriously, why?" Frank bends a knee to study the titles lining his bookshelf, removing one of the hardcover references and returning to his desk. Opening it with a faint thud right on top of his mother's photograph.