I Proposed to My Nephew’s Professor / Chapter 6: The Worst Text Ever Sent
I Proposed to My Nephew’s Professor

I Proposed to My Nephew’s Professor

Author: Malik Williams

Chapter 6: The Worst Text Ever Sent

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I went for the direct approach: [Dr. Hart, would it be a crime if I kissed you without warning?] Half-flirty, half-serious, all reckless.

He shot back: [Yes.] Law professor energy: consistent.

[But what if I did it anyway?] I shouldn’t have enjoyed typing that as much as I did.

[Don't break the law on purpose.] He was the walking embodiment of a warning label.

Even on Messenger, Dr. Hart was just as terse as in person—few words, easy to kill a conversation. Maybe he just didn't want to talk to me. Or maybe restraint was his native tongue.

But I didn't think that was it. If he really wanted to ignore me, he wouldn't have revealed he knew me, or sent that message in class. There was a thread here; I could feel it.

I still thought there was a chance. Hope is annoyingly resilient.

I went for the heavy artillery: [Dr. Hart, what type of woman do you like?] I braced for another monosyllable.

[Whatever comes my way.]

I pressed on: [Dr. Hart, need a wife?] Yes, I re-sent the chaos.

He replied coldly: [I don't do marriage.] Consistency is a brand.

I wouldn't give up: [You sure you don't want to reconsider? What about just dating?] I threw him the smaller commitment.

[No interest.] Thud. The sound of my hopes face-planting.

Just then, my best friend messaged me: Comic relief arrived right on cue.

[Had my cat spayed today, now it won't talk to me.] She had a way of making everything sound dramatic.

[Did you get fixed?]

A panicked thought crashed through my mind as soon as I hit send. Five minutes later, I realized my mistake. In that time, I'd been chatting with my friend about her cat. Meanwhile, my other conversation had a grenade in it.

When I opened Dr. Hart's chat, I was mortified. I wanted to crawl into the nearest shoe.

He hadn't replied for a long time. Silence, eloquently damning.

I quickly apologized. I stacked sorry upon sorry like sandbags against a flood.

After ten minutes, he finally sent one word: [Mm.] The blandest possible acknowledgment, carrying both forgiveness and annoyance.

That "mm" could mean a lot—maybe he was fine with it, maybe he was annoyed. It lived squarely in the valley of ambiguity.

To make up for it, I decided to invite Dr. Hart to dinner in person. Two birds with one stone—I'm a genius. Also, cowardly via text; brave in person.

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