“In the last year of my PhD, there was this one guy in my department. Adam.” She grins and takes a swig of her coffee. “Total douchebag. Loud. Very confident. And not particularly bright. Like, I never thought he was some kind of genius, even though he clearly thought that. I used to stare at him, actually, when I knew he wasn’t looking, because I just couldn’t get over how impressed with himself he was.”
“Sounds like a great guy.”
“Well,” she points her little professor finger at me, “he teaches at Princeton now. Got the job straight out of the gate. Hadn’t even handed in his dissertation.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah, it was very cool. But it made me feel like an idiot. I mean, here I was, no job offer, and then this guy lands the holy grail of academic positions and I didn’t even think he was any good. So, not only did I feel like a loser who couldn’t get a job, but I felt like a moron who didn’t recognize his ‘genius’ when everyone else did.”
“He might not be a genius. Maybe he just got lucky.”
She shakes her head emphatically. “He’s not. I’m sure of it. If he’s a genius, then I’m a shoe. And he got super lucky. Adam.” She says his name with contempt, as though the sound leaves a rotten flavor in her mouth.
I like this side of her. Competitive. Funny.
“Are you saying I just got lucky?”
“No, no. Well, maybe,” she reaches across the table, patting my hand. Her skin is warm against mine. “Look, there’s nothing wrong with being lucky. And being lucky doesn’t mean you have no talent.” She pauses. “Except for Adam.”
I laugh. She laughs. We look at each other, comfortable in our conversation. I lean back in my chair, and I notice she is too. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this comfortable, this at ease, with a woman or with anyone else.
“I like you, Jane.”
She stiffens. The defenses go up. I can practically see them, these invisible shields closing around her like a suit of armor.
“I mean,” I reach across the table, but she pulls her hand back, “I think you’re cool. And very funny.”
“Funny?” Her eyebrows go up. “I’m not funny.”
“You’re hysterical.”
“I’m smart.”
“Funny people are smart. Although,” I tilt my head, smiling at her discomfort. Perhaps ‘funny’ is an insult to professors. “Not all smart people are funny.”
She nods at that. “That’s very true.”
“Adam probably wasn’t very funny.”
“Adam sucks,” she says, handing down the statement like a sentence.
“See?” I take a swig and point my empty cup at her. “Funny.”
“And professional,” she sits up. The defenses have lowered, just a bit, loosened around the edges perhaps, but it’s back to business. “Let’s talk about the book.”’
“I have thoughts on Heathcliff.”
“Don’t tell me he sucks.”
I grin again. My little professor does have a sense of humor.
An hour later, after I walk her to her car and watch her drive away, my phone buzzes. An unknown number appears with a simple, four-word message.
Don’t hurt my friend.
***
“Why?”
“Because he loves her.”
“Why does he love her?”
“Because…he can’t have her.”
“You think Elizabeth Bennett is playing hard to get?”
“No. I think Elizabeth Bennett is hard to get.”
She leans back in her chair and studies me. Lips pressed together. Arms crossed.
It’s hot.
And adorable.
“So why would playing hard to get make Darcy love her?”
I lean slightly closer, enjoying the way her breath catches when she feels me closing in. “The thrill of the hunt.”
“Do you feel,” she speaks each word carefully, each one stepping out of her mouth one at a time, “that interpretation is supported by the text?”
“Do you want me to find quotes?” She has asked me three times already to find a quote, to ‘support my argument.’ The woman loves a good quote.
“Well,” she puts up a hand and smiles, “let’s take a minute.” That pause again. It’s strategic, I realize. It does not denote her thought process so much as encourage my own.
Good teacher.
Very subtle.
We’ve been meeting weekly for the last month, and I’m beginning to understand her facial expressions better.
Basically, her pause says, Beep! Wrong answer. Try again.
“Do you think…” Another pause. Dammit. “That Pride and Prejudice, Austin’s most revered and studied work, can be best summarized as a book about ‘playing hard to get?’”
Clearly, I’m way off base.
But her face is patient.
“No,” I shake my head, “clearly not. Only an idiot would think that.”
Another smile. I love it.
Well, hell, my literary analysis skills may not be great, but at least I can make her laugh.
“You know what,” she shakes her head. “Let’s back up. What’s the plot?”
“Family of five daughters. Everyone trying to get married. Hijinx ensue. By the end, some are married.”
“Ok,” she nods slowly, looking at me. “That is a pretty simple plot, would you agree?”
Before I can answer, she continues.
“In your last film, your character divided his cellular structure to be able to travel simultaneously backwards and forwards in time, to both save the universe, your girlfriend, and your beloved pet rabbit. Right?”
“Yes…but it was a three-hour film. We had to fit a lot in.” It’s hard not to grin at her. I love hearing the summaries of my movies coming from that prim and proper mouth. I love even more that, since we’ve been meeting, it sounds like she’s watched a few.
“Ok. So, your movie had an amazing plot, non-stop action, and fantastic CGI and made crazy money. Jane Austin’s novel has none of those things, but has remained in print and on reading lists for hundreds of years. It is possible,” she pauses, weighing her words again, “that, in another hundred years, your movie will be forgotten, but this book will remain.”
“Well,” I glance down at the copy in my hand, feeling slightly miffed. “What are you saying?”
“When we’re dealing with something that, on its surface, seems very simple and straightforward, but has stood the test of time, has remained not only public and published, but revered and adored, we must ask ourselves, ‘Why?’”
And there it is.
The hint of pink to her cheeks. The slight flush running along her neck. Her eyes grow bigger and her breath catches slightly and if we weren’t both fully dressed, seated three feet apart from each other on the floor of my giant, weird room with goddamn books in our hands, I would swear she was aroused.
She is, I bet.
By literature.
By this book.
This book about…five daughters trying to find husbands.
“You’re gonna have to help me out here, Jane.” I scratch my head with one hand, noticing how her eyes watch the movements of my arm. Shamelessly, I include a small flex of my bicep and can’t help but think her nostrils flare slightly. “I’m having trouble understanding why this book is so popular. It’s funny. It’s sweet. There’s a happy ending, but that’s not unusual, right?”
“Are all the characters happy?”
Damn. That look again. I’ve got it wrong.
“Well…”
“The mother?”
I shrug. “She complains a lot.”
“The father?”
I frown. “He puts up with the mother.”
“The young daughter?”
“She marries a dick, but doesn’t know it yet.”
“The other young daughter?”
“Jealous of the one who married a dick.”
“Middle daughter?”
“Goth chick. Actually, seems perpetually miserable.”
“Crazy old aunt?”
“No. Total bitch.”
“Hmm,” she’s looking at me again. Eyebrows raised.
“But the older daughters. They’re happy by the end.”
She nods and is about to open her mouth, but I continue. “The eldest, Jane, is described as perfect. And her husband, Bingley, is described as basically perfect too. So that seems pretty much guaranteed, even though Darcy and the bitch cousin try to screw everything up.”
“Well, but-”
“And Elizabeth is clearly the hero. And Mr. Darcy is clearly her match. But Elizabeth is pretty judgmental. And rude. And condescending towards everyone in her family. And Darcy is a dick. I mean, his first impression? Shit. So it’s odd that they end up together, because Jane and Bingley deserve happiness, but I’m not sure Elizabeth and Darcy do.”
“Why is that?” Those professor eyes, watching, waiting.
“It’s not a book about getting married. It’s a book about becoming a better person. Jane and Bingley are perfect, so they don’t need to improve. But no one else in the book is, so they are all miserable. But Elizabeth and Darcy, who start off very flawed, end up growing as individuals. They both become less prejudiced, more forgiving, and more generous. That’s why they get happiness in the end, because they earned it. No one else did, because they didn’t do the work to improve themselves.”
“What-”
I cut her off. “AND, the reason they grow is because of each other. Elizabeth needs Darcy, and Darcy needs Elizabeth, because they are the only characters who can show each other their respective flaws. Everyone else is too intimidated by them. So, if they had never met, they would never have improved as people. So, really, it’s not a story about love at all. It’s a story about meeting your match, meeting someone who can help you see yourself as you truly are, so you can improve yourself.”
She nods, her eyes closing slightly. I feel her studying me, lips pressed slightly together as if she is trying to solve a riddle she only just stumbled upon.
“It sounds to me,” again with those careful words, each one stepping from her lips with precision and care, “that you have just described the ultimate love story.”
“What do you mean?” I lean back in my chair.
“You said it’s not a story about love.”
“Right. It’s a story about growth. Personal growth.”
She nods. The pause.
Damn. Wrong again.
“What is a love story?”
“It’s a story dealing with romance.”
“What else?”
“Sex.”
She grins. “What else?”
“Two people meet. They like each other. They can’t be together for some reason. The reason goes away. Then they can be together. And that’s it.”
She nods again. Silence.
Shit.
Still wrong.
“What was the last great love story you watched?”
“Um…” I pause. “I guess the Wuthering Heights version I watched last week.”
“Nope,” she waves a finger and shakes her head. “That’s based on a book. It doesn’t count. What was the last great love story, on TV or film, that you saw. Not one based on a book.”
“You’ve Got Mail was on TV a few weeks ago. I watched that.”
“That’s a romantic comedy. I mean a straight-up love story, where the focus of the whole movie or show is on the couple.”
Silence.
Nothing.
Literally nothing.
Apparently, I am terrible at watching love stories.
“Honestly, when you describe it that way, all that comes to mind is porn.”
She laughs again. “Why is that?”
“Well, in porn-”
“No,” she holds her hand. “Not porn. Why can you not think of the title of a love story film? You work in movies. You should know a million movie titles.”
“I don’t watch a lot of romance,” I pause. “Although, in fairness, there aren’t many films that would meet that qualification.”
“Why?”
“Because it would never sell.”
“Why?”
“I guess it would be boring.”
“Why?”
She really loves that word.
“Because…” I stare at her, her eyes on mine. I feel her, almost telepathically, guiding me towards the answer. This, this right here. This is a good teacher. “Because love is internal. And movies are external. It’s hard to show the development of feelings because feelings are inside of us, and actions are outside of us. So, unless it’s a very physical love story, or a physically funny love story, romance does not translate well to film.”
“That’s good,” she nods. That look again. The slight squint to her eyes. As if she is trying to figure out a puzzle, or a slight of hand trick. “That’s very good.”
“So, if romance is always internal, if the character arc is internal, then the narrative of romance revolves around how the characters change inside. So all romance is about change. Characters who aren’t in love, fall in love. That changes them. And the love they feel for each other changes them too. The definition of a love story is one in which the characters grow as people through their romantic relationship together.”
“Yes, um…” she stutters slightly, removing her glasses to polish them on her shirt. “Yes. Traditional notions and changing definitions of romance and romantic love aside, the general consensus from a modern perspective is, uh, exactly as you put it.”
She places the glasses back on her face, framing those beautiful eyes behind the glass.
“I got it right?”
She nods again. “Yup.”
I grin. I can’t help it. She’s so cute when she’s flustered.
“You don’t seem like a woman who gets surprised very often, Jane.”
“I’m not,” she adjusts her glasses on her nose, “usually.”
“I feel like I surprised you. Just now.”
“You did. Well done.”
“I think this calls for a celebration.”
She glances at her watch.
“Do you have plans?” I ask, hoping the answer is no.
“No.”
“Do you want plans?”
Her mouth opens and closes. I grin again. I enjoy this, catching her off balance. Surprising her. Watching that serious, organized exterior rattle, just a little bit.
“I’d like to visit your friend’s cafe again. And try that amazing pie you recommended last week.”
“Tonight?”
“Why don’t we go now?”
“Right now?”
“Do you have somewhere else you want to be?” Need to be, I should have said, but I didn’t, sneaking the word in there, to see how she’ll react.
“No-” she catches herself, realizing what she’s just given away.
“Then let’s get pie.”
She stays seated, looking at me. There’s a flash of something, something deep and quiet and seldom seen behind her eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came, but I catch it, the tail end of it.
Fear.
“You don’t have to,” I say softly. “I think it’s clear by now my threat to call the police was a bluff.”
She opens her mouth again, something quieter than a laugh escapes.
I stand, holding my hand out to her. “It’s only pie.”
10
Jane
“The air is so clean up here.”
I turn, my eyes pulled from the bright green and blue of the trees and sky flying past my passenger seat window.
“How can you tell?” I ask. “You never go outside.”
“I go outside,” he laughs. The deep, male sound. Less a laugh and more of a rumble, lower than common decency should allow. “I just keep to myself.”
“You said you’d been to Dory’s before.” I glance at him, trying not to stare, but it
’s hard.
The car, some European brand I guess, not that I have any idea, is a smooth ride. Dark blue on the outside, black interior. Leather seats. I watch his hand grip the stick, shifting smoothly between gears, a skill I myself have never mastered. His thighs flex beneath his jeans as he shifts the clutch, left hand gripping the steering wheel. He smiles at me, those silver eyes twinkling and I feel prickles of sweat dot my hairline.
It’s absurd, really, that a man should be this good-looking. It’s just unfair. Unfair to straight women and gay men, who need to be able to function during their day and can’t just collapse in a heap whenever this perfect specimen walks by. And unfair to straight men. My god, after five minutes in his company I’m ready to give up dating forever. What would be the point? Everyone else is second best.
I wonder if he has many lesbian friends.
He should. They’re the only ones who could survive him.
Not that I date a lot. Again, what would be the point? Between preparing for classes, grading papers, and trying to get a book out before my tenure review, I have barely enough time to see my friends, let alone a boyfriend. Add in the costs of dating, the frustration of swiping right when everyone else seems to be swiping left, and trying to match schedules… What’s the point?
Plus, being brutally honest, I’ve never found it worth the time. I’d like to think I would be willing to make those compromises if it was worth it, but it just never is. The sex isn’t good enough. The emotions aren’t strong enough. The guy’s jokes aren’t funny enough. And after a certain amount of time, it all becomes so boring. The magic, whatever little there was, is gone. Poof! Up in the air. And I’m left with a man in my house, taking up space in my bed, farting liberally and unselfconsciously, and usually stealing food from my fridge.
Just not worth it.
“Well, do you?”
I realize he’s talking to me, repeating a question even, and I shake my head out of my morbid, spinster reverie.
“I’m sorry, what did you ask?”
His thighs flex again beneath my gaze and I feel my resolve weakening. I wonder how much he would have to steal from my fridge before I’d kick him out of bed.
Jane Air Page 8