“Oh my god,” I hear Jane mutter under her breath.
“Everything ok?” Dory asks from behind the counter.
“It’s fine,” Jane grumbles. She tries to push past, but an elderly couple open the door, moving too slowly and taking up too much space for us to slink out past the ogling foursome.
The students are all staring now, ignoring Mohammed, who is trying to seat them, and gawking in our direction. The two boys, lanky athletic types with caps on backwards gape, mouths open. The two girls have eyes so wide a fly could get caught inside.
“Dinner or dessert?” Mohammed attempts to ask the group again.
They don’t even hear him. They’re all staring at us.
One girl leans to the other, who shakes her head, and mouths No Way.
“Excuse me,” Jane says quickly, her voice low, as she inches towards the doorway.
The awkwardness again. The hesitation. She is desperate to leave this space. I can feel the mortification coming off her in waves and I don’t understand it.
In front of her students.
In her favorite restaurant.
That flash on her face. The shadow of sadness. I glance down at her and see her eyes are down.
I look at the group. The kids are young, probably nineteen or twenty. It’s been a long time since I’ve found that age group intimidating, but I remember when it was.
I also remember what I thought of my teachers when I was that age. The few semesters of college I completed before moving out to L.A. I remember how bored and boring I thought they were, thinking they were sexless and ancient when they were probably less than forty, and happily involved with someone much more interesting than their ignorant, irritating students.
It’s a shame, really, that young people don’t respect their elders.
I grin, reaching out and sliding my hand down Jane’s arm, in full view of our audience. I watch the young eyes bulge even larger, mouths hanging wider. Jane stiffens beneath my touch but doesn’t move. The older couples’ eyes glance down, then up again. Not a whisper of interest or scandal on their faces. The woman smiles at me, thinking she is witnessing young love, and attempts to hurry her husband out of the way.
Jane, on the other hand, is flashing between ghost white and tomato red with a speed that has me worried. I’m not sure if she’ll pass out or punch me in the face.
I see one student mouth to the other What the fuck? And I suddenly understand why Jane is upset.
These little shits make her feel bad about herself.
I glance at Jane, her glowing skin, wine-red lips, fantastic rack, all covering up her brilliant mind, hilarious sense of humor, and I don’t understand why she would be upset by them, these young kids, who probably congratulate themselves on inventing sex and beer.
I draw Jane’s hand up in my own, intertwining our fingers and pressing the soft skin of her palm to my mouth, all the while locking eyes with the gawking foursome. Jane’s eyes widen and I wink, drawing my tongue lightly across her hand.
The students are riveted. I have never held an audience so captive. Not even during that production of Hamlet, when all the actors got naked during the fifth act. I hear Mohammed repeat his question, probably for the fourth time now, but no one listens to him. Jane stands, avoiding eye contact, hand limp in my own. Body stiff as a rock.
She’s definitely going to punch me later.
I follow, still holding Jane’s hand in mine. We pass the group of students. Their eyes remain locked on us.
“Hey, uh, Professor Air,” one of the boys moves his mouth, words sticky and stiff as they climb from his lips. His eyes never leave her face. The others continue to gawk. “Nice to see you.”
“Good evening, Jeff. It’s nice to see you too.” Jane turns, tugging at her hand in mine. I pull her closer, using the momentum of her jerking movements to bring her back flush against my front, wrapping both hands around her waist. I lean down and rest my head against her hair, smiling at the students.
The girl on the left lets out a sound between a choke and a gag. The one on the right begins to smile. Her gaping mouth turning up slightly at the sides. She turns to the boys and even I can read her features.
Are you seeing this?
“How- How are you doing?” Not-Jeff stammers.
“I’m good,” Jane says, back ramrod straight against me. Her breath catches slightly. “I didn’t realize students were coming back to campus so soon. Classes don’t start for another few weeks.”
“Teaching training camp,” smiling girl says, mouth in a grin, a look of pure ecstasy across her features. “We’re back early, um…” she looks to Jeff, who continues to gawk in silence.
“We have an exam tomorrow,” choking girl sputters. “We’ve been studying all day.”
“Oh, well, I hope it goes well, Claire.” Jane makes another, futile attempt to pull away from me. I wrap my arms tighter around her, and press a kiss to her hair.
“Uh,” grinning girl reaches inside her bag, “do you mind if I-”
“You know what?” I straighten up, diplomat’s face firmly in check. “We’d just like to enjoy a quiet evening. I’d prefer no photos.”
“Sure,” choking girl nods, knocking grinning girl’s phone out of her hand without looking. “Of course.”
“Thank you, Claire.” I smile again. Grinning girl’s mouth drops open again.
The two boys make a noise in the back of their throats.
“Good luck on your exam.” I unwind my arms from Jane. Looking around the restaurant, no one else is staring. A few curious glances. Brief flickers of recognition. Mohammed offers us an apologetic smile. The elderly couple have moved to the side. The old man gestures for us to pass. I thank him as I open the door, my hand on Jane’s lower back as we exit.
26
Jane
“What the hell was that?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, waiting just long enough to make sure we are out of earshot of the restaurant. Sharp and short and hurried, just low enough not to be heard across the street.
The son of a bitch is grinning, those long legs keeping pace with my stride without so much as a hint of effort.
Goddamn him.
I stop short. The sun has gone down and the stores have closed. The only lights are the street lamps, traditional black iron with electric bulbs inside their glass cases.
“Why did you do that?” I practically shout, glad we are far enough up the street towards his car that no one else is around.
I am so irritated. Flustered. Mad that my students saw me. Mad that my students aren’t back home in their parents’ houses.
I’m angry. I’m confused. I’m…
Horny.
Jesus.
Those arms around me, the size of tree trunks. I force myself to keep my eyes open, staring him in the eye as I catch my breath. My heart is racing so loudly I’m convinced he’ll hear it. The last time my heart was racing like this was…also with his arms around me.
At night.
In the woods.
When I was soaking wet, pressed against him. Underwear stuffed in my pocket, thighs wrapped around his legs. Him whispering in my ear.
Or afterwards, in his bed. In my bed. On the blanket next to the pond. On the pillows in that giant, empty room of his.
Pretty much whenever he’s around, my heart pounds like a Kentucky show horse crossing the finishing line.
I give in and close my eyes, just for a second, but jerk them open again when the thought of him, naked and hard and on top of me flashes across my mind.
I reach blindly for the car door, tugging on the handle and furious that it’s locked.
“What’s wrong?” I hear his voice, laughter underlining the question.
He’s laughing.
He thinks this is funny.
And it is funny.
It’s hilarious.
I could see the joke on my students’ faces.
Professor Air is fucking David Jacobs.
See?
Hilarious.
That’s why we don’t go out in public. That’s why we stay home together.
Because we don’t make any sense together. Not really. We only make sense alone, in the dark, where our ridiculous, illogical chemistry dictates our actions.
Plain Jane and the Beautiful Man.
What a joke. It practically writes itself.
Tired of Hollywood beauties and international models, world’s most eligible bachelor, David Jacobs, decides to slum it with an awkward academic during his retreat in Maine.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he will say in his next interview, once the photos surface. “I guess I was bored.”
Jesus.
That’s what they’ll say, I’m sure. The students will text, probably sneak a few photos for evidence. My colleagues will hear. There’ll be evidence. Christ, maybe it will even go on the internet.
And my photo. Everywhere.
And I can go down in history as the greatest mystery of his dating history.
And for the rest of my life, everyone will ask me about him. Everyone will want to know about that time I dated that famous guy.
“What is it?” He reaches me, arm over mine as I continue to jerk his stupid, expensive, European bullshit car that only opens when it’s unlocked.
Asshole.
Just like its driver.
“Jane. Wait. It was just a joke.” He’s not laughing now.
“You know,” I spin around. It’s pitch black on this end of the street, the lamps stopping several hundred feet behind us. The distant sounds of laughter and conversation trickle up towards us but there’s no one around. “People know me in this town.”
He steps back, surprised by my words. “So? People know me in this town.”
“No,” I put my finger up, in full angry professor mode, “people know of you. No one knows you. But me? People know me.”
“So?”
“So?” I throw my hands in air. “So, I can’t have people talking about me like that.”
“Talking like what?”
“About me.”
“What about you?”
I open my mouth but the words won’t come out.
“So we flirted a little bit, so what? You said your students would never believe you would date me. And now they do. It’s funny. Who cares what they think, anyways?”
And there it is.
We flirted a little bit.
That’s what it is to him.
Because he flirts with everyone.
Because touching means nothing. Great sex is great sex. In private. No one hears about it so no one believes it.
A summer fling.
And I’m the fool.
The fool who wants it to be more than that. More than a joke. More than a rumor.
The fool who wants it to be real.
But it isn’t.
We flirted a little bit. We fucked a little bit.
He’ll go back to making movies. I’ll go back to teaching classes. We’ll be over when the summer is.
God. It even sounds pathetic.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Pressing my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose I count to three before opening my eyes.
Women like us. My mother’s voice, reminding me of what some people can have, and some people will never have.
“You’re right,” I say. I even smile. “It is funny.” I laugh. It is small and hollow. “It is very funny.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just me,” I say. He furrows his brow, trying to understand my words, and I don’t have the energy to explain it to him. To explain how stupid I am. How different we are. How easily I will be heartbroken by flirting a little bit.
How impossible it will be to get over him.
Because, even worse than the photos, the questions, the looks of Why was he interested in her? Worse than all of that is the simple truth: When this ends, I will never be free.
People will always ask me. What was it like? Did you really date David Jacobs? What happened?
And even if they don’t. If they forget or move on or don’t care, I won’t be able to. Most exes, after a few years, fade from memory. The details of their faces blur, mannerisms are forgotten, and hearts heal through distance and time.
How do you recover when your ex is everywhere? On every magazine, in every blog, his beautiful face and deep laugh coming at you through cable, Youtube, streaming services, movies…god, he’ll probably write a book.
He’ll be in the fucking library.
And my casual, fun summer, my fling with the beautiful man, will follow me the rest of my life.
Even if I didn’t love him, I realize, I wouldn’t be able to get over him. And knowing I do love him, I won’t have a chance.
“Jane-”
“I’m tired,” I swallow. My mouth dry and stomach churning. I have a sudden terrifying thought that I will throw up on his shoes and a situation that could not possibly get any worse will get unbelievably, horribly, horrifically, worse. “I left my car in your driveway. Can you drive me back, so I can pick it up?”
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “Of course, but Jane-”
“Come on.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry I yelled. I’m not feeling well and I’d like to get home.”
Slowly, he walks to the driver’s side of the car. I feel his eyes on mine, even as I look down at the pavement beneath my feet. I can barely make out the outline of my shoes in the dark, and I am grateful for the absence of moonlight. At least my humiliation can hide.
We don’t talk on the drive. He asks again if I’m ok and I say I’m fine.
Even this. This pathetic lie. The silent treatment I don’t mean to give him but do anyway. I’ve never done that before. Told a man I was fine when I wasn’t. I always assumed the silent treatment was a form of petty revenge. A passive-aggressive manipulation. But not always.
Sometimes it’s preservation.
Sometimes we are silent because if we say anything, even one more little thing, we will burst apart, split in half like a too-full water balloon and everything we are trying to hide will spill out and away and we will be left a small, torn piece of plastic.
His driveway is dark too, and I am grateful for the trees and their willingness to shelter me. I step out of the car and the heat of the night sticks to my skin. If it were any other evening, any other place, I would sneak off into the woods, towel in hand, and go for a swim.
But I can’t do that anymore.
I will never do that again.
It’s too dangerous. The woods at the bottom of the hill.
It’s too dangerous. The swimming hole tucked inside the woods.
Not because of monsters or criminals or savage animals.
But because of me. Of my delicate, childish, foolish heart. That flies out of my chest at the first sight of an improbable, impossible, inappropriate love. That throws itself headfirst into heartbreak and destruction. As if the very organ I need to stay alive knows exactly how to kill me.
I shut his car door behind me.
I will never go in those woods again.
He’s asking if he can get me something to drink, or something to feel better.
I will never go swimming in that pond again.
He calls my name as I tell him I’m fine and shut my car door between us.
I will never be close to him again.
27
David
It’s Angelo again, waking me up and pissing me off.
“Jesus Christ, David.”
“Good morning to you, too,” I mutter, phone to my ear.
Jane was upset last night. I saw it in her face. I apologized for feeling her up in front of her students, but it wasn’t that. She looked…stricken. As if I had unleashed her deepest secret in front of her worst enemy.
I apologized again, when we got to her car and she had brushed me off, smiling, telling me she had a headache. I invited her
in but she said it was better for her to sleep alone.
I went to bed alone, reviewing the evening in my mind, wondering what I had missed.
It’s the first morning in a while I haven’t woken up in Jane’s bed, or her in mine, and for a moment I am grateful for her absence, considering the string of profanities I usually unleash when Angelo is in a mood.
And he sounds like he’s in a mood.
“It’s been over a month. Almost two. Where the fuck are you?”
“Where the fuck do you think I am?” I ask.
“Are you still in that tiny fucking town?”
“The town I live in? That I bought a house in? Yes.”
“Give me a break. Anyone can buy a house anywhere. That doesn’t mean anything.”
Sometimes, it’s hard not to roll my eyes at Angelo. Every time I think I’ve become too “Hollywood,” I call him up and realize I have a long way to go.
“It’s August. Studios are wondering what your plans are.”
“I don’t have any yet.”
“Well, soon they’re going to stop wondering. Let’s avoid that.”
I nod, knowing he can’t see me. For years, I was terrified of falling off the radar. Even as I protested to friends and family that I hated the press tours, the publicity, the photographers, the pressure, I was still in it, living it, performing it. And the thought of it all stopping, of it falling away and everyone moving on without me, moving on past me, kept me going, on two hours of sleep a night, twice weekly intercontinental flights, missing every friend’s and family member’s birthday.
But today, this morning, the thought of someone taking my place, taking my seat on those flights, my space in the tabloids, doesn’t bother me.
Go for it, I think towards this unnamed young man, this rising star. Have a great time. It’s a wild ride.
But make sure you have somewhere to land when you’re done, another voice says, older and more seasoned than the first.
And someone.
This second voice has gotten louder lately. I like it. I listen more and more to this second voice.
Jane Air Page 17