Both Kate and Penelope pull back at that, glancing at each other.
“How often do you see each other?”
“Most days.”
“Sleeping together?”
I nod.
Kate leans forward, “I don’t mean sex. I mean sleeping together. All night.”
I nod.
“You care for him?”
I nod.
“How is this not a relationship?” Penelope asks.
“We haven’t labeled anything.”
“So?” Penelope sits back, long legs stretched out beneath her hippy layers. “Wasn’t your last paper all about deconstructing labels and addressing the implicit biases contained within?”
I smile. I forget that Penelope actually reads my academic articles. At least someone does. “It was, although in the context of refiguring definitions of literary value in the-”
She waves her hand to quiet me. “The point is, sometimes we’re so caught up in something that we don’t bother to step back and put a name on it. There’s no need. We know what we are in, because we’re in it. Sometimes, the urge to put a label on something seems to be an attempt to create something out of nothing.”
“Like getting engaged when you know the relationship is doomed,” Kate mutters, just loud enough for us to hear her.
“Right,” Penelope nods, “Exactly.”
I nod, grateful for my wise and wonderful friends. But the voice niggles in the corner of my mind, my mother’s words about women like us, the dull and the overlooked, the unwanted. Women who need to develop their brains, not because they want to or because they love to learn, but because they have no other options. No charm. No wit. No beauty.
Be smart, Jane, it’s your only option.
“It just…all seems so unlikely,” I can’t help but say, giving voice to the impossibility of this situation. Plain Jane and the beautiful man.
“Love is unlikely, honey,” Penelope smiles at me. “How could it not be? Think of the billions of people on this planet, nine, I think right?”
Kate nods.
“Nine billion people, all over the world. Different ages, races, genders, personalities, languages, perspectives. Think of all the ways a human being can live a life, all the challenges we face. Think of the statistical probability that two people, two out of nine billion, will cross paths with each other at the time and place when they are willing and able to love one another, that they would be someone the other could love. Think about that. Think of the math. Of course it’s unlikely. It’s pretty damn unlikely, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”
“It doesn’t happen for all of us, honey,” Kate is soft spoken, her eyes on mine. I sense sadness behind them. “But it seems to have happened for you.”
“And maybe it won’t work out,” Penelope shrugs. “Shit does happen, but don’t you want to at least try? At least see if your two in nine billion chance is something? Or are you just going to let it go?”
I sigh, resting my cheeks in my hands, elbows on each knee.
Damn. I hate it when they’re right.
29
David
I’m out back, enjoying the late afternoon sun and trying not to look at my phone and my non-existent missed calls from Jane when I hear her voice.
“Hey.”
I turn, almost jumping out of my chair, my outdoor set the only real furniture I have. My phone falls to the gravel.
“Hey,” I stand, waiting as she comes towards me. She’s awkward, hands in her pockets, back straight, and I am reminded of the first time we met, well, almost the first time. When she came to my house, collared shirt buttoned up to her chin, giant handbag clutched like a weapon. A woman preparing for war.
Quite the change from the soft, naked beauty I’ve grown accustomed to these last two months.
She comes towards me and stops an inch from my front, resting her forehead on my chest, her hands lightly on my waist. She says nothing and I wrap my arms around her, holding her softly against me, worried she’ll change her mind and break away.
“You ok?” I ask, my mouth pressed against her hair.
She nods.
“I called.”
She nods.
“I even came to your house. Knocked and everything. By the way, Jessica left you another book on your doorstep.”
She smiles and looks up at me. “I know.”
“What’s this one about?”
“Deconstructing implicit bias.”
I nod, and press a kiss to the top of her head. “Good stuff.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I just…I needed some space to think.” She presses her cheek against my chest again.
“Think about what?” I ask, enjoying the smell of her shampoo, something floral and coconutty.
“Us. This. Meeting my students the other night really,” I feel her shrug against me, “made all this real. I was enjoying the bubble and all of a sudden, I was outside of the bubble.”
I nod. “I liked our bubble too.”
She takes a step back, pulling away and putting her hands back in her pockets. “You moved here in the summer, and this is a college town.” She looks down, her foot tracing small circles in the gravel. “The students come back soon. Things will really pick up. It’ll get busy.”
I grin at the thought of Midnight being described as “busy.” “I think I can handle it.”
She shakes her head, a small laugh coming from her lips. “What I mean is, the bubble will be impossible.” She looks up. “People are going to find out.”
I peer at her, those dark eyes and their deep secrets. “Is that a problem for you?”
She lets out a slow breath, her foot stills and she steels herself. I see the tension in her body and I know she’s preparing to launch into something.
She closes her eyes, opens them, looking directly at me. “David, I’m planning on living here for a long time, maybe forever. And small towns are great, but they have their challenges. One of those challenges being, everyone knows your business.” She licks her lips, pressing them together, before continuing. “If we continue…dating during the academic year, everyone will know.” She fixes me with a pointed stare. “I don’t just mean on campus. I mean everyone. The bookstore owner. The ice cream shopkeeper. Your mailman. Every. One.”
I nod. “Well, I do like my privacy, but I am used to being a public figure.” I shrug. “It’s not ideal, but it’s not the end of the world.”
“See, but that’s the thing,” she almost laughs before shaking her head. “I’m not a public figure. I’m not used to this.”
A sinking feeling enters my stomach. Something dark and heavy and low.
“What are you saying, Jane?”
“We’ve had a really great summer,” she smiles at me, and it might be the light but I think I see tears shimmering in her eyes. “Wonderful, actually. But I’m not sure this is something that can go beyond this.”
“What?” I reach for her but she pulls her hands away. “Why?”
“Because when it ends, I’ll still be here, and everyone will still talk, and I will forever be associated with this,” she gestures at the empty space between us.
“Why would it end?” I ask, blurting the words out before I can stop them.
“Why wouldn’t it?”
I open my mouth but no sound comes out, “Well, I don’t know, but…”
“Exactly. You don’t know. Neither of us does.” She pauses and then looks at me. “My whole life is here. Yours isn’t. You could pack up tomorrow and move on and find a new place. This is it for me. I’m staying. And if we date for a while more, and then things end, then I’m here, with the memories of you, and the conversations about you, and every time someone brings up the fact that you used to live here, I’ll have to hear that.”
“So, you want to end it?”
“No,” she looks at me, face conflicted. “No, I don’t, but …break ups are hard enough, Da
vid. I can’t imagine a break up where everyone knows my business. Where I’ll probably have to pass a goddamned plaque with a sign that says ‘David Jacobs ate dinner here once.’”
“I doubt Dory would put that up,” I mutter.
She smiles, “Probably not.”
“So what do you want to do, Jane?”
She licks her lips again, pressing them tightly together, that firm, closed mouth so different from the soft, open lips I’ve grown accustomed to.
“Let’s take some time. You said you’re going to L.A.? Why don’t we just think a bit about what we want. And when you’re back…we can talk.”
I nod, slowly. The feeling stiff and unnatural in my neck. She’s standing so close, her body so warm I can feel her next to me. I want to reach for her, to smother her mouth and these ridiculous words and silence her worries and drag her back to bed, but I don’t. The rational part of me, my sensible, experienced brain wonders if she is correct, if our relationship would cause damage and pain to her.
But another part, deep and solid and speaking to me from my very core, says she’s wrong. We both are. The gossip, the questions, the nosy neighbors. None of it matters. None of it is as important as what we have, what we are. And that’s all that matters.
But I don’t listen to that part. I stuff it down, ignoring it, even as it feels wrong and false and dangerous, as if I am risking more than I know, about to lose more than I realize.
“Ok.” I nod again, this time my lips are pressed together. And we stand here, two people who have spent the last two months closer than two people can be, several feet apart, hands in our pockets, mouths closed, as if we have to hold ourselves back from one another. “If you think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, don’t you?”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. On paper, sure. Yeah, why not? Take time. Be sensible. But deep down, that rock solid place of understanding? No fucking way.
I shrug.
“I mean, you came here a few months ago. You dropped everything, and moved out to this random little place. Is this your life now? Are you just…on vacation? Do you even know?” She asks and I can’t answer. I thought I was sure. Every time Angelo calls and asks me when I’m moving back, I know, in my bones, that I’m not.
But I haven’t sold the California house.
And I haven’t bought any furniture for this one.
I drop my gaze and look down at my feet. Maybe my brilliant professor is picking up on something that I’m not able to see.
Not willing to see.
“I fly out tonight,” I look up. “I’m glad I got to see you before I left.”
She smiles. “I’ll collect your mail and drop it off on your porch.”
I nod. “I’ll be back-”
She holds up a hand. “Let’s just see.”
And I get it. No promises. No guarantees.
Let’s just see.
She takes a step, then another, and then she is in my arms, hands around my waist, palms warm against my skin as they wiggle under my shirt. I fist my hands in her hair and drag her mouth to mine, kissing her with all the frustration and fear I feel at the moment, as if we have both just agreed to give up on something neither of us wants to give up on. Her mouth is warm and wet beneath mine and I taste her softness, the scent of her supple flesh against my tongue, my lips, my teeth.
I want to drag her into the house, into my bed, down onto the grass. I want to rip off her clothes and pin her beneath me, thrusting into her until she agrees that she is mine, only mine, always mine, and all these stupid ideas about being sure and making certain are as far as possible from her mind.
I want to, but I don’t.
And when she pulls away, when she smiles and wishes me a safe trip, instead I grab both of her hands, kissing those sensible fingers, holding those teaching hands against my lips.
Her car pulls out of the driveway. I return to the silence of my unfurnished house, standing inside the giant, empty room with the enormous, sparkling chandelier and the clear, bright window facing the woods when the sun begins to set and the trees stand tall and silent.
Everything is silent.
As rational is this is, as sensible as it is, as reasonable and adult and important as it is to be certain, to know for sure, I can’t help but feel like I’ve made the worst mistake of my life.
Later that night, after my drive to the airport, after I park my car in the longterm parking lot and wheel my suitcase into the terminal, my phone vibrates. My heart pounds, wondering if it’s Jane, although I’m not sure what she would have to say.
Instead, it’s that random number, the mysterious friend of Jane.
Four simple words.
Don’t fuck this up.
30
Jane
It’s been a few days and I haven’t heard anything.
Well, not exactly. A few texts before he took off.
I’ll miss you.
Let’s talk when I get back.
And again, when he landed. A snapshot of the L.A. skyline taken, I assume, from his house.
Look! A rare night without pollution!
I responded with a thumb’s up and a photo of me and my friends at Dory’s. Mohammed took the picture, telling us to smile. I almost managed.
And now, nothing.
Students will be coming back in a few weeks and I’ve got meetings starting on Monday- discussions on coursework, new diversity policies in place, a meeting with the Chair of the Department to discuss my progress towards tenure.
It’s all business as usual.
Christine rings my doorbell and I answer. She’s one of the few who still knocks, rather than just walking in.
I open the door and stand to the side.
“I’m here to take you out,” she smiles.
“Where?” I blurt, before I can come up with an excuse. Work? Cleaning? Something, anything, so I can continue to mope, alone and depressed, in my house.
“Anywhere you want,” she smiles again, waiting for me to respond.
I’m silent. Like a petulant sixteen-year-old, which makes me even angrier. What kind of professional, adult woman allows herself to be reduced to this pathetic mess by a man?
A hot mess, that’s who.
“I was thinking the beach? Maybe some lobster rolls and a walk? I’ve got my dog in the car.” Her smile is firmer now, and I know she won’t leave unless I agree to go with her. That’s the thing about Christine. She’s soft and gentle and friendly, committing her life to making the world a better place.
But all that gentleness is wrapped about a spine of steel.
“Alright.”
And before I can mutter or complain or procrastinate with excuses about sunscreen or checking the windows, Christine has ushered me into her car, passed me a water bottle and a tube of sunscreen, and is cheerfully backing out of my driveway and taking us towards the waterfront.
Her dog, a skinny, black greyhound, pants in the backseat, chin resting on my shoulder, smiling in my ear.
They’re in on this together.
We arrive at the beach. Christine parks and attaches a body-harness to her dog, Amalfi. She loops her arm through mine and drags me gently towards the water. She’s holding a basket in her other hand, and my heart twinges at the thought of a picnic. I remember the last picnic I had, naked and in David’s arms.
She spreads a blanket and we sit. Amalfi spreads herself sideways, long legs stretched towards us as she closes her eyes and basks in the sun.
Christine opens a bottle of sparkling water and pours me a glass. She passes me a bowl of strawberries, adjusts her sunglasses, and smiles at me.
She begins to pet her dog.
“So?” I can’t help but ask.
She turns to me. “So?”
“So, aren’t you going to give me a pep talk?” I know I sound irritable, that petulant 16 year old side of me rising up again. I’m irritated at my own irritability.
Christine smiles, glances down at her
sleeping dog, reaches forward and pets her, running her hand along the soft, glistening fur. She sips her water.
“No pep talk then?” I ask, swigging from my own water bottle.
“I’ve never been good at pep talks, honey. You know that.” She tilts her head back and I see her eyes close behind her sunglasses, her silhouette basking in the warmth of the perfect summer day. “I thought you’d like to get out of the house, enjoy the weather.”
I reach forward to pet Amalfi, the feel of her fur soft and warm beneath my palm. She moves, wiggling in the blanket, enjoying my touch. She tilts her head back too, her lips falling backwards into what can only be described as a smile.
Just enjoying the weather, embracing the warmth of the sun and the sound of the ocean. No existential panic about whether she will ever love again.
Dogs are so wise.
“Thank you for not giving me a pep talk.” I eat a strawberry.
Christine smiles. She passes me a bowl of blueberries.
We sit in silence, the gentle sound of the waves, a laughing child in the distance, Amalfi beginning to snore at our feet. The sun is warm on our backs, the sand firm beneath our blanket.
It is the first time all week I feel like I can breathe with ease. I may not have David, not at the moment. But I have so much.
I smile at Christine.
It is a good day.
31
David
The flight was long, connecting through JFK. A flight attendant slipped me her number in first class just before we landed. Another followed me out the terminal where Angelo had a car waiting for me.
My house is just as I left it. Fewer cameramen parked outside, which makes for a nice change. I guess my absence inspired them to find someone else to bother. I see Angelo’s number on my phone and let it go to voicemail.
I set my keys on the marble counter and flick on the lights. It takes me a minute to recollect my bearings. It reminds me of when I was younger, waking up in a new hotel room every morning. Going to bed in one too. It got to the point where I stopped looking around me, stopped paying attention to the details of the rooms, the offices, the restaurants. Everything blurred. Everything became the same, despite how different it all was. Restaurants in Beijing and New York, Toronto and Cabo San Lucas all blended. Different food, but same VIP area. Different wine lists, but same backdoor entrances and escorted exits.
Jane Air Page 19