As You Are

by Claire Cain

  After that, my lungs were fully expanding, and my heart wasn’t aching quite so much. I still felt bruised and a little broken but talking it through and planning for each of my little cages of dynamite made a huge difference.

  I felt hopeful.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I heard from Mr. Berry by e-mail on Friday, which gave me no new information and only said he needed more time. I was banking on getting a response that told me something I could fuel my hope for a good outcome on, so the disappointment that came from hearing essentially nothing was a real setback. I walked through the plans I had in place, the meetings with lawyers, the other attempts I’d make to contact the agent, her admin Nancy, repellent CathMath77, and anyone else I could think of. But I knew the process took time, and I promised myself I wouldn’t continue pestering the Quint lawyer until after the weekend.

  I did go to work on Friday, and that was a blessing. Erin was surprised to see me—she thought I’d been struck with the plague but was genuine and welcoming when I returned. If she suspected I hadn’t been physically ill, she made no mention of it. Lacy and Bec stopped by to check in, but they were busy wrapping up things for their weekends, so they didn’t linger.

  Even though my funding wasn’t renewed, I did have things to finish up on the current project. I also let the Educational Services Officer, the government employee who worked at the education center and ran the thing, Emily Wender, know what was happening and I wouldn’t be back. She was genuinely disappointed and thanked me for the work I’d done. It was kind of her and was a small positive. I told her I was hoping to stay in the community, and she said she’d do whatever she could to help with other employment. Again, this was so kind and unnecessary and sent a pang of regret through me.

  At the same time, it gave me hope—maybe Emily would have a connection for something simple I could do to stay connected to the community and wasn’t as stressful as teaching a full load. I’d enjoyed my time at the ed center. It was emblematic of a lot of what I loved about education, even if it was rife with the bureaucracy of government contracts.

  By Saturday afternoon, I knew I couldn’t avoid Jake anymore. I had to face him and tell him he’d hurt me and own up to the fact that I’d likely (Who was I kidding? Definitely) hurt him. I wasn’t sure if he was the kind of man to admit that, but I thought, despite his very tough exterior, he would be that way with me.

  But I had no luck. I visited him on Saturday before lunch, and he was gone. I stopped by that evening, and he was still gone. I shut down the ridiculous part of me that started thinking about him going on dates with random girls. That would be totally out of character for him, it didn’t make sense, and it was my stupid brain grabbing on to one version of the worst-case scenario it could conjure up.

  By Sunday, I was incredibly anxious to find him. I could have called him, or texted him, but I felt like I needed to see him. He had texted me a handful of times, and even called once, but I couldn’t figure out what to say in response. I needed him to be able to see me, and hear me, and hopefully understand this part of me.

  I knocked on his door at seven that night. I saw his car in the lot, and I knew he was home. If he didn’t answer, that would be a bad sign. If he chose to ignore me at his door, that certainly meant his interest in me was gone—his desire to deal with my emotions and the awkward situation of my failings was finished. But before my mind could spiral out of control with that thought as it had been doing so expertly the last few days, I saw a shadow across the living room space and then the door was sliding open.

  His face was unreadable, which wasn’t unusual. It didn’t mean he was mad. He looked comfortable in worn out jeans and a t-shirt. His jaw was darkened by the most facial hair I’d seen on him since that very first encounter on the plane—he must not have shaved all weekend. My fingers itched to touch his jaw, his chin, the hollow of his cheek. He looked tired, was my first observation, and he looked completely gorgeous.

  Just… painfully so.

  My ribcage ratcheted down tight, squeezing my lungs, my heart, and every little vessel and cell in between them. My body was caving in on itself, the feeling of missing him, of hurting him, of being hurt by him, of wanting him all so overwhelming I couldn’t speak.

  “Before you say anything, you have to know I didn’t think you plagiarized someone else’s book. You have to know that. I wasn’t thinking about how that might sound to you.” He stopped, waiting for a response. I was listening, my ribcage still gripping my innards in a vice of anxiety and anticipation.

  After his short pause, he continued. “I… I do that, with Henry, and sometimes with soldiers who are freaking out. I walk them through the obvious things, the things they know the answer to, so when they come to the biggest questions, it doesn’t seem like there are so many missing pieces. I jumped into my problem-solving mode, and it was all wrong. I should have listened and comforted you and told you how stupid it was anyone thought you would plagiarize. I should have said I knew you would never do something like that, and they’re insane for thinking of it, and you’re right to feel upset.” He stopped talking abruptly, watching me with concern on his face, his cheeks a little red, his hands still gripping the doors on either side of his body.

  Hearing him rush through his explanation, his hands gripping the doors at his sides tightly, his face taut with stress, I felt a waterfall of affection for him wash over me. I felt the warm sensation begin at the tip of my ears and rush down to my toes. I felt relief, too.

  I stepped forward, took the slight step up into his house, and brought my arms behind his back and pressed him into a hug. I put my head on his shoulder and squeezed him, harder than I needed to, but I wanted to convince him I heard him. His arms were around me, then one hand was sliding through my pony tail.

  “I missed you,” he said, smiling down at me.

  “I’m sorry I’m just now coming to you. I came by a few other times this weekend, but you were gone, and I didn’t feel like this was a conversation for texting or even a call,” I explained, looking up into those luscious brown eyes, now eased of their former worry. He kept one hand around my back and rotated so we could walk in the door. He shut it behind us and led me to sit on the couch a few steps farther into the living room.

  “Yeah, it’s been a busy weekend, but I’m glad you didn’t give up,” he said, his mouth sliding up into a small smile.

  “Me too,” I said, returning that smile. I took a breath and then turned to him. “Thank you for what you said. The day you came over, it was just—it was the worst. And I felt like no one was believing me. And then there you were, and I was ashamed to tell you the grant didn’t happen, and then to have to mention this ridiculous accusation. But when you asked me…”

  “You thought I was really asking,” his low, steady voice supplied.

  “Yeah.”

  “I would never believe you had plagiarized, or really, done anything dishonest. That’s not who you are Ellie. I know that, at least,” he said. He put a hand on my knee that jutted toward him where I sat facing him, my back against the side of the couch.

  “I realized that later. Or I hoped. What you said a few minutes ago—it makes sense. My mom does the same thing. I felt small and trampled that day, like such a fraud, and my pride was destroyed. I didn’t have anything left in me to yell at you or challenge your assumption—or what I thought was your assumption. I couldn’t face the disappointment of you not believing me too.”

  “I’m so sorry I made you feel that way.”

  “It wasn’t just you. It was everything, and you coming at the end of that particular day was awful timing,” I said and gave him a regretful grin. “I already felt like things were… weird. Between us. And I couldn’t wade through a conversation then, so I sent you away. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t think you need to apologize, but ok. Apology accepted. And I agree, things were confusing after dinner the other night, but that’s ok. Obviously, the meeting at the ed center was off. I wa
s short and rude—I’m sorry. We can talk more about that if we need to. But right now, tell me how I can help. Have you gotten any more information about who took your book or what you can do about it?”

  And so, we talked.

  I discovered he’d taken on quite a bit of indignation on my behalf and had even done some research on how to handle plagiarism in the publishing world, which was more than a little endearing. I told him about my appointments lined up for the next day, how I hoped I’d hear from the agency soon, maybe even first thing so I’d know something more before my first appointment at ten. We talked for two hours before I realized it was getting late, and I was hungry.

  “I should probably get home. I need to prep all my evidence in case they want to see my side of things before they agree to take my case.” I stood up and walked to his door. He followed me and pulled me into a hug.

  “This is going to work out. I know it’s been a crap week, and I’m sorry I contributed to that. It’s going to get better,” he said, speaking into my hair as he hugged me.

  I pulled back to see his face. “I know we haven’t talked about us—”

  “I’ll be here. Ok? There’s no expiration on that discussion.” His eyes were dark, his brow furrowed, and I felt the overwhelming urge to press my lips to his, to take his mouth as my own and find comfort there. He was leaning down to me, over me, since he was taller. His warmth radiated around me.

  Somehow, I didn’t—I pulled away and said, “Ok” and walked home.

  Once confined inside my own walls, I let out a shaky breath. Even though I came away feeling better, and even though I was expecting him to understand my reaction, I didn’t think I’d walk out feeling so… cared for. Gentled. Calm and confident. I felt ready to battle for myself, for my integrity. And I now knew with clarity that once I had victory over this, the next thing I was going to battle for was my relationship with Jake.

  Because I wanted that.

  I wanted him.

  I wanted us.

  I stepped into the elevator in the squat brown office building and once the doors closed, I rolled my neck from side to side trying to loosen the concrete pose my back and shoulder muscles had struck since waking earlier that morning. I tended to carry my stress in my neck and shoulders because so much of any given job I’d had involved hunching over a computer screen or maybe because my mind simply sent the most crazed messages to those muscles. This is crazy! Ball up into little knots and torture her to reinforce the stress. Yes, yes, don’t give in to the stretching or massage!

  After almost a week of stress, with increasing intensity as each day passed, my shoulders might as well have been dry wall. Knock them the wrong way, and they’d crumble, they felt that brittle.

  I had no idea what to expect. I’d never been to a law office and always imagined them full of fancy people with stylish suits and big salaries. And honestly, few scruples. I recognized, over the last few days, that a large part of my hesitation about going to a lawyer was my unconscious belief that in order to be a lawyer, one must be comfortable bending, or ignoring, the law. But that didn’t make sense. I had a friend who went on to law school after our undergrad, and she was quite an upright citizen.

  I walked into a long, stuffy hallway and saw the sign that read Lundquist and Associates and knocked. Someone buzzed me in, which seemed unnecessary. I approached the desk and the administrative person there knew who I was.

  “Ms. Kent, welcome. Please wait in the waiting room,” she said in a saccharine voice, and I tried not to feel irritated she used Ms. instead of my hard-won title. I wasn’t someone who needed to parade around with my credentials stapled to my forehead. No, it was that the way this woman was looking at me was like I needn’t worry my pretty little head at all now that the big strong lawyers were there to help. And if there was something that got under my skin, it was being treated like a child, or like a helpless nitwit.

  I took a seat and wondered if I had any response to my latest email. Mr. Berry had sent a reply to my email from Friday with something typically unresponsive. Something about needing more information about Cathy and he was working on it. I’d responded the minute I saw it this morning, asking if there was anything else I could give him (though I was certain I’d provided everything I had) and was praying I’d have another response from him when I got home. The approach of a man who I assumed was Mr. Lundquist interrupted my thoughts.

  “Come with me, ma’am,” he said and gave me an overly-warm smile. He brushed a hand down the front of his suit, and I saw small crumbs skitter down his white shirt and brown coat to the floor before he buttoned his blazer around his sizeable belly. He turned, and I followed him to a door down a cramped hallway and sat in one of two seats on the opposite side of his desk.

  “How can I help you today, Ms. Kent?” My nostrils flared at the “Ms.” there paired with the concerned tilt of his head. He slid behind his desk and then dropped abruptly into his seat. I worried for a moment about the chair’s ability to hold him. He wasn’t all that big, but he had great faith in that office chair. He brushed more crumbs off of his desk, clearing the desktop calendar of any trace of the donut or cookie or whatever it was he must have been eating moments before I arrived.

  I could already tell I wouldn’t use this guy even if he thought I was as innocent as banana cream pie.

  (But really, what is more innocent than banana cream pie? Nothing. Name one bad thing banana cream pie ever did to you. You can’t.)

  I was all for having a snack but wasn’t this an office? Hadn’t I made an appointment? I felt irritable and the sight of his cookie’s leavings cluttering his desk, old napkins pitched in all directions around his computer, and the filthiest computer screen I’d ever seen (did he actually touch it? Do people touch computer screens like they’re some kind of malfunctioning iPad?) put me off.

  “It’s Dr. Kent. And I hope you can help me by telling me whether or not I have a case, how you’d proceed if you believe I do, and whether or not you believe I can win that case.” My voice was crisp, and I sat with my legs tucked under the chair so my weight and energy were forward. I was wearing a charcoal gray suit, and I looked as professional as leather-bound books.

  “Ah, yes, of course. Well I do believe you have sufficient proof. However, I don’t believe you’ll be able to garner much, if any, financial recompense.” He built a teepee with his meaty fingers and watched me over top of it.

  “I don’t care about money. I’ve lost a potential contract here, but at this point, I want her to admit she’s stolen my work, and I’m the original author.” I hadn’t even thought about money as something to sue for.

  “Well, that’s highly unlikely. It’s nice you think you don’t care about money, Dr. Kent, but believe me, you do. If you’ve lost this contract with a desirable and interested agent because of this person, then that’s a financial hit you’ve taken.” The tone was there again, like I was a simpleton for not wanting to gouge this random woman I knew from an online message board for money she didn’t have.

  “I appreciate your perspective, but mine differs.”

  “Well I can see you have some things to think about. I can tell you we would sue for damages, and it would be out of the winnings you’d pay us. We do believe you’ve got a strong case, and of course it helps you’re a PhD and have done this research for veterans. That’ll play well to the judge if need be.” He smiled at me, his jowls gyrating as he walked toward me with hand outstretched. I stood and shook it, a light, slightly moist hand, and nodded.

  “I’ll think this over. I’m eager to move forward so I can put it behind me.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. I knew I wouldn’t hire him, but I didn’t want to say that in person. I’d email him or call and talk to condescending administrative assistant Jeanine in there if need be.

  “Yes, I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” he said and waived from his office door, then retreated as I walked myself out.

  I burst out of the 1970s’ mascot of a buildi
ng and soaked in the fresh air. Something about the air inside had been particularly stifling. It was eleven in the morning on a typical May day, and it was by no means cool. The humidity was rising, and I started sweating immediately after I left the cool, air-conditioned halls, but I still felt far more comfortable out there.

  Maybe I was a child. Maybe I was a nitwit. The idea I’d want money hadn’t even occurred to me. In my Pollyanna version of this story, CathMath77 (Yes, I was still refusing to refer to her by her real name. And yes, when I thought her screen name it was with an extremely sarcastic bent to my thought, like this was some small revenge. Like I was putting air quotes around her name. Burn!) would tuck tail and run but not before she gave a full confession to Mr. Berry at Quint. And then of course, Angelica Quint would give me the contract I’d earned with the book she liked so much until she found out it was a (not really) fake.

  The likelihood of that happening was essentially nil. I felt it settle onto my head like a swim cap, tight and unyielding, pressing my hair against my skull and making me twitch and itch and feel bald at the same time. I didn’t like this news. I didn’t like the feeling I had no control.

  My afternoon meeting was a small improvement over the Lundquist and Associates debacle, but ultimately, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I did not want to sue. Who knew how long that process would stretch out ahead of me and how long I’d be stuck there? I wouldn’t be able to move ahead with the book because it would be stuck in purgatory, neither being published nor read.

  For what was the thousandth time since the Thursday before when I got the news, I prayed for something to change. Some little sliver of hope or a hint there might be some other way to resolve all of this.