“The train, like all public transit in the US, is more expensive and less . . . good,” Jamie replied. “Besides, even if I had train time or train money, I have to count myself out. I’ve already promised camp I’d be back for one last year.” Jamie had been going to Camp Lightbulb in Provincetown since she was fourteen and had been a counselor since she was nineteen. When they met freshman year, Jamie had talked about camp the way that EJ now talked about Bennet House.
“Oh fine, I know how much it means to you.”
“Tessa could go,” Jamie suggested.
EJ shook her head. “Tessa’s probably going to get that internship at Bryce Canyon. I don’t think our summer plans will line up.” She shrugged. “I just thought it would be nice to see California before I maybe, possibly, leave the country for the next couple of years.”
The main reason EJ had applied to be a Fields Fellow was so she could do grad school internationally without going into an unreasonable amount of debt. Since she wanted to do two back-to-back masters, she looked only at schools with historic building conservation and sustainable design programs. After all that, her top two schools were University of Auckland in New Zealand and the University of Edinburgh, which she already knew and loved from her year abroad.
Jamie patted her arm. “For what it’s worth, I’m as sure about you and this fellowship as you are about Tessa and her internship. I’ve never seen you have so much fun doing engineering stuff.”
EJ gave a small smile. She’d really been enjoying the research for the fellowship presentation. She’d gone back to her initial capstone idea of preserving and restoring the Old Stone Mill and added in a focus on climate change. The work felt easier just because it was so interesting.
“I kind of hate how much I want it now,” she admitted. “I haven’t worked this hard on something since my ballet days.” She felt a shudder run through her body.
“Hey, at least there’s the Girly Show,” Jamie offered. “That will keep you nice and distracted until the short list comes out.”
EJ groaned. The Girly Show was Bennet House’s annual fundraiser: a night of third-wave feminism, off-color sketch comedy, and often at least one amateur burlesque act. The whole house got involved. Those who weren’t performing sold snacks or put up decorations—and everyone got friends to buy tickets and hoot from the audience. The fundraiser covered all the Bennet House activities and big, big purchases, like this year’s dream item: a dance studio in the basement of the house. There was a good deal of demand, and the school was willing to support the project if the House raised 30 percent of the funding. Ever since she got the idea, EJ thought of the dance studio as her Bennet House legacy. That meant the Girly Show had to be an extra-big success.
“That reminds me, I’m gonna have to go soon. Dia asked me to help her and Graciela rehearse.”
Jamie’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “She got Goth Gracie to sing? How?”
EJ shrugged. “They bonded over Wicked; they’re going to sing ‘For Good’ at the show. I’m going to accompany them.”
“No rest for the wicked, eh?”
“I see what you did there.” EJ laughed. “No rest, but maybe half a milkshake if you feel like splitting? This is a celebration, after all.”
Will
Will was killing it in New York. Spending the previous months with contentious intellectuals had turned out to be great preparation for this particular media circus. He remembered the importance of being kind to support staff from EJ’s horror stories of residents who liked to treat RAs like servants, or their parents who treated them like nannies. With this in mind, he charmed all the makeup and hair stylists and, as a result, looked particularly dashing and well rested at all his on-camera interviews. On CNN, he discussed his art history studies without seeming pompous by balancing every potentially pretentious-sounding statement with a self-effacing one: something he picked up from a well-liked professor. Finally, when asked about Carrie, he emulated a kind classmate’s sympathy for fellow students who’ve embarrassed themselves in discussions: “Truly, I feel for Carrie as a fellow professional. All performers have bad days—hers just came at an incredibly bad time.”
After the world and news cycle moved on, Will had emerged as a model of the modern gentleman: thoughtful, compassionate, and with the Today appearance and the GQ videos, a sharp dresser. As success breeds success, by the end of the month, Will was constantly off shooting: one day, a magazine spread for high-end watches; another, a PSA for the New York Transit Authority against “manspreading” with the tagline “A gentleman makes room.”
Through all this, Will kept in touch with EJ. Now that he knew she liked him back, he frankly couldn’t help himself. They sent each other silly photos and chatted online during idle moments. After a couple of weeks, they fell into the mutual habit of calling every day, between five and five thirty. Today, EJ caught him taking a taxi back to Pemberley.
“I saw the video of that Asian Actors Roundtable from the Hollywood Reporter,” EJ said during one such call. “You were so thoughtful and honest.”
“Thanks. It went much better than I was expecting. Katerina had to push me to do it, but as usual, she was right. She was even right about Carrie.”
“I had this impression that Hollywood agents were super exploitative,” EJ said. “But Katerina just sounds like a cool aunt who gets you jobs.”
“Most agents are working for themselves, but Katerina is different. Her fees are hugely expensive, but she’s extremely protective of her clients and their interests. If I didn’t have her in my corner, I’d either have spent my career playing nerdy friends with broken English or, more likely, would have left the business altogether,” Will said.
“Ugh.”
“Yeah, I know,” he agreed. “The industry is often gross.”
“What about it keeps you?” EJ asked. “You’re one of few people who could do literally whatever you want.”
“At first it was an escape, then it was fun. Now if I’m honest, part of why I want to stay in the industry is that I’m a known Asian entity, and I can afford to avoid stereotypical roles. People may cast with me in mind, write for me, even. It sounds slightly nuts, but I feel like my presence makes it easier for the younger Asian guys to come.”
“Not crazy—I get it. Working against the stereotypes is half the fun, especially when you can shove it in the haters’ faces.” EJ gave a wicked little laugh. “I remember once at this all-day robotics tournament, I’m walking in with my team—we’ve got these matching button-up shirts with our school logo on them, and mine is a little tight in obvious places. Anyway, this private-school jerk says, ‘Hey, sugar tits, is that your boyfriend’s shirt?’ I did nothing but give him a long look at the time. But later, when my team was brought up to receive our trophy, I found that polo-shirted asshole in the crowd and blew him a kiss. His team didn’t even win the sportsmanship ribbon because one of the parents heard what he said to me.”
They both laughed, though later Will would wonder if EJ’s preference for giant sweaters was more deeply rooted than he’d previously considered. He moved on to some welcome news: “I’ll be in town next week. We can finally have that date.”
“Ooh la la!” EJ responded. “I don’t think I’ve ever been on a real date. I’m looking forward to it—as a cultural experience.”
“Gee, thanks,” Will said sarcastically.
“Oh shush,” EJ retorted. “No one’s bruising your ego. You know what I meant.”
“Okay, okay. When are you free next weekend?” he asked, switching the phone to his other ear.
She hummed in consideration. “I have to be at the house on Friday; I’m on duty. But . . . I’m free Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday.”
“Let’s say Thursday then,” Will said. “But keep your weekend open. Maybe we can get dates two and three in there as well. Unfortunately, I have to fly back Monday, but I intend to make the most of the time we have.” He paused. “Oh! And if you don’t mind, I’d like to
kick this old school—plan the whole thing. All you have to do is show up.”
Will could hear her smile into the phone. “Sounds good. I can’t wait.”
The Date
A few days later, Will was standing in the Bennet House common room, feeling his breath catch a little as he watched EJ descend the stairs. She wore a pink tea-length dress with a swirling circle skirt and ankle-strap heels that made her legs look a mile long. He met her at the landing, where she did a little twirl. “You look absolutely lovely,” he said with admiration.
“Thank you,” she replied. “You’re not bad on the eyes yourself.”
Will hadn’t stopped staring, so he tried to make that less weird. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in heels.”
“I don’t usually wear them, living up a steep hill and all.” EJ shrugged casually. “You’re driving tonight, so I can just focus on looking cute—now tell me all about my first real date.”
Will helped EJ into her winter coat. “I remembered that we both talked about missing out on concerts. There’s a bar in the square doing live music tonight: original music at six and a cover band at nine. I was thinking we could catch the earlier show and then do dinner at the Brazilian place next door.”
“That all sounds like fun stuff I haven’t done before,” EJ said approvingly. “If the acting or the art don’t work out, you should consider getting into event planning.”
Later, EJ and Will applauded enthusiastically as the Kincaid Brothers finished their encore, an obligatory Irish folk cover of “Sweet Caroline.”
“That shouldn’t have worked as well as it did,” Will commented, “but I really enjoyed it.”
“I think every band in Red Sox country is required by law to cover that song. Even if they’re Irish fiddle players.” EJ looked around. “Speaking of the Red Sox, was there a special on green caps? I feel like half the people in this bar are wearing them.”
“Well, three-quarters of them are pretty drunk, and it’s only seven, so who knows—” Will broke off as EJ grabbed his arm.
“Oh no,” she groaned. “That’s what the band meant by an ‘obligatory’ cover. How could I forget?” She quickly began putting on her coat. “Cancel our reservation, Will; we’ve got to get out of the square—and at least a twenty-minute walk away. The sooner, the better.” She sucked her teeth despairingly. “I should have known, all that U2 from the jukebox . . .”
“What? Why?”
“It’s Saint Patrick’s Day. More than that, it’s Saint Patty’s in a small college town in Massachusetts. Trust me, this delightful little square is going to be a complete garbage fire”—she checked the time—“in twenty to thirty-five minutes.”
“I see,” Will said gravely. “What should we do?”
EJ drummed her fingers on her bottom lip as she thought. “I know! We can do dinner at Dona Carlotta’s. It’s not far, but just around the traffic circle of death. No one’s going to venture there drunk,” she suggested.
Will put on his coat. “That could work,” he agreed. “How would you feel about a little bowling afterward? It’s right next door, and I’ve always wanted to get dressed up and go bowling—weirdly.” He had even purchased socks on the off chance EJ wasn’t in her usual colorful tights.
EJ pointed at him with a reproachful finger. “You’re the reason that bowling alleys have gotten so weirdly posh now, with craft whiskey and Edison bulbs.”
Will shrugged. “Probably. But even gentrified bowling is fun, right?”
EJ rolled her eyes and was going to say something else when he took her hand. Instead she smiled at him sweetly. “You’ll just have to convince me.”
It seemed like most people in town had stayed home to avoid the Celtic bacchanal; Dona’s was fairly empty. Their dinner came quickly, and conversation flowed from their last phone call to their sisters to the weird-ass production of Carmen that was on Great Performances. After the dinner plates were cleared, EJ and Will lingered over their coffee and fruit plate. She nibbled a piece of papaya thoughtfully.
“I feel like we spend so much time on the phone that most of this date has just been catching up from our last conversation.” She sat up straight, laughter in her eyes. “I need to treat you like a regular date . . . by asking you some official First-Date Questions TM.”
“First-Date Questions TM?” Will echoed, mirthfully. “That sounds ominous.”
She sipped her piña colada and tilted her head, considering. “How about: Any hidden talents?”
“Accents,” he replied with surprising certainty. “I’m very good at accents—especially British and southern. I’ve got those down to regions. I can also do a passable Russian, but it tends to get vaguely Eastern European after a while.”
She looked at Will skeptically. “Specific British and southern accents?”
“Yes,” he said definitively.
“You realize I have to test you now.” With that she began shouting out the region she wanted to hear (Welsh! Cajun! East Tennessean!) and Will performed them, delighted with this chance to show off. She relented after Will’s Glaswegian rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” reduced her to hiccuping tears of laughter.
“All right, you’ll do,” she said admiringly.
“The Scottish one really did you in,” Will said with not a little pride.
“Remember how I said I’d move to Edinburgh tomorrow? I did my semester abroad and just loved everything about it. Including the accents. That was Glasgow, right?”
Will nodded.
“Forget the film career and the abs, you should just do voice acting—forever. That was fantastic.”
“Thank you,” he said with a wink. “Have I charmed you enough to go bowling? It’s right next door and not fancy at all.”
EJ drummed her fingers on her bottom lip again, but this time something felt off. Her lip was slightly numb.
“Weird!” She paused and repeated the action. “Still weird . . . Hey, Will, is there anything wrong with my mouth?”
The actor leaned for a closer inspection and then slightly recoiled. “Umm, you look like you got too much collagen.”
EJ looked at him in pained confusion.
“I think your lips are swollen. Looks like an allergic reaction of some sort.”
“But why?” EJ was poking her lips more forcefully. “I’ve eaten here at least a dozen times. Nothing’s happened before.”
“Did you try anything new?” he asked, looking at her mouth. Will felt guilty that he’d been watching her nurse her drink that whole time and he hadn’t noticed anything wrong.
She shook her head. “I’ve had everything before except the fruit plate—I mean, that was complimentary because we’re, like, the only people here—”
“The papaya!” Will cried. “You said you’d never had papaya before.”
Her eyes widened. She’d been eating it for a solid half an hour. The fruit plate was very papaya heavy.
“It’s true! Oh, papaya, why?” She sighed heavily. “I guess I’d better get home and figure this out.”
Well, this sucked. They were having such a great time—what a crappy way to end things. EJ looked similarly deflated.
“All right,” Will agreed. “Let me drive you back to Bennet.”
The ride back to campus was a little subdued. EJ spent most of it googling her condition and reassuring him that she had a really lovely time. Will couldn’t be cheered, though—especially when they turned on the radio to be greeted by the aggressive wailing of Celine Dion’s “Taking Chances.” He groaned and moved to switch the radio off.
“No!” EJ cried. “I love this song.”
Will stopped short of slamming on the brakes. “Why?” he croaked, turning the volume down as a compromise.
“Come off it, you know why!” EJ protested. “We’re the exact right age to have been obsessed with Glee. This song was in the first episode.”
He grunted. “I was not a fan.”
Will had a personal vendetta against Glee
. His first TV show was a summer series called Band Camp, and it was his Living Single to Friends: more interesting, more diverse, and first of its kind. Unfortunately, Band Camp lasted only one summer season, while the inferior Glee became a cultural phenomenon—not that Will was bitter.
“Fine, be a contrarian,” EJ shot back. “But you can’t fault her singing. Celine can blow!” She turned up the radio as she hit the key change.
“Celine is great,” he admitted. “But this song is so much! I think there are, like, lasers in the background,” Will whined.
EJ tilted her head and listened thoughtfully. “I’ll admit, the production leaves a lot to be desired, but you can find a hundred lovely acoustic versions on YouTube. When it’s stripped down, the song is really good.” She chuckled. “Which is not always the case. My sister was an arty emo girl in high school, so she dragged me to a lot of open-mic nights. I’ve heard misguided acoustic versions of pretty much every pop song you can imagine. Let me tell you right now, somewhere in America there’s a skinny kid in ripped jeans earnestly singing an acoustic version of ‘All Star.’”
Will paused to imagine this and then burst out laughing. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said.
EJ chuckled and looked out the window. “I don’t think I’ve been down this street before,” she commented.
“Neither have I. There was some detour after we left the restaurant, maybe to ensure none of the drunks get run over.” He chuckled a little bitterly.
EJ wasn’t listening, though—something had caught her attention. “Is that a pond? And a gazebo? Will, pull over.”
He looked at her skeptically but obliged. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we can salvage this date with a little stroll. The internet says all my lips need are ice and time. It’s kind of warm for March . . . could be romantic. Whaddya say?”
“Are you quoting the song?” he asked warily.
“No, never that.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
Will answered by hopping out of the driver’s side and opening EJ’s door. “My lady,” he said, offering his hand.
The Bennet Women Page 21