by Ivy Carter
I choose my words carefully. “I’m not sure. We’re spending time together.”
She nods. “Then as your boss, I need to tell you that you’re in a gray area by dating someone who donates to our organization. It’s not exactly against protocol but it could be seen as…unsavory. As your friend,” she continues, “I want to tell you to be careful, Emily. Jackson Croft is a whole different league of man. It’s not just his money or the family he comes from, although those things do matter, even if you don’t think they do. You might be having fun now, but remember to protect your heart. When things turn south, don’t expect him to be the sweet, dashing guy he’s probably being now. You’re innocent when it comes to guys, Emily. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I won’t,” I say. “It’s not like that. It’s…we’re just hanging out.”
She nods, but I can see that she knows better. “Okay. Just be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”
Jules leaves me rattled. I didn’t think about what people did or didn’t know about Jackson and me. I didn’t think I cared. I only cared about seeing him, being together with him. Now I think back to what Natalie told after class, that Brent told her that “my shit” might come out. Did he mean Jackson? Did Brent get word to CEF that I was seeing him? It’s not like I’ve been secretive about Jackson, and I never thought I was doing anything wrong—I still don’t. Now I feel on alert, but for what I’m not quite sure.
In class the next day, Brent is on a rampage. He holds up a paper we had to do and that he’s about to hand back.
“This is an example of what not to do,” he says. He doesn’t say whose paper it is, but he reads portions of it and it’s clear it’s mine. And everyone knows it’s mine because it uses the Children’s Education Fund as an example and everyone knows that’s where I work part-time. “Come on, people. You’re better than this. This is laziness. Make real arguments and site credible sources. You’re graduate students at Boston University. This isn’t some online college. We have a reputation. And if you’re more interested in your social life and who’s taking you out to expensive dinners than your work, you might want to reassess whether or not you even deserve to be in this program.”
And then, if there had been any doubt as to whose paper he was massacring, he took that same paper, held it out before him and said, “Emily Brown.” I had to walk across the entire class and take that D paper from him.
When I went back to my desk, Natalie leaned over and said, “What the hell?” Even Winston, a guy who usually sits in front of me, turned around and said, “What’d you do to piss him off?”
I hold my hands up. “Nothing!”
I decide I should say something to Brent. The truth is I haven’t really spoken to him since the luncheon, and that’s probably cowardly of me. He did take me on what I now know was a date—in his mind—and I left with someone else. I actually thought about dating him at one point. Boring, safe Brent.
When class ends I linger as students file out.
“Want me to wait for you?” Natalie asks.
“No, it’s okay. Thanks.”
She squeezes my arm. “Let me know if you need anything.”
When the last of the students have gone, Brent shoves some papers in his canvas satchel and starts to leave, like he’s in a hurry. Can’t wait to get away from me, apparently.
“Brent? Can I talk to you for a second?”
“Grades are final. And approved by Professor Stanwick.” He won’t look at me.
“It’s not about the paper,” I say, although I should fight for a better grade. I’ve never written a D paper in my life. For now, though, I decide to talk to him like an adult, and also look over my paper carefully later so that I can see if what I did was maybe worse than I thought. I have been distracted lately. “I just wanted to see if everything is okay. Between us, I mean. We haven’t really spoken since the luncheon and I feel bad about how it ended.”
He chuckles. “I highly doubt you feel bad about how that day ended. Seems like you upgraded your date the first chance you got.”
“Brent,” I begin. “That’s not how it was. I did get a little nervous when you tried to kiss me.” My face is burning and my insides are in complete turmoil. I do not want to be having this discussion but if I can clear things up from that one afternoon, the rest of the semester will hopefully go smooth. “I guess I was a little taken aback. I didn’t know things were going to get so out of hand.”
“You mean with your bodyguard boyfriend?”
Without thinking—and sounding like a kid—I say, “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“God,” Brent says. “That’s even worse. What are you even getting out of that?”
I don’t intend to talk to Brent about Jackson so I try to steer things back on course. “Look, I came up here to say I’m sorry about whatever happened at the luncheon. I don’t want things to be tense between us. I just want to move forward. Professionally.”
He zips up his bag, his eyes on me like he’s carefully preparing what he’s about to say. I brace myself. “You know, Emily,” he begins in an overly casual tone of voice, and I know it’s going to be bad. “I never took you for a social climber. Trying to claw your way out of the middle class and into a Stepford wife? I’m not sure the bosses over at CEF would like it too much knowing one of their employees was dating their biggest donor. Makes things a little complicated, don’t you think? Do you two have an arrangement? You sleep with him and he gives you money? I mean, money for the fund. Right”
“So it was you who told them I was seeing Jackson,” I say, surprised even though I shouldn’t be. I’m totally disgusted at what he just said to me. “Jules knows. You didn’t get me in trouble. And I’m not clawing my way to anything. What I do in my private life is none of your business. I wish you could separate that from class and not try to take some petty anger of yours out on my papers.”
“Look, I don’t know if you went to that lunch with me so that you could gain favor in class,” he says, “but it doesn’t work like that. I treat everyone in class the same. If you can’t handle getting a better grade then I suggest you think about what you’re even doing in this program.” He moves toward the door. “I have office hours. And Emily? Maybe you should really look at yourself and what you’re doing. Don’t try to blame others for your shortcomings. It’s not professional.”
With that he leaves the classroom. I’m stunned. I never would have guessed that Brent Fuller would turn into such a world-class dick.
He’s not worth the drama. I decide to put him out of my mind, and just be more careful in class.
A few days later I have a brilliant plan—it’s a risky plan but I think it’ll work out.
I’m at Jackson’s, lying on a couch in his office reading a book while he does some work at his desk. When I tell him how comfortable the couch is—it’s super soft and plush—he admits he’s never even sat on it. I groan and tell him for the thousandth time how wasteful he is. He doesn’t seem to mind my teasing, but he also doesn’t seem interested in downsizing. I think he’s too used to big spaces.
“Hey, Jackson?” I say. I’m nervous about asking him, but my dad used to say, “The worst they can say is no.” They’re the same words I used when I marched into Jackson’s office that first day. All he could say was no to donating, and after that nothing mattered. Except that after that, everything with him mattered.
“Yes?” he says, not looking up.
“Feel free to say no,” I begin, “but would you want to go with me out to Lexington this Sunday for brunch? With my family?” I’ve mentioned the Sunday morning brunches to him before, and he knows I haven’t been to one since we started seeing each other.
He stops what he’s doing and looks across the room at me. “First of all, I always feel free to say no. Second, my goal in life is to never say no to you.” I grin, feeling all butterfly-ey. “Third, yes. I will go to brunch at your parent’s place this weekend. In fact, I’d love to.”
/> “Really?” He nods. I jump up and run toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck and covering his face with kisses as he laughs. “Thank you! They’re going to love you, I know it.”
We don’t talk about what this means for our relationship. These things still go unsaid. It’s fine, I tell myself. Even though we don’t say the words, I know that Jackson feels the same way about me as I do about him. I can feel it in the way he looks at me, how he touches me with both passion and warmth. And now, by the fact that he wants to meet my family. This may be my first relationship, but I know what that means.
It means things are serious. And I am seriously excited about the future.
Jackson
I’ve met other women’s parents before, but usually at a wedding or some sort of reception or other work-related event. Normally when I meet the parents it’s because our families are already connected in some way through business. In many ways, meeting the parents is just another business connection to make.
Meeting Emily’s parent’s is none of those things. It’s something I truly want to do. I want to know more about her family.
Emily has big plans for the weekend. She doesn’t just want to get in the car Sunday morning and drive out to Lexington. “Let’s go out Saturday night,” she says, “and I get to choose the place. And I get to pay!”
I laugh. She’s sitting on my lap in my office, having just asked if I would go to the brunch this weekend. “You can choose the place,” I tell her. “But I can’t let you pay.”
“Jackson, I have a job,” she tells me.
“Part time,” I clarify.
“I still have money,” she says. “I’m not destitute. I can afford to take you out for pizza.”
“So we’re going for pizza?”
“I’ve said too much!” she says, and she’s just so damn cute. Her excitement is contagious, and the weekend can’t get here fast enough.
On Saturday, Emily insists on meeting me at my house but says I will still have the chance to be a gentleman by taking her home later.
“Now you’ve got me thinking about getting you home,” I tell her as I kiss her neck in the cool night air. She laughs and squirms away from me.
Emily directs the cab driver to a place in the South End. A pizza place.
“Just wait,” she tells me, her eyes sparkling as she takes my hand and leads me inside. “This is the best pizza you’ll ever have in your life.”
“I have to tell you,” I say, “that I have had pizza in Naples.”
She slaps my chest. “Don’t ruin it before it begins!”
I take her hand and kiss her fingers.
The place is small with distressed wooden booths and little round tables. The walls are red and look like they’ve been painted over a hundred times. It’s slightly dark and Italian folk music is playing on the overhead speakers. The small space is warmed up from the brick oven behind the counter.
“It certainly smells good,” I say, because it does. I can tell already that good fresh ingredients are used.
We take a small table near the back—the more I can get Emily alone, even in public, the better. Although the table is so small I don’t know how a pizza pie will ever fit on it. We’re so crammed into our seats that I can keep hold of her hands in mine under the table. Bonus? Despite the feel of fall outside, Emily is wearing a skirt, some fluttering thing that I can scoot up higher on her thigh beneath the table, if I so choose. Which I will. Soon enough.
“Okay, so I don’t know much about wines and I really don’t want to know about the vineyards in California you might own,” she begins, “but I do have a recommendation on which pizza we should get if you don’t mind. It might sound boring but it’s amazing, I promise.”
“Whatever you want,” I say. “This is your deal.”
When the waitress comes over Emily order the pizza margherita. She explains to me that it’s really simple but they use great ingredients so everything really shines. I kiss her check when she finishes her explanation because, oh, sweet Emily. I don’t want to spoil her fun by telling her that I have had this very kind of pizza in Naples, that they invented it, and that nothing is better than the local Napoli ingredients. But I’m sure the pizza—and the Chianti she orders with it—will be great. One thing is for sure—nothing can beat the company.
“What else do you have planned for tonight?” I ask. We haven’t stopped touching her under the table. I keep nudging her skirt a little higher on her thigh, and she lets me.
“It’s not as big of a surprise as a private pool,” she says. “But I when I was an undergrad I used to go to this place a lot for drinks and music. It’s really cool and I can’t wait to see how you look in there with your slim pants and highly polished dress shoes.”
“What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?” I asked, not that I care.
“Absolutely nothing,” she says, and kisses me. She puts her hand on mine, and I swear she nudges me even higher up on her thigh. Her tongue slips past my lips, and for a moment I forget we’re in public.
“Pizza margherita,” the waitress announces, and we quickly pull apart.
The pie is set precariously on the table along with our wine. Emily picks up her glass and makes a toast. “To Jackson Croft, slumming it in the South End.”
I roll my eyes but clink her glass. “So what do I need to prepare for tomorrow?” I ask her as I put a slice on her plate, then mine. “Is your father going to ask me what are my intentions with you?”
“No,” she says. “My parents are super casual, easy going. They’re going to love you. Although Sabrina might ask that question.”
“Younger sister, right,” I say, remembering. She told me about her family one night when we were curled up in my bed. She spoke about them with a love and enthusiasm that was hard for me to fathom. She clearly not only loves her family but likes being with them. “How old is she again?”
“Twenty-one,” Emily says.
“Oh my God,” I say, having just taken the first bite of the pizza. “This is extraordinary.”
“What’d I tell you?” she says, clearly pleased.
“I was keeping my expectations low but this is pretty much as good as what I’ve had in Naples.”
“Slumming tastes pretty good, huh?”
“Stop,” I say. “I’m not slumming and I don’t think I’m slumming. Now tell me about Sabrina. And Dax. And your parents.”
“Sabrina is opinionated, so I’m really excited to see what happens between the two of you.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Nothing like being set up.”
“Dax is more thoughtful,” she says.
“So he’ll judge me silently. Got it.”
“He works in development for a non-profit in Framingham. One of those big national one,” she says. “And then my parents…”
“Yes, please do tell,” I say. I take another sip of the Chianti and realize that everything balances out perfectly—this meal is damn good, including the wine. I had come in with a snob attitude but look at me now, ready to come back any time.
“I’ll let you figure them out on your own,” she says.
“Great,” I tell her.
“You know,” she says, wiping her hands on her napkin, “you never talk about your family.”
She’s right. We’ve only skimmed over the topic, and I’ve done a good job at dodging and weaving even then.
“All I know is that your father passed away, you have brothers in New York and Los Angeles, and your mom is—where is she again?”
“Monaco. Now you know everything you need to know.” That’s me, weaving away.
“Your brothers are in the family business, right? Are you guys close?”
I try to stifle the laugh but it only makes me cough. Once I’ve recovered I say, “No, we do not get along. We speak as little as necessary.”
“Why? Did something happen? I’d think that with your dad gone and your mother living overseas that you’d want to be close to them.”
She lowers her voice when she asks, “Did he beat you?”
“No, nothing like that,” I say. “In fact, I can’t remember any time at all that my father laid a finger on me. Not in punishment and not in love. The most important thing to my father was success. Success at any cost. My brothers and I had to be winners, even when we were competing against each other.”
“How could you all be winners if you were all competing against each other?” Emily asks.
“Exactly,” I say. “We couldn’t. Two out of three would always be punished. And my mother had no control. She’s not a strong person anyway, but no one could stand up to Edward Croft. He was just way too formidable. So she left.”
“She divorced him?”
“No,” I say. “Father would never allow that. Bad for the image, he said. Are you ready for the most ironic part? Looking like the good family man was one of his keys to success. He drilled into us the importance of choosing the right partner.”
“If you don’t mind my saying,” Emily says, “it doesn’t sound like your father was exactly the definition of family man.”
“I said looking like a good family man was key,” I say. “When you tell your three sons whoever builds the tallest, strongest Lego building will be his favorite child for the evening, you pretty much lose out on any father-of-the-year award.”
“I’m so sorry, Jackson,” Emily says, resting her hand on my thigh.
“Don’t be,” I say. “Honestly. It’s all in the past.”
“But your brothers,” she says.
This is definitely going on too long than I’d ever want talk of my family to go.
“Let’s just enjoy the rest of the evening. What do you have planned for us next?”