Long May She Reign

by Ellen Emerson White

  Or the part about him being an asshole.

  He picked up his cheeseburger, but then lowered it. “We don’t really talk about you anymore, actually.”

  Maybe he would offer to sell her a secondhand car, next, which had never, ever been driven, except by a sweet, little old lady, who only used it to go to church on Sundays.

  “Because guys don’t, once it seems like maybe—” he shrugged— “well, you know, you actually like her. If they talked about you now, that’d just be wrong.”

  There might be a tiny ring of truth in that.

  “So,” he looked right at her, “I haven’t told any of them that, lately, I pretty much can’t concentrate on anything other than wanting to be inside you as soon as possible, for as long as possible.”

  Talk about an ill-timed moment to have lifted her coffee cup. She stared at the large splash of liquid now on the table, and then at him, suddenly so aroused that—damn. Seriously aroused.

  “Jesus, Meg,” he said, and leaned back, looking almost as stunned as she felt. “Do you know how much heat you just gave off?”

  How utterly inadvertent. She could feel the heat rising up to her face now, instead—or, anyway, in addition—and decided to concentrate her energies on cleaning up the spilled coffee.

  Jack frowned down at something below the edge of the table. “Well, shoot. I’m not going to be able to stand up in public any time soon.”

  If possible, her cheeks were now twice as hot as they had been a few seconds earlier. Then she thought of a pugnaciously ribald response, and had to work to keep a grin back.

  “What?” he asked.

  Oh, what the hell. He had started it, right? Meg decided not to fight off the grin. “I was going to say, ‘Come on, get ahold of yourself, man,’ but in this situation, that would only make things worse, wouldn’t it?”

  “No, it would actually help,” he said, thoughtfully, “but it might take a couple of minutes, and this really isn’t the place for it.”

  Jesus Christ. Someone had just snatched the safety net out from underneath her very high trapeze. She wanted to laugh—hard—but people might well be eavesdropping on them, and—catching a movement in her peripheral vision, she glanced towards the Snack Bar counter, and saw Simon, who must have come in to get some takeout, and was now staring at her with total consternation.

  Oh, dear. She looked at Jack. “Are you still indisposed?”

  He nodded vigorously.

  “Okay.” She reached for her cane. “I’ll be right back.”

  Jack nodded, his face about as red as she suspected hers currently was.

  When he saw her heading in his direction, Simon turned to leave.

  “Simon, don’t,” she said. “You know it’s going to hurt if I try to limp after you.”

  He scowled, but stopped, his hand clasping the take-out box so tightly that he was probably crushing whatever food was inside. He motioned accusingly towards the table. “Since when?”

  It was going to hurt his feelings even more if he found out that tonight was technically their first date.

  “You’re practically having sex right there on the table,” he said, sounding outraged.

  A little bit, yeah. Meg sighed. “Simon, we’re sitting quietly. We weren’t even holding hands.”

  He just looked at her.

  Okay, it must be pretty obvious that they had—at least, verbally—leaped way past holding hands. But this was a very sweet guy, and maybe even someone who was going to become an Actual College Friend, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt his feelings. “Simon, I am a completely unreasonable pain to be around, on a pretty regular basis,” she said. “And you’re going to end up being very glad that you and I decided that we just wanted to be really good friends.”

  “‘We’ didn’t decide that,” he said.

  Meg nodded. “No, we did, Skip. I swear we did. We had a long conversation about it, and everything. Several, in fact. You just forgot, because you’re stressed out about midterms.”

  Simon still looked upset, but he was starting to smile, too.

  “And that means you also probably don’t remember that we agreed we were maybe going to meet on Spring Street tomorrow afternoon and go drink too much coffee together,” she said.

  He studied her for a minute, then nodded. “I did forget that, yeah. What time did we say?”

  Good. Potential platonic crisis averted. “Four o’clock,” she said.

  “Okay.” He sent a quick scowl in Jack’s direction—maybe just for general pride, and then looked at her seriously. “You do know that guy’s an asshole, right?”

  It seemed to be the general consensus. Meg nodded.

  “All right. Just wanted to be sure.” He headed for the exit with his food. “See you tomorrow.”

  She waited until he had left before she made her way back over to the table.

  “What was that all about?” Jack asked, frowning.

  Meg sat down. “My friend Skip. I was saying hi.”

  Jack frowned even more. “I thought his name was Simon.”

  Same difference.

  “You looked pretty—friendly. How well do you know him?” Jack asked.

  Shades of her recent Frances fixation. “It’s probably a good sign if you’re already jealous,” she said. “Or else, a really bad sign.”

  He nodded wryly, and bit into what was left of his cheeseburger.

  In the meantime, there were lots of french fries still on his plate, tragically going to waste. She helped herself to one, and then went back for a few more.

  “Mind if I add about twice as much salt and pepper?” she asked.

  He grinned and pushed the two shakers in her direction. “Knock yourself out,” he said.

  They sat there for a very long time, until Meg remembered that it had been one hell of a long day, and that she had promised to go to brunch with Susan’s family in not too many hours.

  They had yet to hold hands, or even do much more than stare across the table intensely—but any idle questions she might have had about the validity of the phrase “copulatory gaze” had been definitively answered.

  “Um, this was very nice,” she said, as they went outside, making a point of staying a couple of feet away from each other.

  Which took some effort. On her part, anyway.

  “Yeah,” he said, and started to lean towards her, but then stopped. “Let me walk you home.”

  That was almost certainly a bad idea. “No, thanks. I mean—” she pointed at her dorm with her cane—“it’s right there.”

  He nodded. “I know. But, I’m still going to do it.”

  Her dorm was very close, but it would mean walking several hundred feet, and—no. Okay, they had crossed a couple of rooms together, and passed each other here and there on campus, and that sort of thing, but he had never really seen her walk at length. Up close and personal.

  And this was no time to start.

  “What?” he asked.

  Christ, did she really have to spell it out? Apparently so. “It takes me a really long time,” she said, quietly, “and—I don’t want you to see me that way.”

  Jack cocked his head, looking confused.

  Christ. “I limp and stagger and lurch, and sometimes I even have to stop and rest for a while,” she said.

  He touched her good hand, which was wrapped around her cane. “It’s how you get around, Meg.”

  She was, after all, a notorious campus cripple. Meg moved her hand, and the cane, out of his reach. “Yeah, well, trust me, it’s worse when I have to go more than a few feet. So, I’d really rather not have you come with me, okay?”

  Her agents had been keeping their distance all night, but now they suddenly seemed more obvious. In fact, Dave was shifting his weight, ominously, and Brian and Jose didn’t look very happy, either—although Jack seemed to be oblivious to this.

  “You want to know how I see you?” he asked.

  Not really. Meg shook her head.

  “
This is how,” he said, and moved forward to kiss her with great enthusiasm. Then, he stepped back. “Okay?”

  Along with her agents, several people from her dorm had just walked by, and also managed to witness this. Meg was more than a little embarrassed, a feeling which seemed to be shared by everyone, except Jack, who looked quite pleased with himself.

  “Uh, hi, Meg,” Mikey said, on his way past them, and she nodded, too self-conscious to meet his eyes.

  It seemed to take about three hours to make it to the entry door, even though she made a point of not stopping at all along the way, no matter how much she would have preferred to do so. Needed to do so, for that matter.

  “You all right?” Jack asked, on two separate occasions, looking anxious, one hand poised to grab her if she fell.

  Except for the part where she felt like crying, and was trying not to show how difficult every single inch was. So, she just shrugged and trudged. When they were finally standing just inside the main door, she was all the more aware of her agents—especially Casey, who was at the front desk—although they all seemed to be trying to disappear in plain sight again.

  “I’ll come up with you,” Jack said.

  Which would lead to many other things, and—no. Not yet. She was too tired. And maybe a little scared, too. Meg eased backwards on her good leg. “No, thank you. It’s very nice of you, but, um, I’m fine from here.”

  “A gentleman always escorts a woman to her door,” Jack said.

  Most gentlemen probably didn’t escort women accompanied by large coteries of armed guards. “And, this is my door,” Meg said.

  He shook his head. “No, I need to take you to your actual door. It’s good manners.”

  Upon which, presumably, she would face a protracted and stressful “no, I’m sorry, you really can’t come in for a while” tussle in front of her room.

  Which wasn’t the way their first date ought to end.

  “I’m going to let you kick me out, once we get up there,” he said. “I promise.”

  Famous last words.

  “I promise,” he said.

  She didn’t believe him for a minute, but she was worn out, and—to hell with it. She started to go up the first small flight of steps, but he put his hand on her back.

  “There’s an elevator, Meg,” he said.

  Yes. She was aware of that. And, after the past five or ten minutes, he did already know how extremely crippled she was. So she nodded, and made her way to the elevator, instead.

  Since they rode up alone together, she expected him to immediately start trying to kiss her again, but he just stood politely next to her, with his hands in his pockets.

  Maybe he really was only going to see her to her room.

  But then, when they got off the elevator and she unlocked her door, he followed her inside before she thought to stop him. She would have expected him to look around and check things out—most notably, the photos of her family—but after a vague glance, his attention stayed on her.

  Inescapably so.

  She knew he was going to make a move, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to—surprising her, he pushed her hair to one side and gently kissed her forehead where the gun-butt scar ran through her eyebrow. Embarrassed, Meg brushed her hair back over to cover it.

  “Christ, Meg, it’s a badge of courage,” he said.

  Yeah, right. Meg instinctively checked to make sure that the scar was fully obscured now. “There’s nothing brave about getting pistol-whipped.” Machine-gun–whipped, in her case, but, regardless. “All you need is a little bad luck.”

  “Takes some guts to keep fighting back, afterwards, I figure,” he said.

  No, just more bad luck. It was late, and it would be very nice if he left now.

  “Okay, never mind,” he said, and reached out to touch one of her breasts, instead.

  She looked down. “Who says romance is dead?”

  “It’s a little romantic,” he said.

  On the planet Neanderthal, maybe. “Did I miss the part where I gave you permission to do that?” she asked.

  He shrugged, keeping his hand right where it was. “Well, you haven’t said no, and you didn’t start sobbing hysterically, and that’s pretty much what I look for.”

  The World According to Jack Taylor. “But, my option to say no remains open,” she said.

  He nodded. “Absolutely, yes. The sobbing, too.”

  Good to know.

  His hand felt warm, and affectionate, and as he flexed it, quite delightful, indeed. Then, he kissed her, which progressed from being friendly, to completely combustible, with remarkable speed, and his hands slid down to lift her up. She could feel him hesitate as he looked at her bed, but then he set her down on the edge of the desk, instead.

  “I think we’d better close your door,” he said against her mouth.

  Carpe diem, or voice of reason and an inbred, lifelong tendency towards caution? Although it was somewhat challenging to retain complete intellectual clarity, given where his hands were, and what they were doing.

  Voice of reason.

  She sighed. “We need to spend a lot more time getting to know each other, Jack.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  Now, how in the hell was she supposed to answer that? “Because,” she said.

  He frowned. “A lot more?”

  She nodded.

  “Right,” he said, and took his hands away. “Okay. Right.” He let out his breath, heavily. “Shit.”

  He probably didn’t want to hear her “I don’t know if I can trust you not to post on the Internet, or run off to the tabloids—or money-laden terrorists—with all of the intimate details” explanation.

  Or the potentially more accurate “I’m very shy and maybe out of my depth here” spin.

  “If I beg, will you look down on me?” he asked.

  She must have been more exhausted than she realized, because for a second, she thought he was suggesting something else entirely.

  He looked at her uneasily. “What?”

  Okay, she had overreacted. Misinterpreted. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll shun you.”

  There was some noise out in the corridor, and Meg turned to see Susan’s little sister, holding a hand towel and a toothbrush, her expression both uncertain and terribly curious.

  Meg quickly jumped off the desk, careful to land on her good leg—and a few feet away from Jack, as though they had not very recently been quite intertwined. “Hi.”

  “Uh, hi,” Wendy said, sounding timid.

  “Guess I’d better say good-night.” Jack put his hand out—the left one; good for him—and shook Meg’s hand firmly. Then he nodded in a friendly way at Wendy, started down the hall, and paused to look back at her. “Can I see you again, as soon as possible, for as long as possible, as often as possible?”

  Wendy would have no way of knowing what he was actually asking, but Meg was still embarrassed. And then, considerably more so, when Susan came through the stairwell door, presumably to check on her little sister. Was Ed watching, too, subtly, from the security desk? Yes. Great.

  “Meg?” Jack asked, looking at her with fairly convincing little-boy innocence.

  Everybody else seemed to be waiting for her answer, also, making the pause seem even more pregnant—damn, precisely the word she had not wanted to have come into her mind—than it might have otherwise.

  What the hell. He’d know that she was at least half-kidding, anyway.

  “You bet,” she said.

  30

  BRUNCH THE NEXT morning was much nicer and more low-key than she expected, although she wanted to find a tactful excuse not to go when she found out that Susan’s friend Courtney—she, of the “Do you mind?” remark—was joining them, too.

  Ginette also came along, and Susan’s parents insisted that she sit with them, rather than at a nearby table, watching alertly for media miscreants. On top of that, they actually drew her out, and Meg learned all sorts of things she had never known about Ginette
’s fondness for figure skating and bluegrass, as well as the fact that she’d spent time both at the Sorbonne and the London School of Economics. All of which indicated that they still didn’t have much in common, but it was interesting to get a broader perspective.

  At one point, there was a camera flash, and Ginette went stomping off—only to discover that it was another Williams parents-and-students group, celebrating someone’s birthday and wanting to preserve the festivities for posterity.

  Mr. and Mrs. McAllister also established that Courtney was looking forward to graduation, and would be starting an M.D./Ph.D. program at Yale in the fall; that Fred, another one of Susan’s friends, was pretty sure that he was going to be spending the summer being an intern at a seedy regional theater; that Juliana hadn’t decided whether she was going to major in American Studies or History or Linguistics or Classics or Comparative Literature or Romance Languages; that Meg was currently an English major, sort of, maybe, not really; and that Susan—who had been very quiet—was enjoying her omelet.

  Wendy was full of a litany of chirpy questions about life in the White House and so forth, which were certainly preferable to the “so, did it hurt when you pulverized your hand?” line of inquiry. For the most part, Meg told the truth, although she couldn’t resist a few disgraceful elaborations about the legions of devoted servants who, when she was in the Residence, came to her room very early each morning to sing her awake—in four-part a capella harmony—and then dress her, polish and buff her nails, put her through a full beauty regimen, and otherwise help her get ready for Her Day. Once they had assured themselves that her every need had been met, the lackeys would—in the unlikely event that they had any spare time left—go and minister to her mother in a similarly attentive fashion. But Meg made it clear that serving the Presidential children always took precedence over any invariably trivial and tedious request the President or the First Gentleman might make.

  At some point during all of this, Meg had the distinct impression that Ginette was going to put her head down on the table for a while. Or, perhaps, directly into her plate.

  “Is this what you’re like?” Courtney asked finally, as though she just couldn’t hold it back it any longer.