I ignored his joke, even though his offer was tempting. Better to have him be comatose than to hear what had the possibility to change everything. But if he didn’t want to be with me, the real me, then I didn’t want to be with him, either. No more being afraid.
“You know the book Fifty Shades of Grey?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice confused. “Wait,” he added, like something had clicked. He jerked his head back. “Don’t tell me you’re a dominatrix?”
I waited a beat, trying to think of the right words.
“Actually,” he said, his voice low, “tell me you are.” He reached for me.
“No!” I said, hitting him.
“Ooh, harder,” he said, nibbling at my neck. I was glad he was acting this way. It let me know it wouldn’t have mattered what my secret was. He had prepared himself to deal with it regardless. He had decided he would deal with it regardless.
I took both his hands. “I’ve kind of…” I started, my voice high in that way it is when you’re admitting something you can’t believe you’re admitting, “been writing some books like the one I just mentioned. Nowhere near as popular,” I added so he understood I wasn’t totally insane. “But yeah. Under a pen name.” I waited for it to sink in.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, squinting. “Candy?”
I nodded. “Candy Sloane.”
“That’s it?” he asked. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t point. He didn’t make me feel like I was a leper for doing something he might not agree with.
“That’s it,” I admitted.
“Why did you think I would care?”
“You’re this serious writer,” I said. “I figured you’d view it as fluff, me as fluff. I mean, anyone in the program would. Professor Dylan does.”
“Bunch of pretentious assholes anyway,” he grumbled.
“What about The New Yorker?”
“As Holden would say, they’re just phonies,” he said. “Besides, the author of Fifty Shades could buy and sell The New Yorker a thousand times over. And all the people who read the book would probably use The New Yorker to swat ass before bothering to open it up.”
“Swat ass?” I said, a smile starting to peek out. “That’s a lot of pink butt cheeks.”
“Millions of them,” he mused. He kissed the top of my head. “It means a lot that you confided in me.” He eyed me seriously. “I only have one question. Am I in any of them?”
“A lady doesn’t write and tell,” I teased.
He ran his fingertip up and down the inside of my bicep, prickles of heat rippling up from the sheets. “Maybe you just need some better inspiration,” he said, his lips on mine before I could respond.
This kiss felt different than the others. With all my truths revealed, there was no fear in it, no hesitation. It was all me and all him and all us.
He pulled back, stroked my chin. “How was that, Candy?”
“It’s a start.”
Chapter Twenty-three
James was already gone when I woke up the next morning. I found a note on the pillow that read, Even though Facebook claims otherwise, it’s not complicated. PS. Sorry, your ceiling woke me up.
Maybe it wasn’t.
I headed to campus, hoping I would see him, but it was like last night had been a dream—no James. Sure, it was Saturday, but I was headed toward campus.
I reached the student union and sat on the exact same bench in front of the fountain, expecting he would meet me there again.
I opened my laptop to give Melted one more read through before upload that week. It was really hard to read about the things my Candy character was doing with character-James, without thinking about the things I’d just done, last night, with the real James.
I spent the day reading and mimicking one of those lawn ornaments in the shape of a chicken with a neck swinging up and down in the wind, but instead of the wind bobbing me up and then down again, it was the chance of seeing James. Each time my head went up, when I thought I caught a glimpse of his white T-shirt or heard his velvety voice or smelled him like a sandalwood candle burning mixed with the smolder of coffee, he was never there.
No James all day.
Mandy was big on getting a new guy before you fell too hard for your current one. She called it her “broken-heart insurance policy.” It was becoming clear I might require one of those when it came to James, one with an amnesia rider.
I felt my phone buzz with a text. It was from Professor Dylan. Wanted to make sure we were still on for tonight, Candy. Then another quickly following: Sorry, CANDICE. Damn autocorrect.
Autocorrect my ass.
What the hell? Had James run from my house and into Professor Dylan’s office and told him what I’d confided in him or something? I couldn’t believe he would have, but otherwise why would Professor Dylan have sent a text like that? It was true he had suspected something, but this was a clear indication he more than suspected. That he knew I was Candy Sloane. That he had proof.
Maybe James had unknowingly been wearing a wire up his butt last night.
I headed over to Buzzers to see him. I really didn’t think he would have told Professor Dylan on purpose, but I guess I just wanted to make sure. I mean, I trusted Mandy completely and she had said Candy’s whole name to Professor Dylan. It was possible James had let something slip without even realizing it.
He was behind the counter when I walked inside; exasperation covered his face and coffee covered his apron. It was clear he’d been working all day.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” he said, wiping the front of his apron. Seeing me, his face seemed scrubbed clean of annoyance, too. I found myself wishing in addition to being his white T-shirt; I also now wanted to be his apron. I wanted to be anything he touched, anything close to his skin.
I needed to be his whole wardrobe and sheets and bed and soap.
“You expected me to show up?” I asked.
“Hoped,” he teased, “not expected.”
“I guess I made your dreams come true,” I said.
I could have started with, I think Professor Dylan knows about Candy. You didn’t say anything to anyone, right? but we were in public, very public. There were other people behind the counter with him and other people waiting with me.
“You should probably order something,” he said, indicating the line forming.
“Chai latte,” I said.
“Soy milk,” he said, snapping his fingers. This time it didn’t seem like any big deal he’d remembered. It would be a big deal if he hadn’t. I mean, he probably could have described my vulva to a police sketch artist at this point.
He probably could have described it to Professor Dylan as he told him about Candy.
I really hoped he hadn’t.
“I need to talk to you,” I said, taking a timid sip of my hot drink.
“I get off in fifteen minutes if you want to wait for me,” he said, as expectant as someone about to open a present.
“Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll be at a table outside.”
“Look,” he said, laughing. “Now I made your dreams come true, too.”
I had been sarcastic when I’d said it to him, but I wondered if he really could, wondered if having met him, I now had different ones.
“No tip?” he asked, recalling the day when I innocently or not so innocently gave him my number. It seemed like years had passed since then.
“The service wasn’t up to my standards,” I said, focusing on his shoulders, feeling the heft of them, the way when he held me it was almost like I didn’t need bones.
“Hopefully you’ll give me a chance to remedy that in fifteen minutes,” he said with a deliberate wink.
Candy couldn’t have written the line better.
James came out after his shift, wearing a clean white T-shirt and frayed jeans, button fly.
Am I noticing that because I’m looking at his fly? I quickly focused on his face.
“You mind if we walk?” he said. “I�
�ve been here for the last eight hours.”
“Sure,” I said. “Where’s your motorcycle?”
He pointed to it, parked in front of Buzzers. “I thought you wanted to talk, not yell,” he said.
“Right,” I said to my flip-flops. Seeing him in front of me, I was suddenly nervous. I did not want to talk because what if it was true? It would mean we were done before we’d even gotten started.
“What can I do for you, Candice?” he asked.
I fought the urge to throw him against the side of Buzzers and say everything by not saying anything at all. We’d been doing an awful lot of that lately. And what I needed to say had nothing to do with that.
“You didn’t say anything to Professor Dylan, did you?” I asked at first, unsure why I didn’t just spell out exactly what I wanted to know. But I was afraid to find out the answer that could ruin everything; it felt good walking next to him in the evening air, almost like we could be together for real.
“That you’re madly in love with me?” He joked. “No, not yet.”
“I’m not madly in love with you,” I denied, but I was something. I was definitely madly-in-something with him.
“Okay.” He shrugged.
“About Candy,” I said, reaching out to stop him. “You didn’t, right?”
“I would never tell him,” he said. “I would never tell anyone if you didn’t want me to.”
“I think Professor Dylan knows,” I said, looking down. Who was I kidding? He totally knew.
“How would he?” James asked.
“I guess I haven’t been careful enough,” I said. Who was I kidding? I’d been sloppy as hell.
“I’m telling you, Candice, I swear,” he said, holding his right hand up for effect. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I would never do that to you.”
“I believe you,” I said, starting to walk again, because if we stood there for too long one of us was bound to throw the other behind a building. “He hasn’t busted me yet, but I can tell he’s just waiting for the right moment.”
“You seriously think he’d tell everyone?”
I exhaled. “I don’t know what he’s going to do, but I know he doesn’t like it. If he does know I’m Candy, it means he thinks I’m a ‘little slut with a laptop,’ too.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s what he calls self-published romance and erotica writers who write ‘shit,’” I explained.
His face turned angry. “You want me to punch him out?”
“No,” I said, the word loud so he would know I meant it.
“I’m prepared to kick his ass,” he said, his breathing thick. “I’d wear a ski mask so he wouldn’t know it was me, but I would do it.”
“Where are you going to find a ski mask in Miami?” I asked, calling his bluff.
“I’m from New York, too, remember?”
“No, he probably doesn’t know anything,” I added, hoping to convince him, not that I was. Professor Dylan did know something. James definitely didn’t say anything, but he knew.
James put his hands on my hips. “So, since that’s a no, can I earn my tip now?” He got close to my ear. “Perhaps we should move this discussion to my apartment? Perhaps right now?” His lips curled up.
“I can’t. I’m having a drink with Professor Dylan tonight,” I said.
“Now I definitely want to punch him out,” James said, letting me go.
“He’s helping me with a piece,” I said.
“I’m sure he’d love to help himself to a piece,” he said, sounding a lot more like my boyfriend and a lot less like my student.
“He’s asked you out for drinks twice, and I didn’t care.” Lie. “At all.” Total lie.
“I don’t care,” he said hastily, “I just don’t think you should meet him.”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“If he knows about Candy and he asked you out for a drink, he wants something from you—and it’s not to read your story.”
“I’m not a prostitute or a porn star, James,” I said. “I write erotica; I don’t act it out.”
“I know,” he said, turning me toward him. “Sorry, that’s not what I mean. I just think you should be careful.”
“I’m very well versed in careful,” I teased because I liked the way his protectiveness was making me feel, like I was someone he thought deserved protecting.
We started walking again.
“You’re well versed in a lot of things,” he said, his voice deep in a way that made me think about other deep things—deep crevices, being deeply penetrated.
“Still working for a tip,” I said, smiling.
“When it’s the two of us,” he said, “it never feels like work.”
“Maybe you’re the porn star,” I said, unable to help the giddiness sparking through my abdomen when I heard him say us.
“Maybe?” he asked his face in full gloat.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked.
He looked down like he was deliberating, but I saw the moment pass. “Other than wish you were having that drink with me,” he said, “nope.”
“Too bad you’re not my professor,” I joked.
“Too bad you’re mine,” he replied, pausing to look at me. “Sorry,” he said quickly, “I’m not labeling. I think we have enough labels.”
We did: teacher, student, colleagues, supposed rivals, friends, lovers.
“But,” he continued, “I’ve practically walked you home and left my motorcycle behind. That should tell you as much as you need to know.”
I hadn’t realized it, but we were turning onto my street. He had walked me all the way home. Just so he could talk to me, spend time with me, be with me. Convince me I could trust him with a secret as academic-career-ruining as Candy.
“I’ve made you leave your motorcycle sober?” I asked coyly. “I guess that has to mean something.”
“It does,” he said putting on a fake frown, “I have to walk back and get it all alone.”
“You don’t seem like someone who’s afraid to be alone,” I said, my voice husky.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” he said, “except ruining this.” He leaned over and kissed me, his lips blindingly soft, clear he didn’t want anything more than just to kiss me, like a guy would after he had walked you home.
Like a guy who wanted you to know he liked you would after he walked you home.
“What was that for?” I asked when I could see again.
“I want Candice to know Candy isn’t the only one who deserves attention.”
As I watched James walk back toward Buzzers to get his motorcycle I realized I didn’t anymore.
Chapter Twenty-four
I couldn’t decide how to dress. It was definitely not a date, but it wasn’t office hours, either.
It was a drink.
Professor Dylan and I had drank together once before. Well, not together, but we were both drinking in the same place, and that time he’d almost kissed me.
I would have let him kiss me.
This time there would be no kissing—absolutely, positively none. There would be nothing besides me hoping beyond hope he liked my story enough to not want to talk about anything else.
To not want to talk about Candy.
I decided to go with jeans, flip-flops, and a Miami Dolphins T-shirt Mandy had gotten me once when she took me to a sports bar to meet cute, horny jocks.
I’d told her I hated football and she’d said, “Guys don’t care if you like football; you just need to look cute next to them while they watch it.”
That was what the shirt was about. Not that I wanted to look cute next to Professor Dylan, but I also didn’t want to look like I was trying. I guess I figured team gear said as much. What I hoped it said was, I need to do laundry, and I didn’t do it for you.
Professor Dylan wasn’t at the bar when I got there, so I had to go through the whole deal with the waitress where she treated me like I was a loser until I
confirmed that I was actually meeting someone. She brought two waters and two menus and I waited for Professor Dylan and stared at my phone like people do when they are waiting for someone.
Heading over here, it was like I could feel Professor Dylan reading my story—slicing it open with his red pen. That was, when it didn’t feel like he wasn’t gathering more confirmation to bust me as Candy.
Hopefully “Boxed In” would still be “lively Sylvia Plath” enough for him. With this story though, I was afraid I might have gone full-Sylvia. Reading about the way the girl in the story beat herself up for the choices she’d made in her life, for losing her parents before they could tell her in person that she’d made the right ones, how could you not want to kill yourself?
Professor Dylan walked in wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. He never wore jeans on campus. I guessed it was part of his attempt to make people take him seriously, even though he was so young. Students wore jeans on campus, not professors. It didn’t really matter what he was wearing—as far as I was concerned, he was now covered in a jumpsuit made out of cactus skins.
He didn’t have the leather satchel he carried around campus with him, either, which meant he didn’t have my story with him. I was glad. Talking about my story in the abstract was about all I could handle. The thought of going through it with him line by line was scarier than him actually calling me out about Candy.
“I didn’t think you were a football fan,” he said as he sat down.
“I’m not,” I said. “It was the only shirt I had that was clean.”
“You sure know how to make a guy feel special,” he said.
“I try.” I was not getting caught up in flirting. Any attraction I had toward him had completely evaporated during his last office hours, but it didn’t mean I didn’t care what he thought of my story. Still being his TA and being a part of this program, I had to care.
“Have you ordered?” he asked, eyeing the water glasses.
“No,” I said. “I was waiting to see how bad it was.” I was waiting to see if you’d brought a manila folder filled with erotic evidence.
“Oh,” he said. “You mean your story?”
Sneaking Candy Page 17