Play Fling

by Amber Scott

  Michelle loudly adjusted her long limbs on the vinyl.

  The sound grated his nerves. “Shouldn’t you be in class, Michelle?”

  “I won’t be missed,” Michelle said and examined her nails. “I just couldn’t handle it tonight. Why do they even bother scheduling Friday classes anyways?”

  “Professor Shope says it weeds out the less serious students,” Elliott replied absently. Honestly, he couldn’t think of a time he’d bought a woman flowers, let alone did something so gutsy as buy a stranger--one clearly uninterested--a pile of books that practically screamed “single”.

  Michelle scoffed. “Uncle Bernie has no idea.”

  “No idea?” It was romantic, wasn’t it? His gift? Yet she’d dismissed him so readily. At least she had looked stunned. Served her right.

  “My friend Beth is in his Friday class and she does absolutely nothing but doodle. She swears that if it wasn’t required and the only open session left…” Michelle rolled her eyes. “Are you even listening?”

  Not at all. “Sorry, I’m distracted. I just have a lot of work to do, Michelle.” First, she had nearly run from that café table. And to think he’d sat down to rescue her from her obvious anxiety. “Shope expected these back last week.”

  Michelle’s eyes rolled again and she resumed her nail examination. He wished Michelle would leave. “I’ll be quiet.”

  Maybe he’d ask Michelle what she thought of his gesture. Putting those five books in her hands, remembering her jaw dropping, her eyes blinking rapid fire, was mending his bruised pride. Yet, he’d intended a different reaction. Elliott refocused on the stack of mediocre history papers but couldn’t help himself. He chuckled. He had rendered her speechless.

  ”What is it?” Michelle sprang up. “Is it a funny one?”

  Elliott scooted his chair in. “No. Just thought of something offhand. Sorry.” He returned to reading the paper in his hand. Michelle loomed closer. The desk pinched against his chest.

  Like an idiot, he kept thinking about her. Her reaction. Her parted lips, her flushed cheeks, too sexy. Speechless and so sexy. He couldn’t even get his head straight enough to ward off Michelle Shope?

  “So, what’s so funny then?”

  Elliott smelled Michelle’s sugary perfume. He kept his eyes forward. “I really need to get this work done.”

  Michelle sighed and slunk back to the sofa. Out the door would have been too lucky.

  Elliott sighed too. And tried again to read. Half a page later, he thought of five snappy things he could have said two hours ago. To render her even more speechless. Speechless enough to be unable to fake some phone call affection like she had. “Babe,” she had said. Irritation itched his neck. He rubbed at it.

  Not that she was the kind of woman who needed to say much. Watching her from across the Book Exchange cafe for so many weeks, he knew. One arch look and people bolted off her path. Intriguing when contrasted against her true self. Whenever her friend arrived, her chilly façade would fall. She’d relax and a light from within would again draw him in. The icy exterior melted to reveal warmth, compassion. Today, she’d sat waiting. Elliott had found himself uncomfortable seeing her fidget and tense. Wasn’t hard to figure out. Her friend had stood her up. He’d started feeling the minutes slog by, began scanning the room, right along with her.

  “We should get a beer,” Michelle said.

  “Hmm?” Today, he’d told himself he’d sit down, make a little conversation, put her at ease. Her friend would show, he’d leave. At ease? Anything but. Had he been wrong, or what?

  “A beer,” Michelle repeated. “You know, icy cold adult beverage served worldwide but especially past five?”

  His dad would call it moxie. In Elliott’s twenty-six years, never had he seen such an illustrious example, either. Moxie. Like his mother. Or so his dad always claimed. His mom had preferred “spirited”.

  “I don’t know.” He shuffled to the last page in his hand. “Maybe another time, Michelle.”

  She sighed raggedly, stood and roved to his side. She rubbed his temples. Elliott shifted away. Dropping her hands with a smack to her jeans, she went for the door.

  “I’ll be back,” she said in a mock horror movie voice.

  Elliott pushed his chair back and stretched. This was going nowhere. He needed a shave. He needed to eat. Maybe then his eyes would focus on the words and actually compute them.

  He should have stuck his phone number inside one of those books. Nah. She wouldn’t call. Better to just make sure she saw him again and throw her a wink. Wait it out and make her come to him. He’d made an impression. That was enough for now. He went to the outside vending machine. He slid his last dollar in, watching the steam of his breath in the lamplight.

  A beer did sound good. One with Michelle, not quite as good. Had to be careful not to insult her, though. Uncle Bernie might decide to toss Elliott’s fellowship application aside for one brokenhearted niece. Did he have any beer at home?

  He made his selection and watched it drop, his attention more on the reflection in the glass than the contents. The outside courtyard stood dark and empty behind him, the campus sat quiet. It would be another week before the routine visit to the bookstore cafe. He should have followed her this afternoon, or at least tried to figure out which building she’d been heading to.

  No. He’d been bold enough. Any more would be stalker-like.

  He retrieved the bag of pretzels and went back in. Better to back off. In the meantime, he could savor his moment and muse about just how flustered he’d made her.

  The last role Brooke wanted her much younger, history classmates pigeon-holing her into was desperate housewife. The older woman who goes back to school after her kids have grown because she finds herself needing to fill the day, scrambling to recapture the scent of her youth.

  She wasn’t desperate and she was no longer a housewife. Thank God.

  The five books she’d been so gallantly given twenty yards from class might as well be billboard ads for a desperate housewife, though. Two bestseller mysteries, a tawdry historical romance, a chick lit and the quintessential I-don’t-belong-here of them all, 7 Stupid Mistakes Smart Women Make. They sat hidden under her theater style seat, spines masked by her ankles.

  If the community college offered this level course, she would be there instead, where students her age abounded. She wasn’t some empty nesting mom trying to recapture some sense of herself. Enough of her former friends were, though. She knew the signs and symptoms. Survival depended on fitting in, for study groups and more. If no one gave her a second glance, maybe they wouldn’t sniff her out, point and demand a reason for hiding among them.

  She still couldn’t believe Blue Eyes’ guts. What he’d done took a lot, too. She was not approachable. Especially by men. Particularly when she wanted to be, or rather, didn’t want to be. Approached, that is. Funny how that worked.

  Professor Shope’s chalk snapped in half, cracking her attention back to the lecture. Class. Lecture. Focus, Brooke. Mind off the far-too-young-for-you-despite-being-so-forward and, well, admit it, imaginative. And forget the color of his eyes. You are here to learn, to bolster your brain and your eBay business. No more.

  World War II. Today in particular, Stalin. Biting down a yawn, Brooke blinked at the soreness in her eyes and let herself daydream the tiniest bit. About her baby. Her online eBay store, Memory Lane, would be exactly fifteen months old tomorrow. Her “silly” idea, which sprang into her brain one summer afternoon while antiquing with Jason, had slowly come to life.

  No thanks to Stalin, Brooke had made her first notable profit last month. One thousand, seven hundred, fifty-four dollars and thirty-two cents. Felt like a million.

  A year and a half ago, no one had taken her idea, or her, seriously. Not her in-laws, her husband or their friends. In fact, Millie counted as the only person who did since. But then Millie hadn’t known her as Mrs. Jason Munkle. They’d only met seven or eight months ago. Still, success felt damned w
hen everyone wondered why on earth she would need money or want to work. Jason did so well for them, as her mother, and his, consistently pointed out. Jason had treated her as though she’d adultered herself. Over a job. A tiny little business.

  It was never for the money. It was for her.

  Thinking back, to Jason, her starting a business must have felt like cheating. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t been surprised when she’d asked for a divorce one month after that antiquing trip. It was almost as though he had anticipated it. Remarkable. Fifteen years should have been more difficult to walk away from. For both of them.

  She conceded one yawn, trying to conceal it with a hand to her chin and a bend to her purse. Absolute boredom. Her lips were dry. The twenty something brunette next to her crossed her jean-clad legs. Brooke stared at the taunt butterfly design embroidered on the thigh area. She had once been able to pull off butterfly jeans. Brooke sighed.

  Forty more minutes. Brooke would not leave early. Not today. Maybe another time. She’d spent good money on this class and eventually, understanding her bestselling merchandise’s era would improve sales. It would. Dramatically, she hoped. And wouldn’t that feel good? Proving everyone wrong? Worth a few yawns, certainly.

  Identify what drew people to this era, spoke to their hearts, then speak that language herself. Fluently. Millie always got it. She’d said, “Don’t try to sell Prada if you’ve only ever worn Gap.” Precisely.

  A third yawn threatened. Brooke began willing Shope to call a break. He held out to the bitter end on breaks. Probably because he lost half his audience. Man, did he love an audience.

  The brunette stretched, revealing a page of doodling, what looked like practiced signatures. Instead of copious notes, Beth, as the majority of the scroll suggested, focused on whether or not to hyphenate her (new?) last name. The Mrs. part she had down. Part of Brooke wanted to pull her aside and warn her. Warn her to wait for marriage, to live a life first, because the best years would siphon away in a blink of an eye.

  Shope paused in his animated drone and retrieved his pocket watch.

  Brooke inched her hand toward her purse, ready to sprint. Front row had advantages beyond a sunset view. The pretty brunette shifted again, tossing her long mane of hair past Brooke’s face.

  “As you leave for a brief interlude,” Shope said, chalk tapping his lips. Brooke lifted her bag. “Imagine yourself a concentration camp inmate, suddenly freed by Allied soldiers. Those of you who do so successfully, will get the inexplicable desire to return post haste. I hope you will do so, in no more than ten minutes.”

  What the…? Had he really just said that? Brooke schooled her features and kept her gaze on the door. She thanked whoever was in charge up there for Shope’s self-importance, though. It meant he likely wouldn’t be grading this week’s paper, either. Funny how collecting them at the close of class didn’t improve attendance any more than his wacko break comments. Several students left theirsbehind on desks, making pacts with those who stayed to turn theirs in for them.

  Her fellow inmates dug for keys, shuffled papers and fled, assignments if not left behind, then maybe dropped off at Shope’s office instead. Brooke watched one wistfully. A grade hung in the balance. Her grade. She couldn’t stomach leaving her paper on a desk, couldn’t muster asking someone to take her responsibility. What if Shope missed it? What if her co-conspirator failed? She wanted her grade. This time, it might finally be better than a B.

  Brooke slipped a dollar into the snack machine. Home early, snuggled up in yoga pants and fuzzy socks with one of her new novels sounded divine. She sighed. Four new novels. If she was honest with herself, it was terribly sweet of Blue Eyes. She should have at least thanked him. Especially for the Scottish highlander. Hmmm. What if she dropped her ten pages of hard labor off at Shope’s office instead? Just this once. She could study extra as punishment.

  But her books were still in the room.

  A quick glance revealed Shope at the door, talking with the brunette. Brooke bit down. Now or never. She slipped past them and grabbed the novels. She jammed the four that would fit into her bag and tucked the fifth under her arm. Hesitating only a moment, she hurried past again, trying to look rapt in concern with her cell phone to her ear. “Oh now,” she said aloud, for effect.

  A hand on her shoulder stopped her. “Excuse me.” It was the brunette. Her big brown eyes held Brooke’s. “Can I ask you something?”

  Shope stood at the door, rocking on his heels.

  “Um, yes,” Brooke said, itching to slip away. She closed her phone.

  “My mom’s birthday is next Friday and I was just wondering if you could help me. She’s about your age and I really need help with a gift. Maybe music or something?”

  Brooke clasped her hands together. “Okay, sure.” The possibility of a sale occurred to her. She dug out a business card. “What year would you say your mom graduated?” It was a nice way to ask a person’s actual age.

  “Oh, I have no idea,” the brunette said, rolling her eyes. “But it’s her fiftieth birthday, kind of a big deal. What year did you graduate high school?”

  Brooke coughed, trying not to sputter. Fifty? She looked fifty? “Um—I…well, I uh…. Hmmm. That is a big deal, huh?” She had no idea what to say. She handed over her card with a high twittering laugh. To her horror, tears stung in her eyes. “Maybe this will help.”

  Brooke’s phone rang. Startled, she dropped it. It skidded across the floor, dangerously close to where Shope had just been standing. The brunette giggled, covering her mouth with Brooke’s card.

  “Good luck with that,” Brooke mumbled, retrieving her phone. It rang again. She answered, her voice clogged with emotion.

  “Brooke? Oh good. I found you. Where are you?”

  “Millie?” Brooke hadn’t expected her. She headed for the exit. “I’m just leaving class. Where are you?”

  “I’m home, and I’m so, so, so sorry I missed you earlier.”

  Oh yeah. That. She sniffed. “I was almost late for class,” Brooke said, hating the pitch in her voice. “I had a paper due.”

  “I know, I know. I said I would read it for you. I’m really, super sorry.” Millie paused. “Let me make it up to you.”

  Brooke bit down. Why did people say that? Like anything could ever really be made up for.

  Millie pressed on. “I’ll bet it was just as good as your other ones.”

  She didn’t want good. She wanted better. But, Millie’s voice sounded unusually tight. More than just guilt?

  “Brooke, you always do a great job on them. I don’t even know why you have me read them.”

  She almost snapped that she didn’t either but held back. Sniping at Millie wouldn’t change the past. And in the grand scheme of things, she knew a missed coffee was small potatoes. The whole thing sucked, though. She used to have more people in her life she could count on for these kinds of quirky little things. Especially, for the little things, quirks or not.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now,” Brooke said, heading down the basement panel of offices. Shope’s was the last one on the end. A light was on. His protégé must be hard at work. Perfect. “I’m turning the thing in now and going home.”

  “No,” Millie said fast. “Don’t go home. Let me make it up to you. Come out with me. Dinner. My treat.”

  Brooke halted in front of the ajar door, arm out to open it. Her body stiffened.

  “Brooke?” Millie’s voice sounded far away. “Hello?”

  The gulp of air she’d inhaled whooshed out as her mind confirmed what her senses already suspected. Behind Shope’s desk, Blue Eyes looked up at her.

  His expression flashed surprise then smoothed. His chair scraped over the floor. He stood and came from behind the worn metal desk. His lips parted but he didn’t speak. Hopefully, because Brooke had jabbed a finger into the air, and not because she’d rendered him speechless. She’d rendered enough for one day.

  “Dinner sounds great!” she said, faking enthusiasm. />
  “Really?” Millie’s tone improved. “Oh. Good. How about in an hour or so? After class?”

  “I’m on my way now. I’m just dropping something off.”

  “Now? Um, okay, but I’m not really ready yet. Did your class let out early or something? You sound funny.”

  Brooke pursed her lips. Blue eyes closed his mouth and sat at the edge of the creaky desk, arms crossed. He could have been James Dean for all the recklessness in his demeanor. Except for those glasses. She might be able to think straight, in fact, were it not for those damned glasses. “I’m great. So, where again?”

  “Alright,” Millie said. “I’ll play along but only if you promise to spill every last detail the minute you see me.”

  Brooke giggled. Leastwise, she did her best version of a giggle. Whether or not it sounded as flirtatious as she hoped, only Blue Eyes—she had to stop calling him that! —could say. Not that she would ask. “Ramone’s? Perfect. I love Italian. On my way now.”

  Millie squealed. “Brooke, I have to say, I love this game. So, are we really meeting at Ramone’s or does it even matter what I say right now? Is it a guy? No, wait, it’s your professor, right? Your ex?”

  Brooke stiffened at the mention of Jason. Her belly flopped and sank. “You, too. Bye.”

  She hung up, no longer caring what impressed her audience or not. All she knew was her best friend—and she hadn’t had any in a very long time—had secretly called her ex-husband for reasons unknown. Millie hadn’t asked Brooke for a referral. Generally broke, Millie didn’t own a home to sell. So, there wasn’t a single reason to call Jason. The whole thing felt wrong.

  She’d find out from Millie soon enough. The back of her throat burned a little just thinking about it but she kept a straight face and gave Shope’s lackey—much better nickname—her attention.

  The last thing she wanted was him putting a face to her paper’s name. She handed over the paper-clipped pages, half turned to leave. “I found this outside on a bench. In the quad.”