by Harper Bliss
Martha and I ended up taking a taxi together—she doesn’t do Uber either, though I suspect for different reasons than me—and my car is still in Darlinghurst. I need it to get to the Pink Bean in the morning so I have no choice but to pick it up sometime today.
No matter how much work I have to catch up on, Sunday is my day of hibernation and complete relaxation. I’d much rather work a little harder during the week and have one complete day to myself than start doing little things on Sunday. Because little things always lead to bigger things and before I know it, I’ll be working seven days a week.
Before Declan, Eva and I used to have Netflix marathons or go see a movie or just hang out and catch up. These days, however, Eva’s Sundays, as well as most evenings, are reserved for her boyfriend. It’s not that I don’t understand—of course I do—but still, it stings to have become the fifth wheel in the place where I live.
At least I managed to subtly convey that for a couple of hours every Sunday, I would like the place to myself.
Not for the first time since waking up, my thoughts drift back to Caitlin’s hug goodbye last night. As much as I want to believe it, I can’t. She’s probably got a date lined up with some goddess this very afternoon. Still, it was nice to be the recipient of that kind of attention. It has been a while. My last relationship ended more than a year ago and, just like Amber, I’m decidedly not a one-night stand girl.
I see how students look at Sheryl sometimes, who at almost fifty—and if you like the type—is still a striking woman. A lot of students seem to like the type very much. My type, not so much. When Sheryl hired me as her TA she gave me some advice on how to politely decline the inevitable invitations from students. I’ve never had to put her advice to use.
I roll onto my back and listen for sounds in the flat. Nothing. Officially meeting Caitlin James and all the subsequent thoughts I’ve had about her have had a certain, not to be misunderstood effect on me. I slide a hand inside my panties and spread my legs. I imagine that the hug good-bye she gave me last night—pressing her chest hard against mine—happened the day before, at her place with no one else around. I remember the long finger she circled the whiskey glass with and imagine that finger plunging deep into my underwear right now. Her lips trailing from my cheeks to my neck and back up to my mouth. Caitlin’s lips kissing me and her finger drawing insistent circles around my clitoris. “Don’t you look nice,” she says, again, with an appreciative nod of the head.
It’s all I need. My finger moves fast and meticulously. My thoughts do the rest. I come hard while thinking of Caitlin. I can’t wait to see her tomorrow. Will she have something nice to say to me again when she comes in for her coffee?
To clear my head, I decide to walk all the way to Darlinghurst to pick up my car. It’s a nice enough day.
Even though it’s shorts and T-shirt weather, I slip into my good old pair of jeans anyway. For all the books I read on wearing whatever you want no matter the amount of cellulite on your thighs, putting it into practice does not come easy. That goes for most books I read on the topic of my thesis. It’s all well and good to see it in black and white, to absorb the theory and be buoyed by uplifting words for a few hours, but changing how I’ve felt about myself for as long as I can remember takes more than reaching the end of a few books, obsessively following the right kind of blogs, and endlessly trawling through Tumblr for body-positive images.
It doesn’t take an experienced psychologist to guess why I picked the topic for my thesis. When I talked to Sheryl about it for the first time, she was enthusiastic and as supportive as a mentor can be, but I could see that glint in her eyes. That slant of understanding in the way she held her chin. Whether imagined or not, for me, the condescension was there. It has always been there.
But it’s Sunday and I don’t want to think about my thesis, which is hard to do because I’m reminded of it every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a shop window. As though, despite having been this size all my adult life, it still shocks me every time I catch myself off guard.
No informative podcasts today, only music. I put on the only playlist I’ve made recently. It’s called Women, partly because I lack imagination and partly because it only consists of Adele, Sia, Lady Gaga, Whitney Houston and Christina Aguilera songs. I wish I wasn’t walking down the street, so I could sing along from the top of my lungs instead of just mouthing the words.
When we both still lived at home, Bea asked me to sing her to sleep every evening. “Your voice is so beautiful, Jojo,” she used to say, with the kind of admiration in her words only children can muster.
When “Alive” by Sia comes on, I glance around me. The nearest people are far enough away for me to belt out a few notes without them hearing.
“With a voice like that, it’s a crime to not sing in front of an audience,” Eva said after we’d just moved in together and she heard me sing in the shower.
“Never,” I told her, without giving her any further explanation. Maybe if the stage was blacked out and the audience lit up so they couldn’t see me. As much as I love to sing, the jubilant, alive and care-free emotions it ignites in me would be undone instantly with a spotlight on me.
A car pulls up to the curb next to me. I don’t stop singing because this is the really good part of the song, but the car keeps pace with me. I pause and take a look. This is a No Stopping zone. Who does this person think they are? Whatever they think they’re doing is illegal and rude.
I see Caitlin smiling at me. The window slides down and she leans over the passenger seat.
“I thought that was you,” she says.
I pull the headphones from my ears and just stare at her. My brow is sweaty, my cheeks surely flushed an unhealthy red. Did she hear me sing?
“Need a lift?” she asks when I persevere in my stunned silence.
“I’m picking up my car. It’s just around the corner,” I stammer.
“I’d like to ask you something. Hop in?”
I open the car door and slide in next to her, because, really, when Caitlin says something like that, I’m not just going to keep on walking. I slam the door shut. Images from earlier this morning—from the fantasy I conjured up—flash through my mind.
“How are you?” she asks.
That’s what she wanted to ask me? It doesn’t matter. I’m too elated to be embarrassed by the sweat trickling down the back of my neck and my stunted breathing.
“I’m good. You?” I look at her. She has her eyes on the road.
“Ten years of driving in the US has left me a little insecure about driving on the left side of the road.” Her tone is serious. “Hang on. We’re almost there.”
We sit in silence. I wrap my headphones cord around my phone and stash it in my purse while hoping my walk in the sun hasn’t made me sweat so much she can smell it in the confined space of her car.
“Which one is it?” she asks as we drive into Micky’s street.
“That battered blue thing over there.” I point at my twelve-year-old Honda.
“Very vintage.” A smile in Caitlin’s voice.
“I wish. Just old and rusty.”
She stops next to my car and turns to me. “Would you like to go out some time?” she asks.
I furrow my eyebrows. Did my ears get damaged earlier because I played Sia too loudly? “Sorry? What?”
“Can I take you out to dinner some time this week?”
My brain is about to short-circuit. My mouth knows what to do, apparently. “Yes. Of course. Er, that, er, would be—”
“Great.” She beams a smile at me. “We’ll set it up tomorrow when I come in for my coffee.”
“Sounds good.” The sweat that has trickled all the way down my spine pools in the small of my back. “See you then.” In order for me to process this, I need to get out of Caitlin’s car as soon as possible.
“I look forward to it.”
“Thanks for the ride.” I stand there trembling in my sneakers while I watch h
er drive off. Did this just actually happen? I look around as though wanting to find some physical evidence. There is none, of course. Only the warm, exhilarating memory in my mind of Caitlin asking me out.
In the evening, it’s just me and Eva. The perfect opportunity to tell her about Caitlin asking me out, but I don’t. She’ll only freak out, which would freak me out even more. Besides, if I tell her, I’ll have to go through with it. Part of me already knows I won’t be able to. I haven’t fully reached my conclusion yet, because I so wish I was the kind of person who could go on a date with Caitlin James. But I’m the opposite. And it’s not even because I’m fat and she’s a gorgeous, brilliant, well-spoken feminist. Not too much, anyway. It’s about all the other shit I carry around with me every single moment of every single day. It’s about the absolute certainty that I will make a fool of myself. I’m already smitten with her, already don’t really know how to carry myself around her.
Aside from that, I’m convinced—utterly, truly certain—that she has only asked me out because of some silly bet she has with someone. Sheryl would never be so cruel, but maybe some of the others who were at the dinner party are. It’s not as if it’s never happened to me before.
Then there’s the ominous reason my previous two relationships ended, which is a silly reason to even think about in the context of a first date with Caitlin—as if we would ever get to the point of doing that. The whole idea of us going on a date is ludicrous. My brain simply cannot compute. Besides, I’ll have to work with her when she comes to the university to give a guest lecture. I’d rather do that knowing I bowed out gracefully instead of giving in to the lunacy of getting to know Caitlin better over a nice meal and a bottle of wine.
Still, there’s a small part of me that wants to shove all my doubts and fears to the side and just go. Just live. Just feel like a normal person for once. But that part, no matter how much it bursts with desire, will never win. I’ve always been much more a head-over-heart kind of girl. I never had much choice.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Eva says. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Where’s Declan?”
“At his place.”
“Oh, I didn’t even know he still had a place of his own.” I don’t mean to snap at her. Although it does bother me that Declan spends so much time at our place, under normal circumstances, I would never address the topic in this way.
“Come on.” Eva pauses whatever is playing on TV. I was so caught up in my thoughts I don’t even know what we’re watching. She pulls her legs under her body and turns to me. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Declan is a great bloke. I’m happy for you guys, you know that.”
“I know he’s been spending a lot of time here. If you’d seen where he lives, you’d understand. The place is a tip.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“But that’s no excuse. I just ushered him in here, into our home. We can have rules, if you want to. Or certain days he’s not here. Girls’ nights for us.”
“I guess I miss you,” I blurt out. Anything to not have to talk about what I’m really struggling with.
“I miss you too.” A pause. “Things have been moving so fast with me and Declan.”
“Maybe one more night a week where it’s just the two of us would be nice.”
Eva nods. “You got it. How about Wednesdays?”
“Sure.” I look at Eva from under my lashes. The way she and Declan are together, I can see the writing on the wall. Eva and I can try to make a last-ditch effort to spend more time together as roommates, but he has wormed his way not only into our home, but into her heart as well.
“Sundays and Wednesday are exclusively ours from now on.” She cocks her head, gives me a stare. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to talk about?”
I’ve already given her the low-down on last night’s dinner. I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m fine.” As I lean my back against the sofa, I realize I use that lie too often.
Chapter Seven
Micky has come down with the flu, so it’s just me and Kristin at the Pink Bean the next morning. I’ve gotten so used to working with Micky, it takes me a while to readjust to having Kristin so close by. She’s usually around, but not this hands-on—unless things get really hectic. Though the vibe is different because she’s the boss, I don’t mind because I’m sure Micky would have given me the third degree about sitting next to Caitlin at hers on Saturday and a whole load of other nonsense. Kristin is much more business-like.
“I’m swinging by Micky’s to check in on her. But no caffeine for her today,” Amber says when she comes in for her daily green tea. “Give me two cups of tea, please.”
“Wish her well from me.” A short conversation with Amber is all I have time for that morning, until the queue shortens and it’s just a few regulars scattered around the shop nursing cups of coffee. I was glad it was busy because now that things have quieted down, every time the door opens, or someone so much as shifts a little noisily in their seat, my heart flings itself against my chest.
How is rejecting Caitlin better than not going on a date with her? I ask myself during a bathroom break. But over the years I’ve gotten used to biting many a bullet like this and I prefer a minute of pain over an outstretched period any day of the week.
When she finally comes in, a little later than usual, she’s dressed in a tight pair of jeans, a satin blouse with a flowery pattern loosely hanging from her frame, and a pair of heels so high her feet must hurt.
Kristin and I don’t have the silent agreement that I always serve Caitlin, so while I stand around awkwardly, she says, “Looking very glamorous today, Miss James.”
“I have a meeting with a publisher. Might as well spruce up a bit for the occasion.” When she sees me, she smiles. It’s a different smile than any of the ones she’s shown me before. Like she’s really happy to see me. Me.
Kristin asks her a few questions, but I’m too mesmerized by the red of her lipstick to pay attention to the conversation they’re having. The way her neck is exposed because she has pinned her dark hair up into a complicated twist is not helping. My body and mind are screaming at me to make this agony end. I need to talk to Caitlin.
Once she has settled at her table, I ask Kristin if it’s okay to take a little break. Whereas Micky would have surely given me a suggestive wiggle of the eyebrows, Kristin just says, “Of course.”
“Hey.” Again, I’m flummoxed by Caitlin’s appearance. Because of the mascara she has applied, her wide brown eyes look even bigger than usual today. “Can we talk for a minute?”
I would give a lot to not have to do this at the Pink Bean, but at least Micky is not watching my every move.
“Of course. Please sit.”
I take my seat, my hands drop down in my lap and I look at my fidgeting fingers because I don’t know where else to look. But this is Josephine Greenwood in survival mode. It’s sad that I’ve been here many times before, avoiding disasters before giving them a chance to happen.
“I’m very flattered that you asked me out, but, er, it’s not going to work out for me.”
Caitlin leans back, pushes her chair back a little so she can sling one leg over the other. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“I can’t go out with you. I’m sorry.”
“Why not if I may ask?” She sounds as though she’s actually interested, not as if she has already won a bet with herself. How long before Josephine loses her nerve?
“It’s, er, difficult to explain.” I throw a glance at her but avert my eyes immediately. “It’s just… it’s not right.”
“You say you want to be a teacher. Why don’t you try explaining regardless of how difficult it is?” There’s a sudden sharpness to her voice.
“You must have looked in the mirror this morning. Now you’re looking at me. Something clearly doesn’t add up.”
“What the hell are you going on about?”
&nb
sp; Fat. Ugly. Poor. The words repeat in my head like the polar opposite of a positivity-inspiring mantra.
“I’m absolutely certain that in Darlinghurst alone there are a dozen women who would love to go out with you. As for me, I just can’t do it.”
“Well.” The word comes out at a short, wounded snap. “I’m not going to beg for it.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not you. I think you are amazing, but I just… can’t.”
“Whatever you say, Josephine.” At least I don’t hear pity in her words. I don’t hear any sign of understanding either. But it’s better this way.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble again as I get up. I don’t look back. On the way to the bathroom I try to take a few deep breaths, but I can’t even do that. Fists balled, I stand in the stall for long agonizing minutes.
Chapter Eight
“Everything set?” Sheryl asks.
“Yep.” It’s the day of Caitlin’s lecture at the university. Four miserable days after I told her I couldn’t go out with her. I can’t help but wonder if she told Sheryl about it. If she has, Sheryl hasn’t said anything.
“I just spoke to Caitlin on the phone. She should be here in half an hour.” Sheryl takes off her spectacles and squints at me. “Are you okay?”
“Must have caught the tail end of Micky’s flu,” I lie. None of my symptoms are physical.
“Do I need to order you on bed rest?”
I heave a big sigh. “I think it would be better if Mona played welcoming committee to Caitlin.”
“If you feel unwell, please go home, Josephine.”
“It’s not…” The words get stuck in my throat again, as they always do.
Sheryl scrunches her lips together. “Wait a minute. Has Caitlin been up to her usual tricks?” That pout again. “Did something happen between the two of you?” She holds up her hands. “Tell me if it’s none of my business, but she should know better than to mess with my teaching assistants.”