Doggedly Alexander studied this advice as if it was for his tenure review, honing a “pleasant half-smile” in the mirror while he shaved, during conference calls, in the pharmacy, in the supermarket. He initiated small talk with strangers, practiced the wide, then narrow-eyed slow-nod that Faye demonstrated. He made murmurs in the right places, tilted his head back when he chuckled. He forced himself to listen deeply, no matter how inane the subject. He struck up conversations with students in the commons, on the Green, in line at Starbucks. He got some odd looks, sure, but at least he knew his face was pleasant.
He still burned with humiliation when he remembered how they’d all laughed that night—Delysia included. She’d tried to hide it, but her cheeks had puffed out, and her eyes were the brightest he’d ever seen them. She’d been genuinely amused, and Alexander, even after years of achievement, was reduced back to the schoolroom, with the pretty girl laughing at his awkwardness.
It wasn’t a great feeling. And now, he was in Delysia’s home for the first time, poised to test his newly acquired skills.
* * *
“Right! Yes, so...” Delysia stepped aside to let him enter. Her fingers had gone to her hair again, twisting the ends of her curls in that nervous tic he was beginning to recognize. He could feel the nervousness emanating from her almost palpably, and he wondered at it. Delysia’s personality online was so vibrant that the difference was startling when he related with her face-to-face. She stumbled over her words at times, and was almost skittish when looking him in the eye.
He moved forward, smiling as he did so.
“Hey,” he said, simply.
It’d been a while since the birthday party, and he’d learned enough for Faye to decide that it “might be nice” for them to make a recording at Delysia’s place as a couple, and later, do a tour of his. Alexander had recoiled at the idea of letting the entire internet into his home, but Faye steamrolled his misgivings with her usual efficiency.
“You have summer tourists tramping through the place every year,” she said briskly. “How is this different?”
“It’s—” He could not explain why it was different without sounding like a complete snob, so he tried another way. “It’s falling apart—”
“That adds to its charm. Very Downton Abbey, after the war. Genteel poverty and all that.”
They had squabbled until Delysia cut in. “We’ll do my place first,” she’d said crisply. “Everyone on my channel is more familiar with it anyway. We can decide what we want to do with Alexander’s place later. Maybe a tour of the vineyards instead?”
Both acquiesced, if a bit grumpily, and now Alexander was here.
As if she’d jumped into his thoughts, his phone rang loudly. He glanced at the face before picking it up. “Hello, Faye. Yes, I’m here. No...she didn’t tell me...”
When he hung up, he turned to Delysia, lifting an eyebrow. “She wanted to make sure I was wearing the sweater.”
Delysia laughed, breaking a little bit of the tension. “From our trip to Williamsburg? That sweater shop was fun.”
“If you want to call it that.” He, unfortunately, could remember every detail of the trip. The “shop,” if one could call it that, was on the outskirts of Williamsburg, in one of those hideous converted buildings that (in his humble opinion) should have been torn down in the ’70s. The place had featured raw-wood floors, one sweater per table and, inexplicably, a giant ebony sculpture of a foot. The most shocking thing about the place—besides the price of the perfectly ordinary cashmere sweaters—had been the line outside, curving round the block. They’d gotten ahead of everyone, as the shop had been expecting Delysia, and Alexander had been treated to goggling teens and young adults, snapping away at them with their phones.
Alexander had been horrified, but Delysia played it cool as ice cream. She’d tucked a hand in Alexander’s coat pocket, buried her face in the side of his neck, letting her curls spill becomingly over his shoulder.
“Is my beret still straight?” she’d murmured into the skin of his neck. He’d felt that touch of warm lips surge low and hot, despite his annoyance at the crowd, and shifted. Delysia was overwhelming still, although he’d grown used to her snuggles and touches for the cameras—all warm softness and scent. It was one of those times when they felt far too real.
“You know, Catherine Middleton and Prince William weren’t even pictured kissing until their wedding day,” he’d said through his teeth, more grumpily than he’d intended. “All this canoodling is completely unnecessary.”
In answer Delysia’s arm had slipped around his waist, beneath his coat, and he’d felt the muscles of his abdomen tense in response, involuntarily. “You’ve had her on the brain since Faye brought her up in that session on photographers,” she’d jeered. “New idol, maybe?”
Alexander had ignored that one. “Oh, mother of God, I think that’s a student of mine in line.”
“An even better reason to not look in that direction. Look at me as if you adore me,” Delysia had said with that low laugh of hers, and then his face was very close to hers. He had registered details that had become fixed in his brain over the past several weeks—the full mouth, the near-dimple in the left cheek, the faded freckles on honey-smooth and copper-tinted skin.
Kiss her. They hadn’t since that first night, only kept their contact in public restricted to nuzzles, snuggles, all fairly innocuous. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about how good kissing her had felt, but he didn’t know what Delysia thought about it, and on top of that, he could not be the type of guy who just took advantage of situations because it felt good.
He’d cleared his throat and Delysia’s lashes had dropped, hiding her eyes, and the moment had passed.
“I can’t believe your life is like this,” he’d said finally, almost inaudibly. Delysia had smiled again, but that time she pulled away.
The black crew-neck cashmere sweater with tortoiseshell buttons they purchased after an excruciating forty minutes posing for pictures and taking selfies in the shop looked like at least three of the ones he had in his closet already, but the price was ruinous. Anyway, he’d been spotted teaching in the sweater at Southampton a week later, a student had said online. Delysia had borrowed the thing and worn it on a few outings of her own, and people had pointed that out, as well.
“But it’s a sweater,” murmured Alexander, at a loss for words at this point.
“It cements the narrative! My followers are very eagle-eyed.”
“In a stalkerish sort of way.”
“Well.” She couldn’t argue with that.
Now, Alexander followed Delysia into a very small, very clean apartment with an open-plan kitchen, painted a flat white, with the polished wood floors that were synonymous with New York City buildings. Her furniture was of the Ikea variety, in shades of gray and cream, and limited to a sofa, a small leather chair, and a desk with envelopes piled neatly on it. That was all. No pictures, no photographs, no figurines, no wall hangings. It reminded him of a dorm, or faculty housing at Southampton, at the beginning of the semester, before people had a chance to get their rooms together.
Alexander was surprised at the Spartan surroundings. They seemed completely out of keeping with Delysia’s personality. However, she kept walking, threw open the door of a room to the right. “Give me a minute, I’ve got to bring in some things,” she called.
“Do you need any help?”
“Oh, sure.”
The doorway led to a small bedroom, as simply decorated as the rest of the apartment. Delysia was pulling a pile of things out of her closet, and Alexander hurried to help her. There was a beautiful woven tapestry in shades of rust and chocolate brown that he remembered from her live videos; a battered brass lamp that had been polished to a high shine; two or three plush pillows that echoed the shades in the tapestry; a small, carved wooden table.
They took
the bundles out to the living room, and Delysia busily set up a corner of the sofa, mounting the tapestry directly behind it. “Can you grab two mugs from the kitchen?”
Alexander nodded and went. Her kitchen was oddly clean and cool, as if she rarely used it. He took down two white ceramic mugs and returned to a cozy, intimate setup in warm, soothing colors, with Delysia’s tripod directly facing it. It was so artfully arranged, such a change from the rest of the apartment that he exclaimed.
“This is amazing,” he said, reaching out to touch the tapestry with a finger.
“It’s from Abu Dhabi.” She paused as if considering what she wanted to say next. “I grew up there.”
Surprised, Alexander wanted to ask her more, but she stepped away nimbly and began fumbling with the camera. “Almost ready. Can you take a seat so that I can check the lighting?”
Alexander did so. He wanted to ask why in heaven’s name her apartment was so bare when she had all these lovely things, but he bit his tongue, figuring that it would be tactless at best. Perhaps she liked, or preferred a minimalist space—some people were like that, him included. His work office, if not his home, was fairly minimalist. But no artwork, no posters, no family photos?
This is a business arrangement—it’s none of your business.
Alexander stood to help her finish setting up, then sat back where she indicated. She fussed about with the camera for a few minutes, grabbed a remote, and settled next to him, then turned on a monitor she’d placed at their feet. She settled herself next to him.
“Final light check. Look up,” she said briskly, and Alexander did. Delysia shifted so that she was flush against his side; he was very aware of how near she was, but she seemed undisturbed, for the most part. She’d shifted to that public-facing persona—he could see it in her eyes, in her face, in the set of her slender shoulders. She checked the monitor.
“Oh, your hair—can I?” she asked.
Alexander nodded, then held very still as her small warm fingers went through his hair, rumpling it up just a bit. With all the Gilded Express planning, he hadn’t had the time to get a haircut yet, and his curls were thickening, clustering on his head. He did not care for the rumpled look, not at all, but he supposed Delysia knew what she was doing.
He cleared his throat when she pulled back and nodded when she asked if he was ready. “You’re not going to get dressed?”
“No, the post caption says we’re getting ready to go to an event.” She patted her rollers self-consciously.
“Ah.”
“Hey, guys,” she said, shooting a smile at the camera. “I’m here with my boyfriend Alexander just to check in—people have been asking about how we met, so we figured we’d set your minds at rest!”
“That is true,” Alexander said, feeling a bit like a fool while addressing a nonexistent audience. Pretend it’s a virtual lecture, he told himself, and he did relax a little bit. Besides, Delysia took over most of the conversation. They concocted a tale about her spilling wine at a tasting, and him coming to her rescue with a handkerchief and club soda.
“I spoke,” Alexander said, playing up the stodgy professor bit to the max, “about the history of the vineyard, and other—really, idiotic things. Her eyes were glazing over but I couldn’t stop talking.”
As he was speaking, Delysia was laughing, eyes bright, looking at him as if he were the only one that mattered. It sparked something deep within him that felt warm and bright in his chest, as if someone had lit a gentle flame there. Impulsively he lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles. It was a playful attempt at mock gallantry, but her cheeks reddened. He wondered if he had gone too far and released her hand.
She cleared her throat. “I think that’s a take,” she said in her normal voice, breaking the spell.
“Yes, of course,” he said quickly, masking a disappointment he was sure he had no right to feel. They finished the segment quickly, and packed Delysia’s bright bit of a room back into her closet, then stood a little awkwardly in the middle of Delysia’s living room.
“Good work,” she said, shifting from foot to foot.
“Thank you. It was fun.”
“I’m glad you thought so.”
He ran his hands over his hair, smoothing the curls that Delysia had arranged so artfully. It seemed odd just to record and be on his way, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. It wasn’t as if they were friends, and even if Alexander wanted to make an overture...he wasn’t sure if Delysia would—
As if his mouth was moving of its own volition Alexander found himself talking. “I’ll be—looking for some refreshment after this. Would you care to join me for a coffee?” He heard as if he was listening in on someone else how stiff he sounded and clapped his mouth shut against any potential babbling that might escape.
Delysia’s honey-brown eyes widened in real surprise. “Now?”
“Yes.” He felt heat begin to prickle on the back of his neck.
She looked trapped for a second. “Um...”
Shit. Alexander bit his lower lip. “Actually, it’s a terrible imposition. You’ve got plenty to do here—I didn’t know what I was thinking. Rain check?”
“Alexander—”
“Thank you for today.” He cut her off by bending to touch her cheek with his, then headed for the door with all possible speed.
“I actually can—”
“Oh, no worry, I’ve got it,” he said, deftly opening her three locks and ducking out the door. “See you soon!”
When he made it to the hallway, he closed his eyes, then shook himself off and began to walk briskly toward the street exit. Since all this began, deep down inside Alexander had wondered if Delysia perhaps wasn’t just tolerating his presence during all this. His college students certainly gave him that impression. Why not her?
Not that it matters. It’s only business, he reminded himself.
Alexander had experienced similar luck with women. His dating history was limited to one undergrad who found him decidedly boring and had no hesitation in telling him, and a couple of fellow graduate students so engrossed in their own research that he supposed they did not mind, or paid no attention to, his rambling on random subjects that caught his attention.
It was no wonder, considering the way he’d grown up, mostly alone in that big rambling house. He wasn’t going to think of that now, though.
In response to this he’d become a much more avid listener, and was content to sit quietly on dates and let the women chatter away. This did not make for particularly satisfying relationships, though, and it was new to find someone who was nearly as quiet as he tried to be. There was something in her silence, though, that made him think that perhaps, just perhaps, this time it might be her actual personality, and not just a lack of interest...?
“For God’s sake, you do run on,” he said out loud, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.
“Alexander?” Delysia’s voice rang out down the hall. He spun around; she was standing in the doorway, unwinding the metal rollers one-by-one. “I’d like to go. If you don’t mind waiting? I hesitated because I thought it’d take too long for me to get ready, but—” She paused. “Coffee, right?”
“Coffee,” he echoed a little dumbly.
* * *
The two ended up not in a coffee shop, but in what Delysia called a cereal bar, a few blocks away from her apartment. The tiny cafeteria served nothing but soft-serve and cereal that lined the walls in bins with their boxes mounted on top. Alexander had never seen so many varieties in his life, and he found himself laughing as he looked around.
“This is madness,” he said, squinting at a life-sized cardboard cutout of Count Chocula before accepting a large bowl from Delysia.
“It’s the best possible kind of madness. I bring Faye’s nieces here when they visit,” Delysia said cheerfully. “They ask for it by name now. You can be decadent and do so
ft-serve with cereal mixed in, or whole milk, if you’re a traditionalist. They even have non-dairy options.”
“This is hilarious.” He looked at the menu with great concentration before deciding on a bowl of Frosted Flakes. “You know, I was Tony the Tiger for Halloween one year.”
Delysia laughed out loud. “I could see it.” She asked for a sprinkle of Cinnamon Toast Crunch on her vanilla ice cream, and the two took their trays to a quiet table looking out on the busy street.
“Brooklyn feels so different from when I was a kid,” he remarked, taking up his spoon.
“Did you live here?”
“No, but my mother worked at the library. Archivist.”
“And gave birth to a historian. That makes sense.”
Alexander smiled and hesitated before digging in, wondering if Delysia was going to use the opportunity to take a photograph and post it, while their bowls were laid out. After all, this was the sort of kitschy thing that fans seemed to adore. However, she placed her phone facedown on the table, lifted her chin, and licked her spoon.
He was surprised at how much that pleased him, deep down inside.
“I was actually going to offer you something up in my apartment,” she said, “but I had nothing on hand except tea and a box of Raisin Bran. That’s where I got the idea for cereal.”
He laughed out loud. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
“My mother would have dropped dead from horror if she heard I’d been entertaining with that.” She considered the garish characters printed atop the round plastic table, then looked up and smiled. “She’d be horrified with this place too, come to think of it. This is nice, though.”
“Unexpected, but definitely nice. How’d you find it?”
“Oh, in the influencer circuit, years ago. It’s modeled after a place in Brixton.”
“Brixton, in the UK?”
The Sweetest Charade Page 8