Seeing Stars: A Loveswept Classic Romance

by Baker, Fran

  Some of them have pictures, but most often they tell me your picture gets mine. They use their four-picture limit to post images of women from porn so that I will know their “type.” Pictures of themselves always seem blurry, or are taken in a mirror splattered with toothpaste with the flash still on so that their faces are obscured by a glowing constellation.

  I’m so tired, my thumb and my heart sore and bothered by their slivers, but I can’t stop compulsively scrutinizing ads for—what? A reason to answer? I clear my throat, my heart, because I refuse to cry again. My peripheral vision catches the flutter of the moth as it suddenly reveals itself and finds a breeze to follow out the window, into the wee morning light.

  As I scroll through the post titles from the last hour, one catches my eye—Wednesdays. When I click on it, I’m surprised to find a clear and high-definition picture. It’s a candid of a man with very short dark hair, sitting in three-quarters view at a conference table. His dress shirt is pushed up at the elbows, his legs are crossed at the knee. He’s holding an elbow with an opposite hand, his body language completely closed, but he’s so long-limbed he almost seems loose. He’s grinning at someone off-camera, and it’s his grin, the dimple it sinks into his cheek, that arrests me after reading so many lamenting personals.

  The photo doesn’t hide anything about what he looks like, but it tells the viewer almost nothing about him. If he weren’t hugging himself so tightly, I would think he was modeling menswear in a Sunday circular. Blandly handsome.

  Except the knuckles of his long fingers are white from the grip on his elbow. The stubble on his sharp jaw is a little too dark and long for a business meeting.

  I will meet you on Wednesdays at noon in Celebration Park. Kissing only. I won’t touch you below the shoulders. You can touch me anywhere. No dating, no hookups. I will meet with you for as long as you meet me, so if you miss a Wednesday we part as strangers. No picture necessary, we can settle details via IM. Reply back with “Wednesdays Only” in the subject line.

  I read the ad multiple times and the flush doesn’t go away from my cheeks. I look at his picture for so long, I hear my neighbor’s shower squeal to life. Kissing only. Celebration Park is right behind my library’s campus. When the weather is nice, like it has been, I take my lunch there to eat.

  You can touch me anywhere. I shudder, and goose bumps break over my hot neck. I click on the picture and my browser opens it in its own window, nearly as big as my screen. He’s in his thirties, likely near my age. With the picture so large, I can see that he has glasses hooked over his pocket and that his ring finger doesn’t seem to have a trace of a wedding band. His forearms are beautiful, the hair very dark against his pale skin.

  I move back over to the ad.

  He must have dozens of replies.

  My Wednesdays are long; they start an hour early for a meeting with my staff in Teen Collections and end an hour late to accommodate a tutoring program. What if right in the middle of that long Wednesday I sat with this man in the park, kissing and touching him like a living fantasy?

  If I didn’t like it, if I didn’t like him, if he turned out to be crazy, or awful, or a bad kisser, or a creep, I would just miss a single Wednesday and he would be gone. Part as strangers. Celebration Park is bustling at lunch hour with downtown traffic, particularly during this mild, dry fall. We wouldn’t really be alone.

  I flip back over to his picture. I wish he were looking into the camera so I could see his eyes. Was he uncomfortable with the person he was grinning at, was that why he held himself so close? Or was it this meeting he was at? Why kissing? Maybe he was with someone and that part of his relationship had fallen away—I have a friend who complains that her husband never really makes out with her anymore and she misses it.

  I don’t realize I’ve clicked the email link until the box pops up. MetroLink assigns each post an anonymous email address that forwards to the poster’s actual email, but posters can see the sender’s real email address. I hesitate. My address is librariansdeweyitbetter@villagemail. It’s clichéd, in addition to being immature, but setting up another account is not conducive to the impulsive nature of this email.

  The idea that his in-box is likely clotted with replies actually helps. What’s one more he won’t answer? As I start typing the subject line, I suddenly realize I could always just sort of stalk Celebration Park some Wednesday until I saw him in person, get a better sense of the man who wants to spend a lunch hour every week kissing a stranger.

  Of course, maybe it isn’t just Wednesdays. I have the sudden fanciful notion that maybe on Mondays he meets a stranger to just chat. Tuesdays, he meets another for hand-holding, then Wednesday he meets one for kissing, and so on, until Saturday. Saturdays he meets a woman for fucking only, completing the entire mating dance with six different women with an excruciatingly prolonged bout of foreplay. Sundays, of course, are his day of rest.

  I can’t stop giggling, and try sounding out a dirty version of the “Monday’s Child” poem, until I realize that Wednesday’s child is “full of woe.”

  I finish the email, only trembling a little.

  To: 100474@metrolink.com

  From: librariansdeweyitbetter@villagemail.com

  Subject: Wednesdays Only

  I’m certain you’ve filled the position, but it’s late (or very early) and I’m intrigued despite the judgment I should possess staring into the second half of my third decade. My IM handle is “lieberries” on villagemail.

  When I send it, my breath comes out in a whoosh and my heart is pounding in my ears. I don’t really expect him to answer, but I open my villagemail account anyway and turn my laptop’s volume up so I can hear the IM chime. I can’t quite work out why I answered him.

  Sure, he’s pretty, and maybe I’ve gotten a little comfortable with things, or maybe the insomnia is getting the better of me. It’s been a long day that has stumbled into a sad and quiet morning. I can’t stop thinking about stupid things. My dad’s arm around my mom’s shoulders while she takes pictures of the Alaskan coast. Will and Shelley kissing in their tiny urban goat shed, their homemade cheese in their old beer fridge. I look at my thumb, where the sliver has made it red and swollen.

  I pull my T-shirt over my bare legs. Sit up straight and try to think straighter. Practically speaking, meeting a MetroLink stranger for anything, but especially kissing, is not entirely safe. I touch my throat, where a blast of heat burns in the hollow.

  Is it really something bad to have a life that’s safe? To wear skirts at a sensible length, to let a friend walk you home from the bar, to meet a man for coffee in a busy diner days before you’re alone with him on your stoop?

  I look at his picture, how his cuffs bunch at his forearms.

  While I value my contentment, I do apparently have a little fight left—for adventure, for capital “R” romance, for the certain cures that Shelley teased me about—somewhere deep in my lizard brain. At least the part that, say, motivates happy sea turtles to leave their familiar waters and heave themselves up on the scary beach and lay eggs. Not that my eggs have anything to do with this.

  I resolve to at least lean back against the pillows and rest before I have to get ready for work, but as soon as I set the laptop on the nightstand, my IM calls out.

  In the quiet room, my gasp sounds totally Victorian.

  When I spin the screen toward me, the IM box is as real as can be, and the handle is no one I recognize.

  GearTattoo: I haven’t filled the position. Still interested?

  I kind of laugh/choke. I toggle back to his picture.

  lieberries: I’m not sure. You’ve done this before?

  GearTattoo: Yes.

  Oh God.

  lieberries: A lot?

  GearTattoo: Three other people. Is that a lot?

  lieberries: Well, your proposition is unusual enough that one person might be considered a lot.

  GearTattoo: So what intrigues you about my proposition?

  I worry the hangna
il on my thumb, my hands shaking, thinking about how to answer that. If this were a fancy online dating-site date, I might cheat toward wit in answering his question. But this is not a fancy “98% match” date. This is a man who wants to make out with a stranger once a week during his lunch hour and asked for it, directly, on MetroLink. Surely I can be just as direct.

  lieberries: In your picture, you’re very beautiful.

  GearTattoo: Do you like kissing?

  I think about my married friend’s husband. About the kind of man who would ask for this and nothing else. About safe kisses on front stoops at reasonable hours.

  lieberries: Yes, I do. Are you married? Involved?

  GearTattoo: No, there isn’t anyone. If someone entered the picture while we were meeting, if you want to start meeting, I would miss a Wednesday.

  lieberries: And we would “part as strangers.”

  GearTattoo: Yes.

  lieberries: So you care about fidelity in this? Do you want to know if I’m married/partnered/involved?

  GearTattoo: I care about it for myself. I don’t feel like I can ask the same of you. If you were single, I admit I would feel better, but you’re not obligated to share anything with me.

  It seems to me that he is being very miserly with himself. I can touch him wherever I want, but he stays in chaperoned territory. He keeps himself for me, while I could be married with three kids.

  I also feel weird that we diverted into an establishment of ethics over something stated pretty plainly in his ad. I wonder again, what is it that he needs?

  Recently, I was helping a high school student in our tutoring program with an essay on chivalry, and we got into a pretty interesting discussion about how chivalric code, a kind of objectification of the purity of loving a woman, has sort of devolved into “chivalry,” which we agreed was the sexist objectification of regular manners. I really don’t want GearTattoo writing odes to my dropped hankies.

  lieberries: Is this something more to you?

  GearTattoo: What do you mean?

  lieberries: Than just kissing. Like a self-denial or temptation fetish or something?

  He doesn’t immediately chime back. I am starting to get nervous when he finally responds.

  GearTattoo: I don’t think so. I’m drawing a boundary around it, but it’s not the boundary that interests me, just the kissing, losing an hour to it. It doesn’t bother me if you can do that with me and be with other people, too, I’m just not made that way. Making out loses its escape if I’m thinking of someone else.

  Fair enough.

  lieberries: Where do you do this?

  GearTattoo: Do you know where the teahouse shelters are?

  Celebration Park was built to honor the 150th anniversary of our midwestern city, and the planning committee divided it into sections based on the countries of the world in a sort of essentialist, theme-park way. The teahouse shelters are in the “Asian” section of the park and consist of small picnic tables with a carved pergola over each one. They’re visible throughout the park, but afford the idea of privacy when sitting inside one of the pergolas. He’s thinking of safety, my comfort, again.

  lieberries: Of course.

  GearTattoo: I’ll meet you at the shelter closest to the bank of water fountains this Wednesday at noon. My first name is Brian.

  lieberries: You don’t want me to wear a blue scarf or carry an umbrella or something?

  GearTattoo: I’ll assume the strange woman addressing me by name is you. Certainly, wear and carry what you would like, though.

  I snort at that. I do realize that he hasn’t asked for a picture or description, or anything like that.

  lieberries: It’s just that I have a decent picture to go by, to find you and decide this. Don’t you want a picture from me? What if I’m not your type? Won’t that sort of defeat the whole idea of losing an hour to great kissing?

  GearTattoo: I’m not worried. Librarians dewey it better.

  I laugh, for real, at that. Finally, there seems to be something kind of sexy seeping into our strange chat. Maybe it’s just my own realization that I’m doing this, and it’s already Tuesday morning. Anticipation of my own daring.

  lieberries: And I guess, if it’s awful, you just aren’t there the next Wednesday.

  GearTattoo: Or you aren’t.

  lieberries: Or I’m not. Good night (good morning?), Brian. BTW, my name’s Carrie.

  GearTattoo: Good night, Carrie.

  I snap my laptop closed. It seems impossible, but suddenly I am drowsy. When I close my eyes, I can hear the streetlights under my window start to snap off, one by one.

  Read on for an excerpt from Iris Johansen’s

  ’Til the End of Time

  One

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Danilo Jannot said, gazing at Sandor with a disapproving frown. He quickly closed the door and turned the lock. “I could have handled everything here in Belajo. Safeguarding the Ballard woman isn’t worth the risk of your getting captured. If Naldona got his hands on you, we’d be in a helluva mess.”

  “Not for long. You know very well he wouldn’t be able to resist the pleasure of sticking my distinguished head on a pike in the town square.” Sandor Karpathan’s dark blue eyes twinkled. “Then our army would have a martyr, which might be even more beneficial than having a leader.”

  “Don’t joke. You know what your capture would do to our cause. You’re the spearhead of the revolution, the savior of Tamrovia, the Tanzar. Without you, the revolution would vanish like a pricked balloon.”

  “Dear Lord, I hope not.” Sandor wearily rubbed the back of his neck. “If that’s true, a good many men have died for nothing, and I’ve wasted two years of my life. One man can’t embody a successful revolution. Why do you think I’ve trained Jasper and Conal?”

  Jannot shook his head. “Jasper and Conal are good men, but they aren’t the Tanzar.” He looked intently at Sandor. “You are tired. Have you eaten?”

  Had he eaten? Sandor couldn’t remember. It had been such a long day—but all his days were long now. “I ate this morning,” he said at last. “At least I think I did.”

  “And it is almost midnight now.” Jannot looked at him sighing with affectionate exasperation. “Sit down. I will get you something and we will talk. This foolish business of not taking care of yourself must stop.” He turned and bustled toward the door to the kitchen at the rear of the small café. “Keep the lights turned out. I’ll leave the kitchen door open, and it should give you enough light to eat your meal. The patrol comes by once or twice a night, and we wouldn’t want someone to glance in the window and see you sitting here. Naldona has posted pictures of you all over the city. There’s no question you would be recognized.”

  As Jannot disappeared into the kitchen, Sandor dropped into a chair. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He had no desire to turn on any lights. The dimness was a soothing balm on his taut nerves, and there were few occasions when he could wrap himself in silence and solitude these days.

  Tanzar. How the hell had he become a hero? He’d never made any effort to appear anything but what he was—a man who was willing to fight for his beliefs. Now his people were identifying him with the revolution itself and forgetting others who had been just as responsible as he for bringing their forces to this point of near victory. The thought sent a chill down his back. He wasn’t a superman. What if he were killed? They were too close to their goal now to lose everything because one man died.

  Sandor opened his eyes to see Jannot setting a plate and a tankard before him on the red-and-white-checked tablecloth.

  “It’s only a sandwich, but there’s some fine smoked ham I managed to hide from Naldona’s scavengers when you laid siege to the city. I will be glad to see you put an end to this war. I dislike serving my customers this scanty fare.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” Sandor said dryly. “As if all I have to do is lift a finger and Naldona’s defenses will crumble away. If he manages to get Bruner�
��s help, it could extend the war another six months.” He took a bite of his sandwich and found that, in fact, he was very hungry. “And that mustn’t happen. I will not have more men die because Naldona won’t admit defeat.” His tone was one of cold ferocity. “I’ll kill him myself before I’ll let that happen.”

  “Do you think we wouldn’t have taken care of it for you if it had been possible?” Jannot sounded faintly reproachful. “His personal security is impregnable. Otherwise I would have given my informant in the palace that small duty. He would have been delighted. His cousin was tortured and murdered by Naldona’s goon squad. We can’t touch Naldona.”

  But they would have tried, even though they knew it would be almost certain death, Sandor thought. Jannot and his men of the underground resistance forces here in Belajo had displayed a courage in the past two years that would have earned them a chestful of medals if they’d been in the field. “I know you would,” he said gently. He lifted the tankard to his lips. “But it won’t be necessary if we can stall Bruner from making a move until Zack Damon gets the munitions to us that we need for the final assault.” The beer tasted cold and biting as it slid down his throat. How long had it been since he’d had anything but field rations? “And we will stall him. It’s only a question of how to go about it. Fill me in on the details. Your messenger only gave me the bare bones of the story.”

  Jannot shrugged. “The bare bones is all we have. James Bruner, the American munitions manufacturer, is here at the palace with his mistress, Alessandra Ballard. Naldona is wining and dining Bruner to try to persuade him to ship the weapons he needs without cash up front. Obviously, Bruner has been stalling since the leak to the Human Rights Commission regarding Naldona’s treatment of prisoners.”