by Jules Moulin
He didn’t find her lips. He didn’t find her cheek. But firmly and in complete control, he planted his lips on the corner of her mouth as if to ask her permission first.
Ally drew a breath of surprise. She was startled by the motion, the timing, the nerve.
Startled a little, but not entirely, completely surprised.
The afternoon had been charged, for sure. She, of course, was attracted to Jake. But who wasn’t? Any living, breathing woman, fifteen years old or five hundred . . . And Ally had put on a game face, she thought. Nothing would happen. Surely he wasn’t attracted to her. And if he were, by any chance, Jake would have to be so sure, so assured and confident, to make a move on his professor.
What kind of student would do that?
But there they were, and there he was in Ally’s house. She had invited him in, after all, or had he invited himself?
“Oh,” she said, staring at him, feeling winded. She couldn’t think.
“Is that okay?” Jake asked.
She didn’t know. Lizzie was away. That was true. Her daughter was three hours south in New York and safe with Claire.
She was with Claire, Ally’s mom.
On Sunday, they’d hop the Amtrak at Penn. Ally would fetch them at one o’clock at PVD on the Gaspee Street side. But she was supposed to be grading papers. Yoko’s papers. That night. Not kissing one of her students.
“Let me stay. Please,” Jake said. He looked into her eyes and squeezed her elbow. He had her elbow again. Then he stepped back to give her some space, room to think, to see him, to breathe, to catch her breath.
He slipped his hands into his pockets and then slipped them out, and a second later, he kissed her again, this time in the middle of her mouth. “Sorry,” he said and let her go completely. “I can’t help it. I’ve been wanting to do that for three years.”
What? Ally thought. He did? Years? Three years?
They gazed at each other, and neither one spoke.
She wasn’t startled the second time, and she didn’t resist. She saw it coming. She wanted him to kiss her again. He tasted like Stella, malty and sweet. “Oh my goodness,” she said and looked down.
He tasted like college and kissed her the way she’d been kissed back then, on the second floor of Healy Hall or in a dark, sodden corner of Champions bar. Suddenly the past rose inside her, that feeling from ten years before, all that raucous, innocent fun, and something released, nerves maybe, and made her laugh.
“You’re laughing,” Jake said, seeming embarrassed.
“No, no, I’m not,” she said kindly, but she was. “I’m your professor, Jake. Come on. I’m thirty-one.”
“I’m twenty-one. So?”
“Please. It’s totally yucky and . . . inappropriate, and I’m sure against some rule.”
“Why?” he said. “What rule? I’m attracted to you, and I’m pretty sure you’re attracted to me.”
“I am, Jake. I am. But who isn’t? Look at you. Please. Everyone’s attracted to you.”
Jake smiled.
She looked at him and then downstairs. She imagined Claire standing there, Lizzie with her backpack, both looking up from the first floor. You get only one mistake, Claire said when Ally got pregnant in college. One. She’d made hers.
Claire was right, Ally thought: Grown-up professors did not do this. They didn’t kiss students. Maybe the men did, but not the women. What was she doing? What was she thinking?
She turned to him. “Think for a second. If I were your professor, and I was a man and you were a woman . . .”
“And?”
“What if—you needed a recommendation? A credit for class—which you did? It might seem like—”
“That’s not exactly what’s happening here.”
Ally smiled. “I made a pizza.” She turned away. “You must be starved.”
“I am.”
“Good.” She stepped away and went downstairs. This was right, she thought as she did. To walk away.
Jake followed.
On the first floor, they cut through the dining room toward the kitchen. “Do you always lead?” Jake asked.
“No. My little girl Lizzie leads. She’s the boss. She’ll be back Sunday.”
“You said that already.”
“Oh, I did? Right. She’s got a report due. Tuesday. On her birthday. Nathan Hale. Benedict Arnold. It’s about spies.” She entered the kitchen and moved toward the pizza, pretending to ignore him, to forget what had happened seconds before, rambling on about Loyalists and Patriots, Lizzie’s obsession with espionage.
Then she stopped and drew still. Other than the cutting board, the entire kitchen was clean and in order. The entire house. Thank you, Muriel, she said to herself as she stood there. Thank you. Thank you.
She spun and faced him. “It has to be a secret.” She whispered as if someone could hear her. Someone on campus. Two miles away. She choked out the words.
Jake stopped, motionless, eyes wide, surprised.
“You can’t, you know, write about it. In your—”
“I don’t have a—”
“You can’t tell—you can’t even think about it after tonight.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
Ally felt her heart beating. Was she doing this? They stood there and looked at each other and waited. “This is my daughter. I could get fired. I’m in enough trouble.”
He lifted his hands, palms out, as if to say he understood, as if to say it would all be all right. Everything. “Professor Hughes,” he said gently. “Just to remind you . . . today I’m done.”
This was true. Ally nodded. It helped her a great deal to hear this again.
“Friends,” he said. “That’s all we are. You’re not my teacher. I’m not your student.” Jake swallowed.
Ally nodded.
Every inch of her body felt swollen, as if she might implode if the pressure of wanting him wasn’t relieved. She had wanted to touch him, to taste him, to know him so badly for so many hours, all afternoon, all evening, all semester, if she’d been honest with herself, not even knowing him, not knowing that he was the Jake of the eighty-page papers, the boy in the back.
Jake was the boy in the back.
The sun had set, the sky darkened, and as Ally watched him, what a specimen he was, sweating in the heat, repairing what needed repair in her home . . . he was already inside in a way.
ON SATURDAY MORNING ALLY called Lizzie three times, and three times she didn’t pick up. She felt the phone vibrate in her back pocket but couldn’t hear it. She was in Queens, inside a shooting range, trying out a Glock and a Ruger.
“This is what I love!” said Agent Jones. He stood on the other side of the window. “When two things don’t match. The image and the girl.” He studied Lizzie. “Barely legal. Total knockout. Should be modeling Victoria’s Secret . . . but shoots like Jelly Bryce!”
Lizzie was all leg that day, bare and tan, in cutoff shorts and boots with four-inch heels that raised her statuesque five-ten frame to six foot two. Her long blond hair fell over her ribs. She stood slouching, wearing the range’s requisite goggles and ear protection.
“See, she’s got that model pose. The slouch. Legs spread. Loose hips. It’s all in the hips.”
Noah just smiled. He wasn’t surprised.
“She hasn’t missed once. The bull’s-eye once. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life! This is the first time she picked up a gun?”
Noah shrugged. He didn’t know.
Lizzie had met him the month before. They’d met on the set of her first film: her thirty-sixth audition and first part.
They gave her the role of Noah’s assistant, and Noah had asked her out: three times to lunch and once to dinner. Then he had asked her to join him that day, training for his role as J. Edgar Hoover. FBI agent Alan Jones was teaching the
actors both to shoot.
And sure, she had only one line, a single line in the whole film, but one little line in a movie with Noah, directed by Marty, the famous director, was one line she was happy to have.
Cybil, her agent, told her to simply listen and talk. Talk and listen. She shouldn’t emote or try to act, Cybil advised. Lizzie was perfect for roles that required “restraint,” she said.
“Simple, honey. Keep it simple.”
Lizzie had discerned the hidden message: It didn’t matter if she was talentless. With her looks, she’d work, as long she knew her limitations, and as long as she fixed that nose.
—
Inside the range, she raised the Glock, bent her knees, and stretched her right arm perfectly straight. Four years of yoga had prepared her for this, plus endless games of KGB and CIA, of cops and robbers, and archery lessons Saturday mornings at the Ace Archers range in Foxboro.
She steadied her breath, and as she exhaled, she grew still and pulled the trigger.
“Bull’s-eye again!” Jones cried. She reminded him of his granddaughter. “What a follow-through! What an eye!”
Noah smiled and wiped the palms of his hands on his jeans. He was nervous. “I’m meeting her mom for the first time tonight. What should I bring?”
“For the mom?” Jones said.
“Like, a hostess gift.”
“You want to impress her? She’s cooking? The mom?”
“Dinner.”
Jones took a moment and thought about it. “Here’s what you bring. All three things: A vintage red. Flowers. Chocolates.”
“Dark or milk?”
“Mixed. Imported.”
“What kind of flowers? Roses?”
“No. Too cliché. Call a florist. Something in season.”
Noah nodded. That’s what he’d do.
He turned to see Lizzie click the safety back to its place. She lifted her goggles, turned, and waved to them through the window.
Sammy, a range clerk, sidled up to them and whistled through his teeth. “Which of you ducks is plugging that bitch?”
“Excuse me?” said Jones indignantly and turned to face Sammy.
“You get to tap that bitch or what?”
“Out of my face,” Jones said and took a step toward him.
Sammy backed off with his hands in the air. “Got you, chief.” Then he did a double take, recognizing Noah. “Hey! You’re that guy!”
Noah didn’t confirm his suspicions.
“‘Hurry up, woman! There’s no time to waste!’ Right? Am I right? That’s your line? ‘Hurry up, woman! There’s no time to waste!’” He yelled the line in a lousy British accent, imitating Noah. “That was you?”
“That was me . . . playing a part.” Noah smiled politely.
“You’re Lancelot?”
“No, not really. Just in the movie.”
“Yes, you are. You ride a horse. You use a sword. You’re a knight. Are you a knight? Like, for real?”
“No. I’m an actor.”
“Are you Brad Pitt? No, no, I got it! You’re Marky Mark!”
“Nope.”
“His brother?”
“No.”
“But I’m right. You’re famous, right?”
Jones intervened. “Yeah, he’s famous. Now, move on out.”
Sammy did, happily. “My bitch will freak!”
The week before, at Balthazar, Noah had complained about his schedule and the hardships of his movie-star life: five-star hotels, three-star restaurants. He hadn’t been home in months. He longed for his bed, for a homemade meal. He missed his mom.
That’s what he said.
“You can have mine!” Right there, between courses, she called Ally and asked her to cook up a dinner for them, at home, in the brownstone, in Brooklyn. Nothing fancy. Ally would cook a meal for Noah, soup to nuts, and he’d have a night of normal for once. Ally was cool, Lizzie explained. So down-to-earth. Too down-to-earth. Ally was real. Noah would like her, and she would like him. Lizzie was sure.
—
“Lizzie,” said Jones as they later took a break, “I know a guy, runs tactical recruiting down in Virginia—”
“Agent Jones.” Lizzie smiled and slipped off her goggles. “I am an actress.”
“How do you know? At twenty years old? Maybe you are, maybe you’re not.”
“I’m flattered. Thanks.” She headed to the door that led outside.
“Where are you going?” Noah called after her.
“Calling my mom! She called three times!” Lizzie opened the door to sneak out.
“HRT, honey! Hostage rescue! You could save the world!”
“If I could kill. A person. Which I can’t.” She held up a finger and slipped through the door, outside to the lot.
—
“You invited Teddy?” Out in the lot, in the blazing sun, Lizzie was sweating. “Teddy? Mom!”
Ally was home, writing a grocery list for the meal. “I don’t want to be your chaperone cook. I want to have a date.”
“But Ted’s so uncool,” Lizzie whined.
“What’s not cool?”
Lizzie rolled her eyes and paced the lot. “The Wharton thing. Choate. The yacht thing. Noah is super understated. He doesn’t brag. He keeps it real. You know what I mean?”
“I know what ‘keeping it real’ means, yes.”
“Teddy brags. He’s so into stuff: his latest cars, the Maldives house . . .”
“Okay, sorry,” Ally said, amending her lists, a grocery list and a list of to-dos. “I should’ve asked first, but I can’t cancel now.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I’ll call him and tell him to keep it real.” She added cocoa to her list. “Chocolate cake?”
“And tell him, please, not to kiss ass. Noah hates fake.”
“You know,” Ally said, putting down her pen, “he might not know who Noah is.”
“Teddy will know.”
“I’ve never heard of this Noah guy.”
“That’s because you’re a Luddite, Mother.”
“I am not. Just because I don’t hack the world like you and your friends—”
“You are, but thank you. And thank you for cooking. He can’t wait to meet you. He’s actually nervous.”
“Great.” Ally erased cream from her list. “Chocolate cake? Good?”
Lizzie smiled. “It’s bliss. You’re the best.”
—
Lizzie loathed Teddy McCooey, Ally’s friend from Georgetown. Back in the range, she apologized to Noah. “Did you see The Talented Mr. Ripley? My best friend owns it. Worships it. Like, on an altar.”
“I don’t think so,” Noah said. “Did I?”
Lizzie continued as if he had: “Dickie Greenleaf’s best friend. Freddie Miles. Philip Seymour Hoffman played him. He’s fat and rich and arch. This guy is that guy, like, come to life. I’m so sorry.”
—
An hour later, Jones left for Brooklyn, and Lizzie and Noah waited for a cab in front of the St. Regis Hotel. Noah was scrolling through florists on his phone. “I need to nap. Pick up my dry— What should I wear?”
Lizzie didn’t answer. She was lost in thought, musing about the shooting range. “Jones looks like that guy Mike from Breaking Bad. He didn’t look like FBI.”
“What did you expect, James Bond?”
She smiled. “I could be a Bond girl.”
“Yes, you could,” Noah said, still focused on his phone. Lizzie stepped toward him, wrapped her arms around his neck. Noah looked up as she leaned in to kiss him and turned his head so her lips met his cheek. Lizzie pulled back. He wouldn’t kiss her. He hadn’t kissed her. She found his ear. “Noah,” she whispered, “are you confused?”
“About what?” he said obtusely. Looking
at his phone, he continued to scroll.
Lizzie wondered how bright he was, Noah. She wasn’t sure, and she hadn’t had a chance to vet him yet, investigate him behind his back, the way she did with all new friends. “Me, I feel attracted to you and—”
“All men are attracted to you?”
“Well, not all. But real men. Men who like girls.”
“Real men don’t like girls. Real men like women.”
“Wait, not real. I mean straight. Are you—straight?”
Noah looked up. He leaned in close to Lizzie’s ear. “I had a six-o’clock call last night. I shot until five and never went to sleep.”
Lizzie pulled back. He was mysterious. “You’re tired, you’re saying? You’re saying you’re straight but tired?”
“I’m saying I’ll see you tonight.” A cab pulled up. “There’s your ride.”
“Fine,” Lizzie said and drifted to the cab. “But remember, don’t be offended!” She tried to hide her disappointment. “By my mom!”
Noah looked up. “Why would I be?”
“Because, like I told you!” The bellman opened the cab door. “She doesn’t go to movies or watch TV! She has no idea who you are!”
Noah smiled. “That’s the whole point! That’s what’s fun!”
LIZZIE WAS RIGHT. ALLY never watched TV. The last time she’d seen a first-run movie in an actual theater was 1994, when she was eight months pregnant with Lizzie.
She knew nothing of Noah Bean.
“He won’t even kiss me,” Lizzie moaned. She circled the kitchen table, laying placemats, placing silverware. “Honestly, I think he’s gay. He’s always reading Cosmo and Vogue.”
Ally was frosting the chocolate cake. “When did you meet him?”
“Three weeks ago. My first day on set.”
“He asked you out?”
“Couple times to lunch, once to dinner . . . all twenty questions: Where are you from? What do you want out of life, out of love? And then he whips out Elle magazine. Weird, right?”
“He wants to get to know you.”
“Then he should kiss me. Fork on the left?”
“Fork on the left. He’s taking it slow. Sex isn’t everything.”