by Nina Lane
“So why did you? To piss me off?”
“Because I wanted to be honest with you,” I retort. “Which is more than I can say for you.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You kept a previous marriage a secret from me for five years,” I say, and now the tears start to blur my vision like a flash flood. “Not once, apparently, did you think you should be honest with me about everything. Not once did you trust me enough to tell me the truth.”
“I told you it wasn’t because I didn’t trust you!” Dean pivots and stalks toward me. “And don’t turn this back on me.”
“You won’t even talk to me about Helen!”
“What the fuck does that have to do with you kissing another man?”
“I might not have if you hadn’t lied to me,” I snap. “Yeah, I kissed Tyler. I kissed another man because my own husband has been acting like a fucking ass about the idea of having a baby with me and because he’s a coward who suddenly divulges the fact that I’m his second goddamn wife. You’re lucky I haven’t walked out on you.”
“Am I?” His expression darkens like a thundercloud. “And where the fuck would you go, Liv? Do you want to know what would happen to you if you left?”
He crosses the room in three strides and stops in front of me, his anger so palpable, so harsh, that I have to force myself not to move away even though I’m shaking hard and tears are rolling down my cheeks.
“I’ll tell you what would happen.” He lowers his head to look at me, his eyes pitch-black. “You’d end up like your mother, Liv. You’d find a beat-up sedan and leave town, you’d pick up odd jobs wherever you could, you might even end up—”
A sharp, loud crack splits the air as my open palm hits his cheek. He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a hard enough slap to stop his tirade.
We stare at each other. A red imprint spreads across his jaw. I swipe at my face with my sleeve and gulp in air.
The room spins around me, my whole world tilting off axis, everything I’ve known and believed in for five years suddenly in brutal doubt.
Dean steps back, his chest heaving, his expression a mask of fury. He pushes past me. A few seconds later, the front door slams shut.
I slide to the floor and sob until I can hardly breathe.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
November 2
WE CAN BARELY LOOK AT EACH other. Neither of us has apologized for what we did, what we said. Neither of us has tried to make amends. It’s a shattering hurt—his comparing me to my mother, my betrayal with another man.
After a day of tension thick enough to crack, I pack a bag and put it in the trunk of my car. I drive to the university and go into the history department. Dean is not in his office, and the administrative assistant tells me he’s in the middle of an introductory course lecture.
The doors of the lecture hall are closed, but Dean’s deep voice echoes through. I slip inside. It’s dim, the only light coming from the podium at the front and the huge images of illuminated manuscripts glowing on a screen.
It’s one of those big rooms with auditorium seating, and it’s nearly full of students. I slide into an empty seat in the back row. I haven’t sat in a lecture hall for ages.
Dean is at the front of the room, a pointer in hand, exuding professorial authority in his tailored suit and tie. He gestures at the intricate scrollwork on the edge of one of the manuscript pages, his voice warm with enthusiasm as he talks about marginalia, the burnishing of gold foil, the richness of detail.
My heart tightens. I’ve attended his lectures in the past, but I don’t often see him in his role as a prominent professor.
In fact, rather than express interest in his classes on medieval manuscripts, I’m more likely to yawn when he starts talking about the Book of Hours.
Not exactly supportive, that.
I glance at the students. The majority of them are listening intently, their attention shifting between Dean, the slides, and their notes. He pauses a few times to ask them questions, to engage their opinions and ideas. A discussion ensues about the way wealthy people commissioned manuscripts and instructed the artists to include a donor portrait somewhere on the page.
Pride nudges at me. My husband’s easy authority, his engaging approach, and his depth of knowledge are captivating.
Okay, so medieval history is still a little dorky. But when brought to life by Professor Dean West, it breathes and glows with color.
“All right, everyone, that’s it for today.” Dean glances at the clock and puts down his pointer. “Remember your bibliographies are due on Friday. Review session for the essays is tomorrow, so bring any final questions.”
Noise and voices fill the hall as the students gather their things and shove books into their backpacks. A line of students forms in front of Dean’s podium, and he patiently answers one question after another.
I wait until all the students have filed from the room, leaving a hush in the air. Alone now, Dean turns off the podium light and collects his notes and papers.
I stand. My chair squeaks as the seat flips back into place. Dean looks up and watches me walk down to him.
“Great lecture,” I remark.
“What are you doing here?” He puts a stack of folders into his briefcase.
“I called Aunt Stella this morning. I thought I’d visit her for a few days.”
He stops. “Why?”
“Well.” I shove my hands into my coat pockets and clear my throat. “I think… you know… it’s tough right now, and we could use some time apart.”
Irritation flashes in his eyes. “How do you think time apart is going to help?”
“I don’t know that it will,” I admit. “But being together is pretty lousy these days, don’t you think?”
Dean snaps his briefcase closed. “How long will you be gone?”
“A few days. I already asked Allie for the weekend off. I was thinking of coming back on Tuesday.”
“I don’t like the idea of you driving all that way alone.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll call you along the way.” I pause. “Okay?”
He doesn’t look as if it’s the least bit okay, but he gives a short nod. “Do what you want, Liv.”
I struggle against a wave of annoyance. “What I want is for us to figure this out. And maybe one of us can come up with a way to do that if we’re apart.”
The door slams open. Dean and I turn to see a young man hurrying down the steps.
“Sorry, Professor West, I forgot to ask you about a source for my paper.” He dumps his backpack on the table and digs through the pile of books and papers inside.
I step back, my gaze on Dean. I want to tell him I love him. He looks as if he wants to say more too, but instead turns his attention to the student.
I leave. Fifteen minutes later, I’m on the highway heading toward Aunt Stella’s. I don’t really want to visit her, but frankly I have nowhere else to go.
That’s a very sobering thought.
It was a long time before I first took Dean to meet Aunt Stella. In late October of my first year with him, Stella called to ask me if I could come back to Castleford to help with a church rummage sale one weekend.
I had work and a bunch of studying to do, but I agreed to help her because Aunt Stella and her husband Henry had given me a place to stay after I left my mother. No matter what else happened, I would remember that.
So I got someone to cover my shifts at Jitter Beans and planned to leave early Saturday morning.
Dean offered to come with me that weekend, but I declined. I wasn’t ready for him to meet Aunt Stella yet. I didn’t want to share him with anyone.
“Be careful on the road,” he said as he put my travel bag in the trunk of my car. “And call me when you get in. Got your cell charged?”
I nodded. Part of me was a little insulted by his fussing—I’d been on my own for years and done just fine, thanks—but a larger part of me was warmed by it.
It was nice to have someone be concerned about me. It was nice to have him be concerned about me.
He slammed the trunk and turned to fold me into his arms. “I’ll miss you, beauty.”
“I’ll miss you too.” I realized it would be the first weekend we had spent apart in the past month and a half. I hugged him around the waist, loving the feeling of his tall, strong body against mine, the scent of his soap and shaving cream. “I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
He grasped the lapels of my coat, pulling me closer, and lowered his head to kiss me. So warm and delicious. He gave my ponytail a light tug. “See you soon.”
“See you,” I echoed.
I got into my car while he stood on the sidewalk watching me, his hands in the pockets of his coat and his scarf loose around his neck. A breeze ruffled his thick hair. Looking at him, I had a sudden rush of longing. I didn’t want to leave him, not even for two days.
That scared me a little. We’d been together less than two months, hadn’t even talked much about our relationship, and already I didn’t want to be apart from him? Even after I’d spent so many years alone?
Dean lifted his hand as I started the ignition. I gave him a little wave and headed off for the almost four-hour drive, deciding I could use the weekend to try and gain some perspective.
I got on the Beltline and headed north, following the highway into farmland surrounded by tilled fields and trees stripped bare of reddish-gold leaves.
Aunt Stella and Henry lived not far from the Minnesota border in a small town where older houses clustered around the downtown area and newer ranch homes spread along the outskirts. Their house was within walking distance of Main Street, a stretch of road lined with a few shops and restaurants.
I’d lived in Castleford for a little over five years and left the minute I turned eighteen. Few things in the town had changed over the years.
When I arrived that afternoon, Stella had a lunch of baked ham and potato salad ready. She’d been older than my father by eleven years, and she rarely spoke of him or their parents. Her skin was weathered, her faded blond hair cropped close to her head, her mouth set in a perpetual slash.
She had always treated me with distant courtesy, though if she resented being saddled with her brother’s daughter, she never showed it. When I first came to live with her when I was thirteen, Stella laid out her expectations of me with the precision of a general planning a military strategy.
I would go to school, do my share of chores and housework, behave well, earn good grades, attend church and related functions, and contribute to the household with income from a part-time job. I would not smoke, drink, sleep around, or miss curfew. If I caused a hint of trouble, Stella and Henry would reconsider their decision to let me stay.
I gave them no reason to reconsider anything. I could not have met their expectations more perfectly if I’d written them myself.
“Classes are going well?” Stella asked me, as she forked a slice of ham onto my plate.
I nodded and told her about the courses I was taking, what it was like living in Madison, my job at Jitter Beans. Henry came in halfway through lunch, on a break from his work as an electrician, and gave me a nod of greeting.
Even though I’d lived with them for almost five years, Henry and I never had much of a relationship. He was a short, sinewy man who liked working outdoors, drinking beer, and hunting. He had grudgingly agreed to let me stay when I first came to Castleford, but made it clear he wanted little to do with me.
I was glad about that. Henry ignored me, I avoided him, and it was one less thing for me to deal with.
“Rummage sale starts right after services tomorrow morning,” Stella told me as she began washing dishes. “This afternoon we need to collect donations, then go to the church to help set things up.”
“Just let me know when we need to leave.” I brought my travel bag upstairs and into my old bedroom at the back of the house. I sat on the bed and called Dean on my cell phone.
“What’re you doing?” I asked, after assuring him I’d arrived safely.
“Just got back from the gym,” he said. “You?”
“I’m on rummage sale duty this afternoon.” I thought about telling him I wished he was here, but decided against it.
“So what are you doing tonight?” I asked.
“Thinking about you.”
“Oh, please.”
“I’ve been wanting you to hear you say that.”
I giggled. “Well, it’s true you’re not all that easy to resist, professor.”
“I’m trying very hard not to be.”
I flopped back on the bed and looked at the ceiling, the phone still pressed to my ear. I knew he wanted me. I knew one day he’d have me. I just didn’t know why he’d chosen to wait for me.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Hey, Liv.”
“Why are you waiting for me?” I asked.
“Because you’re worth it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How?”
“I’ve been around. I know when something’s good.”
My throat tightened a little. “What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not wrong.”
A knock came at the door, followed by Aunt Stella’s voice. I sat up.
“I have to go,” I told Dean. “Call me tonight?”
“I will.”
I ended the call and hurried to join Stella. We drove around town picking up promised donations for the rummage sale, then went to the church’s fellowship hall where volunteers were setting up tables. We were given a lecture about the organization of the goods, and then Stella went to sort clothing while I hauled boxes in from the foyer.
I didn’t mind being among Stella’s friends—they were mostly older women whose children now had children, and I only remembered them from church and occasional town functions. They knew me as Stella’s nice, quiet niece, and they were all pleased to hear about my move to Madison and enrollment at the UW.
I spent the afternoon sorting books, toys, glasses, and dishes while the other volunteers put price stickers on everything and fussed about the best placement for certain items. We took breaks for coffee and cookies, commented on the usefulness or quality of cookware, dresses, and handbags.
It was an agreeable and satisfying way to spend the afternoon—helping out these ladies who believed in their church and community and who had always been kind to me.
Stella and I ate leftover ham for dinner, then I excused myself to go and study. I took a quick shower and changed into comfortable clothes before sitting at the narrow desk in my bedroom.
I was tired from the physical work, but forced myself to read a few chapters of a geography textbook and type up a rough outline for a paper about library collection development.
I was starting to read another article for a political science essay when my cell phone rang. I pressed the button to accept the call.
“How have the processes of democracy and federalism affected political modernization in Russia?” I asked.
“Well, if a nation is trying to establish simultaneous democratic and federal structures, it has to build a system of regional support,” Dean said. “That would be difficult in Russia because of its constitutional nature, and there would be a lot of conflict over government policies. And often the benefits of federalism to democracy aren’t apparent until years later.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Why didn’t you walk away?”
“What?”
“The day we met,” he said. “Why didn’t you walk
away from me after I gave you your stuff back?”
A sudden memory of that day rolled over me—how I’d wanted to feel his hand close around my arm, the hot pull of attraction I’d felt toward him, the way he’d looked standing on the sidewalk with the sun glinting off his hair.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You do know. Why?”
Because I’ve been around in a different way and finally I know when something—when someone—is good. Finally I trust myself.
“Because I didn’t want to walk away from you.” I folded and unfolded the corner of a notebook. “Because you were handsome and nice and I wanted… more.”
“So did I.”
“Did you look for me?” I asked.
“Almost.”
“Almost?”
“I resisted because of the professor-student thing. But when I saw you in Jitter Beans, I knew I was done.”
I smiled. “Done? Or were you just getting started?”
“Yeah. That.”
“So was I.” In more ways than you even know. I paused. “Have you started thinking about me yet?”
“Uh huh. What’re you wearing?”
I chuckled, even as heat bloomed in my chest. “Isn’t that a long-distance cliché?”
“Yes, but I still want to know.”
I glanced down. “Pajama bottoms and a tank top.”
“Color?”
“Navy blue pants. Pink tank top.”
“Is it tight?”
“Sort of.” Just the sound of his voice made my nipples tent the cotton material. “What about you?”
“Boxers and a T-shirt.”
“Is it tight?”
“My boxers are.”
“Oh.” The heat intensified as I imagined him stretched out on his bed, one arm behind his head, his T-shirt riding up to expose the flat, hard planes of his abdomen. A bulge pressing against the front of his boxers.
“Are you wearing a bra?” he asked.
“No. And my nipples are hard.”
His groan made me smile.