Say it had broken her heart.
She could have handled awesome mindless rebound sex with the Nic she knew nothing about except some high school reputation. But this guy? Who was a smart physics major and knew the right answer was Amy Pond and was sweet to his sister and surprisingly funny? This guy was real and amazing. Worst of all, just a few short hours with him had been better than all her time with Eric.
She pressed her arm across her stomach, as if she could stem the dull hollow ache. Sadie sat there growing colder and colder but never cold enough. At some point, a blanket was draped over her shoulders. She looked up blearily to find Malaya sitting beside her, frowning in concern.
Her friend wore pink pajama bottoms with her boyfriend Rizal’s oversized University of British Columbia sweatshirt. “The ‘fuck off’ to Eric was a nice touch,” she said.
Sadie gasped laughter, which quickly turned hiccupy. “Not doing this,” she chided herself, blinking her wet eyes furiously as she stared up at the sky. She’d once heard that the way to break sadness was to change your posture to a more upright position. Given her wobbly lip, the new position was doing squat. She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself as Malaya rubbed her back. “Sorry to be such a killjoy,” Sadie said.
“Sorry Rizal invited douchebag to the party. I’ve explained how friend custody works and that exes are to be jettisoned like toxic waste.”
Sadie squeezed her friend’s hand. “Have I mentioned how much I love you?”
“Not recently but you may adore me often and with gift cards.” Malaya nudged Sadie’s leg with hers. “I liked the upgrade. Nic was cute.”
“Nic was Satan.”
Malaya’s face scrunched up in confusion then her eyes widened. “Hot Satan?”
Sadie dropped her head back onto the chair. “The same.”
“Wow. I get it. How did you end up with him tonight?”
“M&M’s. He tried to steal them from me. Or I did from him. It was rather confusing. Like much of the night.”
Malaya half-lifted herself off her chair to reposition herself cross-legged. “So why are you sitting here like a lump in my backyard instead of making me uncomfortable knowing you’re basking in post coital glow in my guesthouse?”
“I opened my big mouth and effectively interruptedus the coitus.” Sadie scrunched herself into the blanket because she was seriously freezing and her outfit protected bupkis. “Though there were a hell of a lot of stages to go through before we hit that.” She stared off dreamily. “Man, would they have been good stages.”
Malaya winced. “Ewww. TMI.”
“Hey sweetness, you forget about me?” Rizal strode toward them looking every inch the hot QB he was.
Malaya’s expression turned mushy as he neared. She laughed as he grabbed Sadie’s hand. “The bed’s getting cold,” he said, tugging Sadie up. “Come on.”
She shrugged and mouthed “sorry” at Malaya as she let Rizal lead her off.
They got about three steps before his girlfriend jumped him. He flipped her around to bear hug her.
Sadie watched them fondly for a moment. “And that’s my cue to say good-night.”
Rizal gently lowered Malaya to the ground. “Aw, Sayds, come inside. It’s too late to go home.”
Malaya added her protest to his, but Sadie shook her head, kissing them both on the cheek. “I love you guys but my pity party doesn’t work with spectators. I’ll catch a cab.” She placed the guesthouse key in her friend’s hand, folding her fingers over it.
Malaya gave her a final pleading look then sighed. Resigned. “Brunch tomorrow. Don’t wuss out,” she ordered.
Sadie saluted her and left.
Really, she thought as the cab drove through the quiet streets, it’s better this way. She kept that mantra up all the way into her small house, past her mom’s closed bedroom door, and into the back where her bedroom lay. She repeated it for good measure as she stripped, tossing her clothes in a heap on the floor before rooting around in her drawers for something to wear to bed.
She pulled out her totally nerdy fleecy TARDIS onesie. Only because it’s the warmest thing I have and I’m cold, she bullshitted herself as she tried to cram her body back into the outfit that was too short and tight for her now but had fit great when she was a flat-chested, shorter, fifteen.
Gritting her teeth, Sadie had finally managed to wrench the zipper up, squishing her boobs when something pelted her window. She cautiously headed over and peered outside. Then jumped back as something struck the glass again. She squinted at the windowsill. It wasn’t pebbles. It was M&M’s. She tugged her window open in time to get nailed with more candy.
“Are you insane?” she hissed. She rubbed her head.
Nic stood there, arm upraised as if ready to wing more chocolate at her. “I have a few things to say to you.” The black leather jacket he now wore really brought out his scowl.
“You couldn’t angry text like a normal human?”
“I don’t know your cell number. I looked up your address online.”
“Sadie,” her mom called out sleepily from her bedroom up front, “is that you?”
Sadie shuffled over to her door. “Yeah. I’m home.”
“Keep it down, love.”
“Sure, Mom.” She tiptoed over to the window and motioned for him to wait. Then she jammed her feet into shoes, shoved her arms into a jacket that was hanging over a chair, and quietly eased out of her room.
She turned the lock on the kitchen door a fraction at a time, long ago perfecting the stealth open and close without waking her mom, before heading into the dark yard. “Where are you?”
Another M&M missed her nose by inches. Sadie followed the direction it had been winged from and found Nic seated on the step of the log cabin playhouse her grandfather built for her as a kid.
Sadie sat down beside him, eyeing the party pack bag. Could candy concuss? “Is this death by chocolate?”
He popped a piece in his mouth. “Nope. I’m going to eat them and you’re going to watch in envy.”
She rubbed her eyes. “If you’re here to tell me what a bitch I am, I agree. Now can I please go back to bed? I really want this travesty of a night to end.”
“No.” Munch munch munch. What kind of a sadist was this dude? She was definitely better off without him. “You know,” he said, “if I had thought about you at all during high school, I would have said you were a mouthy know-it-all.”
That stung. She pulled her jacket more tightly closed. “And now?” she asked frostily.
He tossed a few more pieces into his mouth. “Now I’d say the same.”
Sadie stood up abruptly. “Fun as this personality bashing is—”
Nic grabbed her arm, hauling her back down onto her butt. He glared at her a minute, then shook his head and pressed a soft, sweet kiss on her. “I like you,” he said, brushing a curl out of her eyes. He made a face as if he couldn’t believe he’d said it.
Sadie couldn’t believe it either. “I like you too,” she said cautiously.
He grinned and bumped her leg with his. “Good. Can I see you tomorrow?”
Curls of joy licked at her insides. “Yes. After my brunch date.”
His eyes narrowed as he stuffed the M&M’s into his pocket.
“With Malaya,” she clarified. “Which you’re not invited to because I may or may not be discussing you.”
“You’ll totally be discussing me,” he said smugly. He tugged on the collar of her jacket, bringing his face close to hers. “Can I see you after that? Pick you up at three?”
She nodded. An absurdly happy warmth blossomed in her chest.
“And on Monday?”
“Weeeelll, that might take some persuading,” she said loftily.
He waved a hand in dismissal. “I can do that. It’s a special talent of mine.”
“I know. Because you’re Satan.”
“Mouthy,” he chided.
“Adorable,” she corrected.
“Weeel
lll,” he said as he stood up.
Sadie leapt up in mock indignation. Nic laughed and raced off into the yard. She ran after him, tackling him. They thudded to the ground in a tangled heap, setting off the motion sensor, which bathed them in a soft light.
Nic squinted at her onsesie. “Fuck. Me.”
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Shut up.”
“No seriously. You? In that? Super turned on.”
She wriggled against him. “Oh,” she laughed. “You are. Now who’s the geek?”
“No way.”
She kissed him to prevent further arguing, which proved a slippery slope. In more ways than one as Nic sneakily lowered the zipper.
“Up,” he finally said, his voice growly. “Keep going and this will not be the first impression I want to make with your part-owl mom.” He zipped her onesie back up. Then he walked her to her back door.
Sadie rolled onto the insides of her feet, giddy and not wanting this to end. “Goodnight, Nic.”
“Goodnight, Sadie” he replied. He gently swatted her ass. “Go to bed so I can see you again already.”
She nodded, unable to keep the goofy grin off her face. As she turned to head inside, he caught her hand and pressed the bag of candy into it. Then, stealing one final kiss, he gave a whoop of delight like a mischievous little kid and ran off into the night.
Sadie danced back to her bed, the bag pressed against her chest. She set the chocolate on her bedside table, so stupidly happy that she didn’t even want any. She looked at the bag again. Maybe one. Popping the candy into her mouth, she burrowed under the covers, and fell asleep in a haze of sweet.
Tellulah Darling
noun
1. YA and New Adult romantic comedy author because her first kiss sucked and she’s compensating.
2. Firm believer that some of the best stories happen when love meets comedy and awkwardness ensues.
3. Sassy minx.
Both a hopeless romantic and total cynic, Tellulah Darling is all about the happily-ever-after, with a huge dose of hilarity along the way. Her romcoms come in a variety of heat levels and flavors; straight up romantic comedy, shaken with Greek mythology or stirred with urban fantasy.
Girl Meets Grammarian
G.G. Andrew
His face was impossible to read.
The man in the front row at Eliza’s talk was attractive. He was slim and tall, one arm casually slung over the empty chair next to him. He wore a black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his brown skin.
But it wasn’t just his looks that had distracted her. His dark eyes flickered with some strange emotion—captivated but somehow disapproving.
Eliza, her words having spun away from her at the sight of him, drew herself back together as she stood behind the podium addressing the small crowd at the university.
“I read an article a few years back,” she told them, averting her eyes from the man. “On the importance of grammatical structure in writing. On the knowledge of it being essential to good writing. But I say humans have been writing for far longer than we’ve been diagramming sentences.”
A fiftyish woman with wispy silver-blonde hair nodded in the crowd. Dr. Tompkins, who’d been so instrumental to Eliza being recently hired as an associate professor. The older professor thought she would bring a “much-needed fresh perspective” to the English curriculum. Eliza was a young poet in a tepid sea of serious scholars—some who’d been there for decades, clasping tight to opinions they’d held semester after semester.
“We’d still be using parts of speech even if we never gave them each a name, if we never trapped each part and said it could only do this and never that.”
Eliza glanced quickly at the man in front and saw his fingers twitch. A giveaway to what he was: one of those serious scholars, probably tenured for a decade or more, judging by the few grays sprouting in his otherwise jet-black hair.
He raised his hand.
Eliza hadn’t been taking questions. She hadn’t thought that would happen.
"Yes?" she asked the man, the muscles in her stomach tensing.
"You say people have been writing longer than diagramming," he began, and the knot inside her gut began to melt.
His voice was rich, British woven over an Indian accent, and its timbre swept her insides in a way that caught her off-guard.
Her lips parted. "Y-yes," she stammered.
"But why does that mean knowledge of grammar can’t aid our writing? Just because it’s relatively recent doesn’t mean it can’t be valuable, does it?"
"Not necessarily," Eliza admitted. "But essential? Helpful to our students? I have my doubts."
"Hmm," came his only reply. That, and his fingers twitched again.
Eliza paused. She guessed this was Dr. Narang, one of the few members of the faculty she hadn’t yet met. She remembered the name from the university website, the way the syllables of his surname had seemed to sing in her head, the consonants laced together so softly.
Which program did he teach? She couldn’t remember, and it made her uneasy.
In the uncomfortable silence that followed, she shifted her weight and felt the squeeze of the boots on her calves and the silky tights underneath holding her together. They whispered with the movement, grounding her in the present, when her thoughts and words threatened to float away from her.
She tried to continue as if he hadn’t spoken. “I thought, when I was in middle school, that just because I wasn’t the type of person who could sniff out a gerund, I’d never be a writer. Or a writer people respected. Yet here I am.”
She looked back at him—and in that moment something shifted. He tilted his head and his face changed, softened, liked he’d made a decision Eliza wasn’t privy to. His deep brown eyes suddenly seemed to twinkle.
She’d amused him. But how?
She looked away. “So I say let’s not get mired in grammar. Let our students play with words and experiment. They need to feel each syllable, wherever it may land, whatever its title, on their tongues and their fingers.”
She paused and looked directly into the man’s dark eyes again, challenging him to give her another disapproving look or question, and he—smiled?
She broke the stare.
“Let us do away with the cumbersome sentence diagrams,” she continued. “Let us remember that grammar rules are sometimes made to be broken. Let us bring the art and joy back to writing and our English curriculums. Thank you.”
She gave a short nod, indicating she was done, and stepped back from the podium with a slow exhale.
The room of professors and students started clapping—most politely, some enthusiastically while beaming at her.
Dr. Tompkins walked up to dismiss the crowd, then squeezed Eliza’s forearm. “That was magnificent.”
“Thank you.” Eliza tried not to react too strongly to the praise, to keep a Mona Lisa smile on her face. In the shuffles that followed, as students stood and professors turned to each other with a low word, Eliza reminded herself to stand straighter and pretend like it wasn’t that crucial that she’d pulled this off, her first talk as a twenty-nine-year-old poetry professor at a large, prestigious university—the first speaker in the fall writers’ reading series, even.
She tucked her hair behind her ears, tamping down the short blonde waves which always flirted with frizzing. The stylist had promised her the longer strands in front were edgy, but Eliza suspected they just gave her an unkempt look.
As the murmur of the crowd grew, Eliza heard his deep voice above the others, the man she guessed to be Dr. Narang. He was speaking to the professor next to him and she felt that strange unspooling inside again.
He caught her eyes and she quickly turned away.
She was fortunately distracted as several professors and students walked up to greet her. As she sipped water from a clear plastic cup, she shook the strong, warm hands of her colleagues and the clammy ones of the students. A freshman named Kevin and a couple of his f
riends, she discovered, would be students starting in her poetry classes that week. Kevin said he’d read her work—that he was even a fan.
She caught sight of Dr. Narang by the crudité table, his back to her, his tall frame impossible not to notice. He had several inches over everyone in the room, and a full head on her. But then he moved past the baby carrots and strawberries and out of sight. She thought maybe she’d introduce herself at a later date, that it was the professional thing to do, despite the strange way he’d interrupted and regarded her during her talk and the way his looks and voice had made her feel so off-kilter.
What did he teach? The question was eating at her.
Eliza felt elated to have connected with some students already, to have some familiar faces. In class tomorrow, she could find Kevin and know that at least one student knew her work and probably didn’t think she was a poser.
She was attempting to grab a few crackers at the crudité table when she heard Dr. Tompkin’s singsong voice behind her.
“Eliza, it has come to my attention that you haven’t properly met Kunal yet.”
She turned around, half a cracker crunching in her mouth, and there he was. The man from the front row standing beside Stella Tompkins.
“Dr. Stein.” His brown eyes were definitely twinkling.
She choked a little on her cracker as she gave him a firm, decisive handshake. “Dr. Narang. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“And you as well.” His fingers were long. Writer’s fingers.
He stared at her a beat, simply smiling at her.
“And what do you teach?” she said.
“Grammar.”
“Oh.”
“This should be fun.” Dr. Tompkins glanced between them and laughed. “Dr. Stein, Kunal teaches English and Linguistics courses—Grammar 101 and 201, and of course Grammar 301, which many have attempted but few have survived unscathed. And the ever-popular Sentence Power writing class.”
Eliza swallowed. That explained his expression during her talk.
Dr. Narang watched her, his face amused. “Stella buried the lede. I wrote that article in The New Yorker on grammar and writing. The one you quoted?”
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