Floored

by Karla Sorensen

  The most annoying part, though, was what it did to me when I was supposed to be working, supposed to be crafting a research paper on the Brontës to equal one semester’s worth of credit, and my annoying brain would drift back to random memories. The way his hand curled around my thigh when he lifted it higher against his side. The way his body caught the light in random glimpses, a bulge in his bicep when he held himself over me, the epic curve of his ass when I slid my hands down his back.

  Ladies and gentlemen, it was not the thing to be thinking about when you're meeting with your advisor. My chest felt hot, and I was quite sure my forehead was popping little tiny beads of sex-memory sweat. That was right when Atwood did the thing with my stack of papers that I hated.

  Smack.

  "You can do better."

  The sound of papers hitting with a rude slap on her desk would haunt me for the rest of my life. In the past three weeks, I'd heard that sound so many freaking times. Every time I sat in front of her, waiting for her to review my notes on which angle my research would take, I braced myself for when she looked up over the rim of her glasses, flipped the black and metal clip back around the edge of the papers, and tossed it toward me.

  I took a deep breath. "Maybe I can't."

  Her eyebrows rose slowly. "Pardon?"

  I closed my eyes and fought a wave of utter exhaustion. For weeks, I'd circled around and around—unable to pinpoint which aspect of the Brontës I'd spend the next two months immersing myself in—the result without any success at forward movement.

  "Maybe I can't come up with anything good." I huffed loudly, sinking back into the chair. "Maybe I'm just destined to be someone who really, really loves their work, but I'll never pick a thread interesting enough to unspool from the rest of it. Nothing to set me apart."

  Atwood narrowed her eyes in consternation because she never, ever slumped, and I meekly adjusted my posture.

  "Better, thank you," she murmured. "Now as to the other ..." Judging by the look in her eyes, I braced myself. "What complete and utter horseshit, and if I'd known you'd roll over this easily, I never would've invited you here for Michaelmas."

  Oof. I rubbed at my chest because it felt a little bit like she'd jammed the corner of her laptop behind my rib cage or something for how badly that hurt.

  When I didn't answer, she prodded a bit more gently. "Why did you say yes to this, Lia?" My mouth opened to answer, and she held up a hand. "No crap answers. This will only work if you're willing to let me push you."

  Every sarcastic answer that crowded my throat was a bitch to swallow down, but I managed it. No part of me wanted to dive into the depths with her because whenever someone wanted to excavate why I felt what I felt, I had the overwhelming urge to go skydive out of a rickety-ass plane just to avoid it.

  Thoughts, unwelcome and uncomfortable, flitted just beyond reach, and my mentally shaky hands couldn't grasp onto a single one. If it were Claire sitting across from me, or my other two sisters, Molly or Isabel, if it were Finn, or my brother, Logan, or his wife, Paige, I probably could've come up with an answer for them.

  This time, there were no narrowed eyes, just patient understanding on her face as she watched me search for an honest answer.

  I shook my head, knitting my fingers together in my lap for a moment. It grounded me just enough to grip one thread as it whirled around in my head.

  I don't know what to do with my life, and I've been running from that for years.

  The thought was a bit too naked to share. Even thinking it left me feeling unsettled because not once had I ever admitted that to anyone.

  "Come now," she said gently. "I see something going on there in your face, Miss Ward."

  My hand rubbed my forehead. Was I sweating?

  "There is," I answered. "I just, I don't know if it helps with the issue at hand."

  Professor Atwood nodded slowly. "All right."

  "I mean, it may help. I don't know." Focus, Lia, just freaking focus, I willed myself. I was better than this. I flew across the Atlantic to a foreign country by myself without a single ounce of anxiety medication which, let's be honest, was a giant win. I'd done all this unfamiliar stuff alone, and I'd managed amazingly. Yes, sure, I banged a hot Brit who never called or texted like a hot asshole, not that I'd checked my phone eighty thousand times just in case I missed something coming through, but I'd done really, really well. And just because I didn't know what I was doing with my life, or that I was maybe possibly using continued schooling as an escape from facing that reality didn't mean I was a screwup or anything.

  I still had choices.

  That stopped me short, like someone clotheslined me with a crowbar across the chest. I had choices.

  The Brontës didn't.

  "They didn't have choices," I whispered, my thoughts racing and tumbling so fast I could hardly keep up.

  Atwood tilted her head. "Take me down that thought with you."

  I met her eyes. "They didn't have a choice. The reality they lived in—the death of their mother, that women were still considered the property of their husbands, the modest income of their family, the fact that teaching was truly the only position they could take in order to make money—it was all out of their hands. I mean, we know that Anne enjoyed teaching more than the others, but Charlotte hated it. Yet that experience, no matter how powerless or humiliated it made her feel, shaped one of the most iconic feminist characters in classic literature."

  "Our dear Jane Eyre," Atwood murmured, her eyes bright and excited as I rambled.

  "Their lack of choices—the cage they were forced to live in—shaped everything we cherish about them." My heart raced as I said it, and when Atwood's face spread into a slow smile, a burst of energy spread over my middle.

  "And ...?" she prompted.

  Right. This was the part of master's classes that felt ridiculously pretentious, when we had to frame everything in “super smart people speak.”

  I licked my lips. "It was the awareness—the consciousness—of female independence that was impossible for them to recreate in their own lives. They created an accurate reflection of their reality, the social base they knew, but crafted characters that achieved something they had yet to achieve themselves."

  Professor Atwood leaned back in her chair, still grinning. "I like it. All three sisters? Or will you focus on one in particular?"

  "I'm not sure yet. Can I let you know when we meet next?"

  "Of course."

  No matter what rhythm my days had found, this was the first moment when I felt like I wasn't insane for doing this semester in London. I felt good. Tired, but good. And the exhaustion was ironic because I was sleeping like the dead every single night.

  As I stood to leave, pulling my bag up over my shoulder, Professor Atwood spoke again.

  "A suggestion, if you're open to it."

  "Always," I told her.

  "Have you made your pilgrimage to Mecca yet?"

  Her reference to Yorkshire—where the Brontë sisters grew up, where they lived their lives—made me smile. "Ah, no. But I can't wait to go."

  "I think between now and when we meet again, you should. Spend a few days there, in fact. Immerse yourself in their world, which was vastly different than if young ladies had grown up here or in London. If you want to start outlining your paper, as you're deciding how to narrow your focus even further, I think Haworth is the best place for you to do so."

  I nodded. "Okay. I can do that."

  We set up our next meeting, and the ideas for my paper, the thought of a few days away in Haworth had me so excited, I couldn't even wait to book my train tickets until I got back to my place. I found a glossy black bench along a moss-covered brick wall and sat.

  God bless the internet and all the spending money I'd saved prior to this trip because, within fifteen minutes, I had a train ticket and a double-bed room at a hotel in Haworth that used to be an old apothecary shop. And it was across the street from the Brontë Parsonage Museum.

 
"Now this," I murmured, "is not bullshit at all."

  It had nothing to do with the scenery I'd see or the size of Haworth, which was a pinprick on the map compared to London. It was the feeling of rightness I had, that I was where I was supposed to be, on the path that made the most sense. Normally, I was the flailing one, hopping around so no one noticed I had no freaking clue what I was doing half the time. If I just kept moving, I could avoid that thought I'd had in Atwood's office.

  How do I not know what the purpose of my life is?

  That thought. That was what I didn't want to dive into.

  And this was the perfect movement. Exactly what I needed.

  With a spring in my step, I headed back to my flat because I had three hours to pack and head to the train station.

  Just as I was digging the key out for the lock on my door, my phone buzzed in my back pocket.

  "Hang on, hang on, dealing with old ass locks here," I muttered, jamming my shoulder into the door.

  The phone buzzed again, and I figured it was my sister Isabel because if my family had a pushy texter, it was her. I dumped my bag onto the chair by my small desk and fished my phone out.

  Ohhh, hot damn. The excitement at seeing a UK number flash over my screen should've been criminal. Warning! Reaching critical levels of hope!

  Unknown number: Would you believe me if I told you that I'd been too busy playing football to text you sooner?

  Unknown number: It's Jude, by the way. From the pub a couple of weeks back.

  Unknown number: Now I've gone and texted three times, which is excessive, but I am sorry it took me this long. I'd love to see you again.

  As I read the texts one more time, I tried to smother the smile that bubbled up. But like any self-respecting woman would, I tucked my phone away and packed my bags for my trip.

  Jude would get a response, but not just yet.

  He may have been spectacular, but his ass waited weeks to message me. Twenty-four hours wouldn't kill him.

  After a quick check of the weather showed the same kinda cold, sorta rainy weather, I packed the appropriate amount of layers and waterproof boots, and I hauled my ass to Paddington Station.

  It was only mildly difficult to put Jude's texts out of my head as I leaned my forehead against the glass window separating me from the rapidly moving British countryside. As it passed in front of my increasingly heavy eyelids, as the pleasant hum of the train started lulling me to sleep, I couldn't believe how exhausted I was.

  Allowing myself to nap was an easy choice as the days I'd held the tired at bay were slowly catching up with me. The four-hour train ride to Haworth passed quickly, though I woke at the train station with a drool spot on my wadded up sweatshirt and a crick in my neck.

  From the moment I walked through the center of the small village, I knew this was the perfect place to spend a few days to hone my project. After checking in to The Apothecary Guest House, I freshened up in the bathroom, then took my notepad and slowly wandered the steep cobblestone streets, and I remembered what Claire told me the day I talked to her at Buckingham Palace.

  I ran my fingers along the mossy stone walls, damp from the air and musty with history. Closing my eyes, I tried not to think about what anyone was doing at home, what I might be missing, or what might come after this. Instead, I immersed myself. By the time I stumbled back to my hotel room after a dinner, washed my face, and brushed my teeth, my brain was whirring with ideas, and I fell face-first onto the bed. As I drifted off, I had a vague thought I should reply to Jude.

  Sleep pulled mightily at me, and his handsome face was the last thing I thought of, which was probably why I had hazy dreams about the way he kissed me, the way he touched me. It explained why I rolled over the next morning and didn't give it a second thought before reaching for my phone.

  Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I took a moment and read what he'd said again.

  Would you believe me if I said I'd been too busy playing football to text you sooner?

  "What a dork," I muttered. And what exactly did I want to say to him?

  It wasn't like I wanted to adopt a British boyfriend. My time across the pond was finite. I sat up quickly, propping my back against the headboard, fighting a spinning sensation that rocked my head when I did.

  Okay. That was weird.

  Once that passed, I chugged some water because I did not have time for head spinning shit on my Brontë immersion week. Water back on the small nightstand and head clear, I fought the impulse to text one of my sisters about how to handle Jude.

  Molly, the oldest, was always a solid choice for advice.

  Exhibit A- her solid as a rock relationship with Washington Wolves football player, Noah Griffin. They'd been together for closing in on a year now, and if Paige didn't get a wedding to plan soon, hell would reign. Molly was the romantic. She'd swoon all over the place if I told her about Jude.

  Isabel, the middle sister, might've been the single one, but she had a zero-bullshit policy when it came to men. Her sensibilities about romance were along the lines of “If I pretend it doesn't exist, maybe it won't find me.” But she'd still ring my ears if I didn't text him back and see what happened if I met up with him again.

  Claire—while she was the other half of my soul—would tell me to be careful. Yes, she was head over heels in love, but she was also the cautious one. It was so easy to hear her voice. Just make sure you meet somewhere public. Text us his picture. And don't forget protection!

  A fleeting ache behind my chest blossomed at the thought of my sisters. But part of this whole Oxford thing was being able to get through minor situations like this without them holding my hand. My thumb tapped along the edge of my purple cell phone case.

  Me: Apology is accepted, but I certainly hope that's not your best attempt at an excuse. You should go for "my goldfish died" or "I had to vacuum every day."

  Me: I wouldn't mind seeing you again either.

  I tucked my phone away, refusing to watch for a reply. And it set the tone for the next few days. Jude never responded immediately, but it was always within a few hours. Interspersed with exploring Brontë County, reading books, scrawling an outline in my notebook, and small updates for my family, I found an entirely different pattern to my day than I'd found in Oxford.

  Jude: Haworth, eh? I grew up not too terribly far from there, but I don't get home often. It's a beautiful place.

  Me: London isn't a terrible backup, though.

  Jude: I don't actually live in London. You just caught me on a night in the city.

  Me: Where do you live? (Asks the girl who has very hazy geographical knowledge of anything other than the biggest cities in Britain)

  Jude: Ha. I live in Shepperton. Takes me less than an hour to drive into central London most of the time.

  My thumbs itched to google Shepperton, but I refrained. The guy hadn't even asked me out again. Between texting with Jude, I found myself wandering the same parts of Haworth over the next couple of days, saving some of my favorite places for the last days—to end on a high note, so to speak. I spent a lot of time outside, reading through Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and Agnes Grey, trying to determine which sister would get my focus. I found quiet spots to sit and stare at the countryside, scribbling furiously in my journal as I put myself in their shoes. I napped ... like three times a day, but whatever.

  And it was upon waking from one of those naps that I felt my first unpleasant wave of nausea. Hand pressed to my stomach, I took a few deep breaths until it subsided. Food. I needed food.

  I broke off a piece of a granola bar I kept stashed in my purse and heard my phone ding.

  Jude: When do you return from your epic adventures?

  Me: I have two more days here. I'd like to have a rough outline of my project done before I leave, but someone keeps distracting me.

  Jude: Ah, yes. What a prat. Don't worry, I need to go kick a ball for three hours anyway.

  Me: Someone punishing you?

  Jude: That mouth of you
rs, American ...

  I bit my lip. This was something we'd danced around. I snuggled back under the covers and let the sensation wash over me. By this point, it had been over three weeks since I'd seen him, and based on the amount we'd texted since I'd arrived in Haworth, I'd see him again when I got back, if we could manage it.

  Me: Yes, I remember how much you enjoyed it, Brit.

  Jude: Immensely. Wish I could've enjoyed it again upon waking up.

  Jude: And because I have horrible time management skills, by the time I work up a more polite way to ask, I'd like not to wait another month before I get to see that lovely mouth in person.

  Me: I think we could manage that.

  My belly fluttered until his words sank in a little.

  A month.

  It had been a month.

  "Holy shit," I whispered. Frantically opening up my calendar app, I scrolled back to the little dot on my calendar of when I'd gotten my last period. Five weeks. I should've gotten my period.

  I was late.

  The kind of late that was really, really bad.

  "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holyyyyyyy shit."

  I scrambled from the bed, tossing my phone away from me with fumbling fingers, and speared my hands in my hair when it clattered to the floor.

  "I'm just late because of stress," I insisted. To myself. Because I was alone.

  In a foreign country.

  And possibly pregnant.

  From a one-night stand.

  My eyes burned. My nose tingled. My hands shook dangerously. This could not be happening.