Good On Paper

by Jennifer Millikin

  Reaching, I grab for the phone and see my sister’s name flashing across the screen.

  “Hey, Sydney.” Two sweaters fall from my hands as I juggle the phone and get it tucked securely between my left ear and shoulder. “Everything okay?”

  “That’s what I should be asking you. I’m calling to see how Friday went. Signing the papers.” Her curious tone changes to dread. “You did sign them, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I respond, trying to keep the irritation I’m feeling from slipping out. Bending, I snatch the two fallen sweaters from the floor and refold them, adding them to the stack on my bed.

  “Don’t be mad,” Sydney says, seeing right through me. “You were waffling.”

  “You’ll understand how it feels when you’re preparing to sign your divorce papers. Whenever that may be.” Shit. That’s not what I meant to say. My eyes squeeze together as I wait for her response.

  “Probably never. I’ll be in school until I’m old and gray. I’m already getting wrinkles. All the late nights.” She yawns as if the mention of late nights has reminded her that she’s tired.

  “You’re no good unless you’re sleeping well.” My voice has turned gentle but authoritative, motherly.

  Sydney yawns again. “Let me know when you invent a twenty-seven hour day, and then we’ll talk. Until then, this future Juris Doctor must keep her nose in a book.”

  Sydney is five years younger than me but light years more intelligent. Growing up, she scoffed at my romance novels and rejected any notion of Prince Charming. Four years of college and one bachelor’s degree was enough for me, but not Sydney. She double-majored in Business and Accounting, then went on to Georgetown Law. She’s in her second year and every time I talk to her, she sounds like she’s on the verge of a mental breakdown. Two years ago, when my marriage was beginning to feel more bad than good, I’d envied Sydney’s ambition and freedom of choice. Eventually I realized I had a choice too, even though it was one I never wanted to make. Sydney entered into a relationship with law school, her passion and dedication to the subject nearly as binding.

  “Do you want to take a break from studying? FaceTime date?” Ten bucks says my sister has her hair piled crazily on the top of her head.

  “I’m taking a break from studying by calling you.”

  “FaceTime me and I’ll show you my new place.”

  “K bye.” She hangs up and four seconds later my phone rings again. I hit the button and the video comes on.

  “Hi.” I wave. She waves back, then tightens the bird’s nest of hair piled on her head. My heart swells at the sight of her. Bags droop beneath her eyes, and her shoulders are hunched even though she’s not currently pouring over a textbook. My baby sister.

  She sniffs and reaches for something off-screen, popping what I think is a potato chip into her mouth. “Show me your digs.”

  I take her on the tour and she oohs and ahhs at the brick walls and shabby, chipped paint columns in the middle of the place. “Very industrial, post-modern New York.” She nods and applauds.

  I laugh. “Do you even know what you’re talking about?”

  “Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p.’ “Is Savannah there? Did she help you move in?”

  I shake my head, and at the same time say, “Aidan.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. I’m sure that pleased Henry.”

  “Henry wasn’t there when I moved. He’s staying with a friend, remember?”

  “I know, but I was imagining he’d be there to say goodbye or something.”

  My eyebrows pull tight. “Do you remember Henry?”

  Sydney laughs. “My fault. I’ve been watching snippets of Hallmark movies when I need to clear my head.”

  “Watch it,” I say, wagging a finger at the screen. “Next you might accidentally read a romance novel.”

  She scoffs. “The first romance novel I read will be yours. And the second one will be your second novel.” She waves an arm. “And so on and so on.”

  “These days I hardly feel like writing.”

  “You will soon. You’re too good not to.”

  “You’ve never even read anything I’ve written.”

  Her bun flops over wildly as she shakes her head. “Not true. You write a mean grocery list.”

  I nod. “I am good at grocery lists.”

  Sydney laughs and an immense wave of sadness sweeps me. I’m alone on a Sunday. No roommate, no husband. No family. Just a life in boxes.

  “Where’d you go?” Sydney asks. “I can see you, but I get the feeling you’re no longer there.”

  “Still here,” I sniffle.

  “I’m loving you from DC, okay?”

  I nod. “I’m loving you from NYC.”

  Sydney shifts, and behind her, I see an unmade bed and clothes everywhere. “Will you promise me something?”

  I nod.

  “Call me if you get sad. Or call Aidan. Don’t call Mom though. She’d just bash your whole marriage.”

  I laugh softly. “You got it.”

  “Bye, babe.” She blows me a kiss.

  “See ya, toots.” I return her kiss and press the end button.

  Tucking my phone into my pocket, I walk back to my room and keep unpacking. When I’m finished with my closet and my dresser drawers are full, I take a shower and blow dry my hair. I gather a hairbrush, two types of combs, hairspray, hair clips, and small plastic rubber bands. Armed with all these things, I plant myself in front of my computer and pull up YouTube. Navigating to my favorite channel, I choose a video and watch the young woman demonstrate a complicated braid. For the next hour, I start and stop the video, following along, until I’ve braided my hair like hers. I messed up four times and had to restart, but I did it.

  4

  Aidan

  “You know, Mrs. Jones, you and I would make a dashing couple.” Grinning at Mrs. Jones, I poke through the candy bowl she keeps on the end of her desk. I’m after the Milky Way I spied near the bottom of the bowl, but the gluttony of Snickers keeps getting in my way. This is probably because I’ve been in here every day this week, picking my favorites until I’m left with second best.

  Mrs. Jones laughs, and it makes my smile grow. Her laugh is unique, to put it mildly. It’s more like a hoot, because it literally sounds like she’s saying “hoo” with each breath. “You’d have to fight my husband,” she responds, placing a flattened palm on the desk and pushing herself to standing.

  She wobbles, and I hurry around the desk to help, but she shoos me away.

  “Doesn’t let this skin suit fool you, Mr. Costa. I’m spry on the inside.”

  She walks slowly to the copy machine and pushes a button while I make a second pass through her candy bowl. The machine whirs to life, making its high pitched sounds, and Mrs. Jones turns back to me.

  “I know you just pocketed another candy bar, Mr. Costa.”

  My fingers tighten around the candy in my pocket. “They’re fun size,” I argue. “Who can eat only one?”

  Mrs. Jones makes a tsk sound and turns back to the copier.

  When I get back to my classroom, I pop the second candy bar into my mouth. Lunch will be over soon, and my classroom will fill with loud, well-meaning, mostly obnoxious sixteen and seventeen-year-olds. For now, I’m enjoying the final few minutes of peace.

  Sitting down at my desk, I pull out my phone and see a message from Natalie.

  I need a boozy lunch.

  What? Since when does ‘little miss day drinking doesn’t agree with me’ need a boozy lunch?

  I was with her on the day she made that rule for herself. I remember precisely why, too. She day drank, passed out at three in the afternoon, and I broke the lock on her dorm room door trying to get to her because I was worried she had alcohol poisoning. I was plastered too, and it didn’t occur to me to find her roommate to unlock the door.

  What’s going on? I ask, but she doesn’t respond immediately. Every day since last Saturday when I helped Natalie move into her new place, I’ve text
ed her asking how she’s doing. She responds with one word: good. I know next to nothing about females, but I’m an expert in Natalie, and I knew she needed space.

  My last precious minute of teenager-free time is spent staring at the phone, waiting for the three little dots to appear. The bell rings and they pour in without any word from Natalie. I stow my phone in the top drawer of my desk and watch the kids trickle in. I smile and nod as they slide into their seats. Some faces are bored, some are sullen, and one person has his hat over his face and his head tipped back. Per usual, I’m missing one student in particular. When the last bell rings, I rise from my seat and stick my head out the door. Sure enough, Adam Harris and his girlfriend, Linzie something, are making out like only horny teenagers can.

  “Mr. Harris, on your own time please.” My voice is gruff because I’m an authority figure, but my seventeen-year-old self is cheering him on.

  Linzie giggles and extricates herself from Adam, hurrying away. Adam saunters over with enough swagger for the both of us.

  “Sorry, Mr. C.”

  No, you’re not. You heard the bell. Can’t blame the kid though.

  “No problem.” I reach out, patting his back as he passes me. “You get first turn at the board. Trigonometry waits for no man.”

  He groans audibly and a few people laugh as he tosses his bag on his desk. While Adam’s at the board, I pull open my desk drawer and act like I’m looking for something, but I’m checking my phone. Nothing from Natalie. I really hope she’s not day drinking on her own. Who the hell knows what will happen.

  “Natalie, open up.” I knock again, harder this time. I know she’s in there. The second my feet hit the landing I could hear the sounds of a cheesy romance movie filtering under her door. When the rest of the day passed and I still didn’t hear back from her, I decided an in-person check was in order.

  The door swings open. Natalie’s puffy, red eyes meet mine.

  “What’s wrong?” Hurrying in, I grab her hand from the door handle and pull her into me. Her head collapses into my chest, her scent wafting up to my nose. Natalie always smells the same, but I’ve never been able to describe it. It’s just her smell. My Nat.

  “He chose the other woman,” she sobs. “He proposed.”

  My lips press together, my eyebrows scrunch. “Nat,” I say, and she pulls back. Tears stick to her eyelashes. She blinks, freeing a few of them and sending them cascading down her face. “Who are you talking about?”

  Pressing her face back against my shirt, she mumbles, “Movie.”

  It’s hard work, but I keep my chest from moving as my silent laughter tumbles through me. Getting teary-eyed over a movie? It’s so Natalie. Still, my best friend alarm is in tip-top condition, and its alarm bells are going off right now. Natalie might get teary-eyed over nearly everything, but she doesn’t sob.

  “What else?” I ask.

  She pulls back again, and this time all her tears have either dried or transferred to the front of my shirt. When she hesitates, I urge her on by saying, “Out with it.”

  My arms drop to my sides when she turns abruptly. She walks back to the couch, pushes aside the oversized blanket crumpled on top, and mutes the TV.

  Following her lead, I cross her new apartment and sit down. This is only my second time in this place and I’m already more comfortable here than I was at her old place. Henry played nice on the surface, but there was always an edge to his words, an unwelcoming energy emanating from him. I got the feeling he put up with me for Natalie’s sake. Even when we lived together in college, it was because I needed a place to live and Natalie asked if I could take his open room.

  Nat’s new place is nice. Exposed brick walls, black and white art hung from rustic nails, an herb garden next to the window with the best light. Even with a roommate to split the rent, Natalie is doing well for herself. Settling for that accounting job paid off for her. Monetarily speaking, anyway. Me, on the other hand… well, I’m a teacher. I live with two other dudes and we all share a bathroom. Those are the breaks when you live in New York City. Sometimes I brush my teeth in the kitchen because one of my roommates is in the bathroom, but if I want, I can have Chinese delivered at three a.m. Gotta take the good with the bad.

  Natalie folds her legs into her body, tucking them up into the oversized gray sweatshirt she’s wearing. Her knees nearly poke out the neck hole, and she rests her chin on the space between them. Her eyes fall to a piece of paper on the coffee table.

  “I had my mail forwarded, but it’s not effective yet. On my lunch break, I went to pick up mail from my old place. Now I wish I hadn’t.” Her voice is tiny, despair poking through the space between her words. “Another rejection letter.”

  Shit. This isn’t like all the other rejection letters. This is from the agent who requested Natalie’s manuscript. This rejection carries more weight, and at the worst time. Leaning forward, I capture the paper from the coffee table with two fingers and start to read.

  Dear Ms. Shay,

  Your writing style is lovely. You are very talented. I am rejecting Much Ado About You because it’s too sweet. Readers want to feel desire when reading romance, and while your book had a great romantic element, there wasn’t enough sexual tension, or realized sex, to keep readers of this genre turning the pages.

  Thank you,

  Christina Evans

  To me, this does not sound like a problem. Readers want sex? Write sex. End of discussion.

  But I know better than to say that.

  “Hmm,” I say instead, setting the letter next to me on the couch.

  Natalie narrows her eyes. “Don’t say it.”

  “I didn’t say anything.” I lean back against a pillow and cross an ankle over the opposite knee.

  “Your face is saying it for you.”

  “I can’t control what my face does.”

  “Actually, you can.”

  Scrunching up my eyes, I bare my teeth and attempt to push my lips in opposite directions.

  Natalie laughs. “Ew. Stop that right now. It looks awful.”

  My lips burn as they return to normal, but I made Natalie laugh. Mission accomplished.

  “Are you going to write more sex?”

  “I don’t want to.” She bites her lower lip, looking away. Following her eyes to the TV screen, I see what she sees: a man on bent knee in the pouring rain, while a woman cries and holds her hands to her mouth. It makes me cringe. When I look back at Natalie, she’s got this yearning look in her eyes.

  She points at the screen. “I write that. I take characters and I make them feel real.”

  “Real people have sex.” This is needless to point out, but Natalie needs a good kick in the direction of reality. She’s so bogged down by the fairy tale that she misses reality.

  Natalie looks back to me. “I’m aware of that. But the kind of sex they want me to write has a lot of words that feel unauthentic to me.”

  My interest is officially piqued. “How do you know that?”

  “Before I went back to work today, I looked through the romance category on Amazon. I bought a couple of books and skimmed them and”—Natalie points at the paper beside me—“the agent is right. My heat level is nothing like them.”

  “What kind of words do they use?” I can’t help my smirk. This should be fun.

  She grabs the remote from the arm of the couch and lifts it. I know what she’s going to do, and I pluck it from her hands before she can hit play.

  “Just say it, Nat. You won’t burst into flames. Nobody is here but us.”

  Burying her head in the crook of an elbow, she says, “Plunge. Drive. Writhe. Flick. And so many more.”

  “You know, a car can plunge over a guard rail. A person can writhe in pain.”

  She removes her arm and lifts her head. “Not in this context.”

  I smile. I can’t help it. “You need to loosen up.”

  “I’m loose,” she argues.

  I give her a look. She grins sheepishly. “Wrong
context?” I ask.

  She nods and pulls her legs out from under her sweatshirt. “I don’t want to write steamy sex. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Do you want to have steamy sex?”

  She ignores me. “How was school today?”

  “C’mon, Natalie. It’s not going to kill you to talk about it.”

  “I am not discussing my sex life with you.”

  “Why? I’m your best friend. I thought women tell their best friend’s all the dirty details.”

  “I think that rule changes if the best friend is a heterosexual of the opposite gender.”

  “Stupid rule,” I say, backhanding the air between us.

  Natalie shrugs. I can tell she’s digging in her heels.

  “School was fine,” I answer, lifting my arms and intertwining my fingers around the back of my head. “Same as usual.”

  “Did you flirt with the old lady again?” Natalie grins.

  “Of course,” I say. “I’ve been doing it for so long I think it would hurt her feelings if I stop.”

  “You know,” Natalie says, her pointer finger tracing the lines in a couch cushion. “I added that to my manuscript after you read it. I can’t remember if I told you.”

  “You had the hero flirt with an old lady?”

  She nods. “It showed the reader a side of him that was hidden. He didn’t flirt in an obnoxious way. In a sweet, kind way.”

  A weird part of me feels honored. If she put my actions in a book, it means she thinks highly of me. In this one way, at least. She’s made no secret her distaste of my dating choices. If you could call what I do ‘dating.’ Essentially, it goes something like this: show up at a previously agreed upon spot, make small talk, decipher if the other person is a serial killer who wants to hang us up on a meat hook and make tiny cuts all over our body, and then decide if we want it to turn into sex. End of story.

  Natalie tips her head to the side. “Isn’t tonight your date thing? Can you call it a date if you’re only meeting for sex?” She glances into her kitchen as she speaks. She’s probably mentally sifting through her fridge for dinner options.