by Penny Reid
* * *
Victor: I had a really good time the other night. Thank you for coming out. Let me know when you’re free to get together.
* * *
I hit send before I could think too much about it, and then promptly thought too much about it.
Did that sound okay? Was it weird? Should I add something else? Like how she was the funniest person I knew, with the best sense of humor, and that I missed her smile, and her intelligence and insight blew me away, and that she challenged me and I appreciated her, her goodness and kindness and care for other people, and that she was beautiful, that I couldn’t stop thinking about—
* * *
Emily: Who is this?
* * *
I grinned.
* * *
Victor: Very funny.
Emily: How did you get this number?
* * *
I stared at her last message, frowning, uncertain if she was serious, and questioning myself. She was so funny, unexpected, witty. But had I misread things? Had I overstepped with the text and—
My phone vibrated.
* * *
Emily: I’M TEASING YOU. I can almost feel your indecision and doubt through the cell phone waves. You need to lighten up and trust, Tor. If we’re going to be friends, you need to be okay with teasing, riffing, pranks, and jokes (the inside variety and the normal, everyday variety). Please confirm you consent to teasing and inside jokes. Those are dealbreakers for me.
* * *
I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed against the back of my couch, tugging at my bottom lip and thinking how best to respond. I was also smiling. Licking my lips, I tapped out,
* * *
Victor: I will work on lightening up. Also, I consent to inside jokes and teasing, but don’t call me Tor.
Emily: Why not? It’s better than “Ict” which is also in your name.
* * *
I laughed. Out loud. And then I poked at the inside of my cheek with my tongue as I quickly responded,
* * *
Victor: You can call me Tor if I can call you Lavender.
* * *
I hit send, smiling, a little thrill of happiness shot through me.
But then, when I reread what I’d typed, my stomach dropped. I felt immediate remorse, whispering, “Damn,” and my face flooded with heat. “That was a stupid thing to say. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I stared at the screen, rubbing my forehead anxiously, wincing. The little three dots indicating that she was typing a message appeared and disappeared at intervals. I swallowed around the thickness of regret in my throat and began typing my apology when her message came through.
* * *
Emily: It’s good you sent that, because—like you—I have some touchy topics/areas of discomfort too. And we should talk about them when I come over next week to cook dinner. Send me your address.
Victor: I apologize. I am sincerely sorry.
Emily: I don’t want you to apologize anymore. And I don’t want to apologize either. I want us to be friends, because you’re smart and cool and I like being around you. So, let’s just assume the best of each other from now on.
* * *
The area just below my ribcage ached, a gliding warmth spreading to my neck as I read her message. God, she was so great. She made me feel so many things I didn’t have labels for, and many I did. Right now? Gratitude and admiration, but also something else. Something darker, deeper, rooted in the very center of me, essential and yet elusive. Thinking about it, approaching it made my hands shake and sent my mind in all directions.
I wouldn’t think about it. Instead I fired off my address and thanked her again, echoing her words that I—also—liked being around her.
I set my phone on the table facedown and walked away, pacing my apartment, restless for no reason. A friendship with Emily may not have been particularly wise—she was still a student, and I was still a professor—but I thought maybe it wasn’t a terrible idea.
Pragmatically, reasonably, logically I recognized the truth of my situation. I’d been having a particular flavor of thoughts (. . . desires) about her for weeks. I would likely have them for a while longer, no matter if we were in contact or not, friends or not.
So why not be friends? I’d had female friends my whole life. I knew how to be a good friend. I could follow that script. With time, the darker and the deeper should just fade away, but I’d still have her in my life. Having her as a friend was better than nothing at all.
Right?
My cell buzzed again a moment later, pulling me from my contemplations and causing my heart to constrict painfully, robbing me of my ability to breathe for a split second. I glanced at the phone where it lay facedown on the table.
It was probably her. My fingers twitched. I longed to pick it up. But I’d never been someone who felt it necessary to respond to texts right away. I liked my uninterrupted time to focus and concentrate, for research and writing. I usually only checked my phone once or twice a day, texting back when or if I had time.
Whatever she just texted wasn’t an emergency.
Whatever it was could likely wait until tomorrow.
I shouldn’t pick it up and check her message.
I’m still the same person.
Being friends with Emily isn’t going to change me, I won’t let it. I don’t need to change. I like myself just as I am. I always have.
I walked away from the phone and into the kitchen, doing a circle around the center island before walking back out to the living room and picking up the phone because—why not? What was the big deal? I could check it now. That was fine. Checking my phone didn’t mean I was becoming someone different.
* * *
Emily: Thanks for the address. I’ll see you next Tuesday night for dinner if not before. I hope you like roasted beet salad with goat cheese, candies walnuts and garlic chicken!
Victor: That sounds great. I’m looking forward to it.
Emily: Oh no. That’s not what I’m making. I’m bringing over frozen peas and pizza rolls. I just hope you like that other kind of stuff so you can make it for me when it’s your turn to cook.
* * *
I laughed. I shook my head. I laughed again. And then I carried my phone with me into the kitchen, and then my bedroom where I changed, and then the bathroom where I brushed my teeth, and then back into my bedroom while we continued to text, back and forth, for the next three hours.
Before I knew what was happening, she’d placed a kiss on my cheek.
It momentarily stunned me. So much so, I forgot to stop the forward momentum of the hand I was extending for her to shake (also in greeting) and I ended up poking her in the stomach. She flinched back, a big smile on her face, and glanced at the hand. She laughed.
I stopped breathing, for a number of reasons: the aftershock of the kiss, her smile, the sound of her laugh, her bright eyes when they lifted back to mine and she slid her hand against my palm, giving my hand a shake.
“Hello, friend,” she said, tilting her head to one side, moving our hands up and down.
“Hi,” I think I said.
“Can I come in?” she asked after a moment of us standing there, holding hands at the entrance to my house. “I brought food.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry. Absolutely.” I tore my eyes away and stepped back, frowning at my slowness.
She bent at the waist, grabbed two bags she’d set down by the front door, and walked inside, looking around the small entrance to my house like she was searching for something. “The kitchen?”
“Here, let me help. This way.” I took the bags from her and walked toward the back of the house, speaking inane nonsense, “I thought we could eat in the sunroom, even though it’s not sunny—because it’s nighttime, obviously—you can see the lights from the garden, but it’s colder right now than the rest of the house, so let me know . . . what you think.” God. Just shut up.
I placed her bags on the kitchen island and stepped away, s
hoving my hands in my pockets because I didn’t know what else to do with them. Why did I agree to this?
“Okay, sounds good. Although, I hope this isn’t a friendship dealbreaker for you, but if we’re going to be friends, I insist that we call your sunroom a solarium.”
I laughed, some of my nerves dissipating. “Not a dealbreaker. Now that you mention it, I think I prefer solarium over sunroom as well, and—for the record—I prefer library to den.”
She made a cute face, like she was impressed. “Well, aren’t you fancy. I like it. I’ve always wanted a tiny house—exceedingly small—and to call the rooms ridiculous names. Like have a small bedroom with one of those miniature tabletop pool tables just so I could refer to it as the billiard room.”
“I’m stealing that idea.”
“You can’t. I own the trademark. But you can license it, for a price! Where are the knives?”
I showed her where the knives were, and then I showed her around the rest of the kitchen. She reached in cupboards and drawers for the things she needed, putting me to work cutting onions. I held my breath so I wouldn’t tear up from the syn-Propanethial-S-oxide while she positioned herself at the stove and talked about her week, her car troubles, a funny joke she heard, a funny story of something that happened at trivia night last Tuesday, what movies she wanted to see when the semester was over, and plans she had with her best friend—Anna Harris, a name I recognized for some reason—for winter break.
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Who?”
“Anna Harris.”
Emily turned to face me, wiping her hands and bringing over the bottle of wine to refill my glass. “You had her as a student two years ago.”
“Oh yes, I remember Ms. Harris.”
“Wow. You have a good memory.”
I considered the compliment, whether to let it go or tell the truth. “Not really.”
“No. Objectively speaking, remembering anyone from two years ago means you have a good memory.”
I took a drink from my glass, leaning my hip against the counter. “No. I just remember her, in particular.”
Emily’s eyebrows lifted. “Why? Did she spit on you?”
I laughed. “No. But she always had the right answer. She was also the only black female in the class. I think she’s also the only black female in her program, right?”
Emily’s eyes blinked several times and she stood straighter. “Uh, I don’t know. Why is that relevant?”
“Because it’s unusual. She’s an outlier in her cohort.”
“Her cohort?” She reared back, like she was prepared to be upset.
“Her cohort being my classroom and the program at the university. Outliers within cohorts are special, and we should pay attention to them so we can learn how to shift trends and replicate their successes.”
Her posture relaxed and she looked at me thoughtfully. “You take note of all outliers?”
“As many as I can. Some are—for all intents and purposes—free radicals and need to be discarded, they confuse the issue, like a red herring. But some are more important to a research question than how the rest of the conforming data trends.”
She nodded, her pretty eyes narrowing slightly. “So, am I an outlier?”
That pulled a small smile from me and I cocked my head to the side. “In which cohort?”
Emily wrinkled her nose, giving me the impression she was a little frustrated with my—very valid—question. “I don’t know. Pick one.”
“Pick one?”
“Yes. Pick a cohort. In fact, do this—” she moved back to the stove, carrying the bottle of wine with her “—list a few cohorts where I’m an outlier, and I’ll do the same for you.” She peeked over her shoulder, giving me a grin that was both mischievous and encouraging. “I’ll start. You would be an outlier at a regency role-playing and dance competition conference.”
A sort of scoff/snort/laugh erupted from me, and now I was returning her grin. “That is probably true. It has never occurred to me to attend a regency role-playing and dance competition conference.”
“Okay, your turn.” She faced the stove, stirring the sauce and checking on the rice. “Where would I be an outlier? In which cohort?”
I rubbed my chin, my eyes moving over her back. She wore relaxed fit jeans and a long-sleeve D&D T-shirt. I’d read the front earlier and had bit back a laugh. It was the picture of a twenty-sided die with a “1” showing, and it read, “You reach out to push the orc off the bridge. But instead, lightly caress his back. He is uncomfortable.”
She was a geek, a dork, a nerd. But that wasn’t her only cohort, not even close. She was book-smart, but she also seemed savvy, talented at engaging people. Her emotional bravery and IQ were clearly off the charts in most areas, except—I suspected—she trusted too readily, too easily. She was friendly, kind, funny, weird, comfortable in her own skin. She gave second chances, and probably third chances, and fourth chances.
Basically—to me—she was perfect.
“Cut up the yellow pepper while you think.” Her voice held a hint of teasing impatience and real irritation. “I mean, if you can think of a single cohort where I’m an outlier and not a conforming-to-the-trend data point.”
I stopped myself from saying, Every cohort. You are an outlier in every single cohort.
Instead, I reached for the pepper and sliced it, beginning slowly, “You would be an outlier in . . .”
“In?”
“In a cohort of . . .”
She huffed. Setting the wooden spoon down with a thunk and turning to face me, an eyebrow lifted, arms crossed, “Well?”
I smiled, my attention flickering over her stance, how she’d crossed her arms, lifted her chin, liking that I was irritating her, enjoying her reaction. Why do I like irritating her? That makes no sense.
“Victor—”
“In a cohort of Vladimir Putin impersonators.”
Her expression cleared, a soft, amused sound leaving her lips. It was obvious my response pleased her.
So I added, “And a cohort of official roundabout enthusiasts club members.”
She made a face like she thought I was strange, but in a good way. “I don’t know,” she said slyly, grinning. “I do enjoy a good roundabout. I hear the ones in Europe are a must-see.”
“Ah. Okay then. I’ll tell my roundabout appreciation club you’re interested in joining.”
Now she laughed. Really laughed. A swelling warmth of feeling saturated each of my senses, reached the back of my throat and tightened it. And I realized, although I enjoyed and liked irritating her for some odd reason, I craved and loved being the cause of her smile.
Chapter 13
*Victor*
The subject of Emily’s job didn’t come up until a month later.
She didn’t talk about it and neither did I, even though we saw each other at least once a week and texted each other almost daily. I reasoned she’d get around to her “touchy topics” when (or if) she was ready. Every time we were together was the highlight of my week. I didn’t want to ruin that by making her uncomfortable.
It happened on a Thursday. Her car broke down on the way back into town from visiting her mom, which she did almost every Wednesday night to Thursday afternoon. Emily called me to cancel our dinner plans. Instead of canceling, I arranged to borrow one of the airfield’s towing trucks and drove out to meet her.
When I spotted her car stranded on the side of the highway—her inside, holding pepper spray in one hand, her cell in the other, her teeth chattering with the cold—a strange, overwhelming, possessive anger had me grinding my teeth instead of greeting her appropriately.
She looked like she might move in for a hug, but then extended her hand for a shake after seeing my face. I walked right past her, giving her a distracted head nod as I surveyed the piece of shit she considered transportation.
I mean, what a piece of shit. Duct tape holding up one side of the fender and more duct tape around a rus
ted-out portion of the wheel casing.
Duct. Tape.
“I’m sorry,” she said, twisting her fingers, following me around her car as I set it up to tow. “You really didn’t have to come all the way out here. My mom has roadside assistance for us, I could’ve called them.”
“No. Always call me. No matter where it is. I’ll get there faster than roadside.” I could feel her eyes on my profile, but I didn’t look at her as I worked. I didn’t want her to see how angry I was.
I couldn’t remember the last time I was so angry about something that was none of my business.
“I just wanted to give you a heads-up that I wouldn’t be able to make it tonight, you really didn’t have to drive out,” she continued, like she owed me an explanation for her call.
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. Calling me was great, but her car was definitely not fine. Her car was unsafe, and she was making this drive every week. Every week!
Emily was quiet for a bit while I worked, tracking me with her gaze. I did my best to clear my expression. How she chose to travel wasn’t my concern. She was an adult. She was responsible for herself. She made her own decisions.
But if we were together . . . Yeah. That’s right. That’s what I was thinking. And it made me even angrier—at her, but mostly at myself—so I bit the inside of my lip and stared at her front license plate.
She marched up to my left side while I set the crank. I perceived her take a deep breath, and then another, and then she asked, “Why are you so mad at me? I said I was sorry about calling.”
