Jane Air

by Anna Wellschlager

  “I haven’t unpacked yet.”

  “Unpacking requires boxes,” she smiles and shakes her head. “You haven’t moved in yet.”

  I shrug.

  It’s hard to explain. When you’ve had multiple houses, bought and sold. When you’ve had more pieces of furniture than you can remember, more bedrooms and bathrooms and designer kitchens and remodeled basements and fabulous views.

  Cars and clothes and art and all the other things that everyone says you just have to have, even though you don’t particularly want any of it.

  And you sell it, or renovate it, or streamline it, or repaint it.

  Or give it all away.

  Some things don’t matter, the more you get used to them.

  I catch her leaning back slightly, tilting her head and watching the light dance across the bare expanse of three story walls, the chandelier throwing movement and color where there was none just a few hours earlier.

  The line of her neck. The shape of her waist. Even the soft fit on her shirt, buttoned practically to her chin and all the way down to her wrists.

  Some things, I can’t help but think, only matter more, when you get used to them.

  Or perhaps, I smile again, as she turns her head towards the window and opens her mouth slightly, watching a deer cross the lawn only a few feet from the house, some things you never really get used to.

  8

  Jane

  There’s no furniture anywhere.

  Like, at all.

  And we are standing inside this monstrous room, as large and tall and round as a grain silo, which is completely empty except for a chandelier the size of an elevator, hanging thirty feet up in the air, made of crystals.

  Or diamonds.

  I sneak a glance towards him. He’s looking over my shoulder at something. I don’t know what, since there is nothing in this room.

  I googled him last night. And again this morning.

  His girlfriends are supermodels, or were. According to various gossip sights, he’s taken a step back from all the publicity. No more falling out of bars drunk. No more answering interview questions about what kind of underwear he prefers.

  His house in California has a view of the beach.

  His net worth, supposedly, is nine figures.

  I glance at the chandelier again, tiny rainbows twinkling along the curving walls.

  Definitely diamonds.

  “So-” before I can finish my sentence he smiles and tosses a pillow into my arms. Hoisting my bag higher up my shoulder I grab it, staring at him.

  Does he want a pillow fight?

  What is this, a slumber party?

  My eyes drop to his shoulders. I watch the smooth lines and curves of muscle beneath his fitted shirt as he bends to pick up another pillow, so white it blends in with the marble at his feet, and my mouth goes dry.

  I…would not mind a slumber party with this man.

  “We can sit on these.”

  Of course.

  The pillows are for sitting, not for flirtation.

  Butt cushions. Not sex cushions.

  Damn.

  “Right.” I follow him to the far side of the room, away from under the perilous chandelier (seriously, that thing is HUGE) and towards the floor to ceiling, curved glass window from which sunshine sparkles.

  He drops the pillow on the floor and squats down, thighs straining beneath the fitted denim of his jeans, feet large and bare and stretched outward as he reclines, smiling at me.

  I place my pillow on the floor, relieved at the cool marble beneath my feet as I arrange myself, as professionally as possible given the circumstances, and straighten my back, fixing him with my best professor face.

  “What did you think of Heathcliff?”

  “Who?” He grins, and I suspect he’s laughing at my posture, at the obvious discomfort on my face and my pathetic attempts at seriousness.

  Fine, I’m tempted to say. You want me to just stretch out like you? Spread myself in front of you like an all-you-can-eat buffet?

  Because I will. I totally will.

  “The male protagonist of Wuthering Heights, your reading assignment.” I reach into my bag and pull out a copy, one of many that I have and place it on my lap. Were we at a desk, I would hand it to him, but seeing his sprawling form, and the fact we are on the floor, makes me doubt he will treat the text with the reverence it deserves.

  “I didn’t get to that.”

  My eyebrows go up. My professor face is on full display and this time I don’t have to force it.

  “You didn’t do the reading?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve seen the film.”

  My laugh is short and humorless.

  “So, you don’t need the book?”

  “Well, I know the story.”

  He may be pretty, but what a fucking waste of my time.

  Forget it. Jail will be easier.

  “Ok, Mr. Jacobs,” I replace the text delicately inside my bag and hoist myself as gracefully as possible to a standing position. “Whatever this is, whatever little game you’re playing, it’s over.”

  “What do you mean?” He sits up.

  “You blackmail me into being your tutor, which I don’t appreciate, in case that wasn’t abundantly clear. You break into my office, sit at my desk, and steal my very limited Thin Mints supply,” I shake my head. That last one still stings. “And then you call me in the middle of the night, and text me before the sun is up, demanding that we set up a teaching schedule.”

  I run my hands over my hips as if I were dusting myself off, but the truth is the house is spotless. I can feel the irate teacher in me now, rising to the surface. She usually only comes out during cases of plagiarism or bullying, but she’s in full force today.

  “So,” I can feel my voice rising and my face flush, “I come up with a reading list. I message you back with an assignment. I schedule a time to meet.” Each sentence is punctuated by my pointer finger jabbing into the air. “I drive all the way to your home. I sit on your floor because you have no chairs. AND YOU HAVEN’T DONE THE READING?”

  Perhaps I am a bit loud with that last sentence. Or perhaps the acoustics in this room are particularly effective because my admonishment reverberates off the walls, echoing around us. For a second I swear the chandelier moves and I worry my academic indignation will cause it to crash down and kill us both.

  He is very still, sitting upright, and watching me. No sound, but I wonder if he is about to break out laughing and throw me out of his house.

  Well, I can decide that for him.

  With a disgusted shake of my head, I stride across the marble flooring, irritated at the size of his house. It’s hard to leave in a huff when you have to cross six thousand square feet.

  Prick.

  Before I can make my exit, as ungraceful as it may be, he moves past me, sleek and fast as a gazelle, and shuts the door. Stands in front of it even, blocking me.

  I stop myself so I don’t run into him and immediately readjust my glasses.

  “You’re wasting my time, Mr. Jacobs.”

  “You can call me David,” he smiles.

  “I could call you asshole,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

  He laughs at that. Louder than I would have expected and I feel a tiny flush at this beautiful man thinking I’m funny.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t do the reading.” He holds up his hands in surrender, still flashing that devastating grin, still blocking me from leaving. “But there’s no need to get in such a huff.”

  “I’m not in a huff,” I blurt.

  “You literally just huffed that last sentence.”

  I open and close my mouth. He raises a brow.

  Damn. He’s right.

  “Look,” he moves slowly away from the door, still holding his hands in surrender. I back up three steps.

  “I didn’t do the reading, but I remember the book from high school.”

  I roll my eyes and open my mouth.

  �
�Wait.” He puts a hand up in front of me.

  I shut my mouth.

  “I ordered the book on Monday. It hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Why would you-”

  “Wait.” The hand is up again.

  I shut my mouth.

  “For the last few years, I have lived in a big city. When you order something online, it is brought to your door in a matter of hours. Not days.” He puts his hand down.

  “Are you saying you don’t know how mail works?”

  “Where I lived, mail meant two hours or less. And if it took longer than that,” he shrugs, “you have assistants.”

  “Wow.” I take another step back. “Seriously?”

  He nods.

  “God,” I can’t help but say out loud. “That is so dangerous.” My mind immediately flies to my own impulse shopping tendencies. I can’t imagine how much less restrained I would be if I knew I could have anything I wanted almost as soon as I ordered it.

  “What about the bookstore?” I ask, not letting him off hook that easily. “Or online? Emily Bronte isn’t exactly a niche author. You can find her work on any publishing platform.”

  “My experience in bookstores is very different from yours.”

  This time I do roll my eyes. “Our local bookstore is staffed by Mr. Rogers. He’s over seventy. He won’t give a shit about some movie star coming in and buying Wuthering Heights which,” I lift my finger again, angry teacher pointing, “I happen to know he always keeps in stock.”

  He smiles at me, but it’s sadder. Almost with pity at my lack of understanding.

  “It’s not Mr. Rogers who is the problem. It’s,” he gestures again, but his arms move downwards. His shoulders slump. His face looks at mine and I see a flash of something.

  Sadness.

  And I get it.

  In that brief moment, I understand.

  I think back to all the times I’ve overheard students and colleagues and strangers laughing about celebrity break ups, or discussing the names of children of people they’ve never met, or criticizing fashion choices or mocking personal lives. The covers of tabloids in the doctor’s office or a waiting room.

  Thrown out of the house!

  Pregnant and alone!

  $400 million divorce!

  Photos of men and women buying groceries, getting in and out of cars, walking their dogs, going to the gym.

  Celebs! They’re just like us!

  Except they’re not.

  When we buy groceries, get in and out of cars, and walk our dogs, no one gives a shit. There are no cameras angling for an up-skirt photo, or camped out over night to follow us to the store, follow us as we drop our kids off at school or go on a date, laugh at our heartbreak or financial ruin.

  And it’s all ok because they’re rich and we’re not.

  They have money. They entertain the public. So they belong to the public.

  Everyone knows what to expect, I’ve heard again and again. Everyone knows it’s part of the deal.

  And maybe it is. Maybe that is the bargain. Modern day royalty, limitless money and houses and boats and diamonds and getting to be with, and be one of, the beautiful people.

  In exchange for everything else.

  For privacy.

  For a personal life.

  For the ability to walk down the street without harassment.

  For making friends or lovers with the confidence that they love you for you, not who they assume you are, based on a job you did once.

  Based on what they think you can give them.

  I look at this beautiful man, the picture of masculinity, the face of a billion dollar franchise, living the dream, and I feel bad for him.

  “You know,” I choose my words delicately, picking them as gingerly as if I were setting a dinner table with fine china, “this town is different. I’m not saying there won’t be talk or some staring at first, but Midnight is a good place. We’ll get used to you. You chose well.”

  He looks at me, those silver screen eyes catching mine and my breath stops in my throat. A small flicker of something, maybe doubt.

  Or humor.

  Or hope.

  He nods, small and slow and I feel like I am making contact with a wild creature, some forest-dwelling mountain lion who is seeing a human being for the first time.

  “But why didn’t you download it?” I can’t help but ask. “Don’t you have wifi?”

  “Internet’s fine,” he moves away from the door. “But I prefer books.”

  I turn as he walks past me, pivoting my body to follow his shoulders. My eyes glance down a hallway. Empty. And towards another hallway.

  Empty.

  “Well, I get that.” I laugh lightly, trying to break the tension. “You’ve seen my office. But,” I look back towards the empty hallway, the bare walls, the empty floor, “books sure can take up space. You don’t seem to like to…” I flounder for the words, “have things.”

  He laughs, a dark, hollow sound. “I’ve had things. Everything. More things than I could possibly want. More things than I did want,” he rolls his shoulders and rubs his neck with one hand and I want to run my fingers across this back, rub my hands across his skin and soothe his every worry. “And when I didn’t want them anymore, I realized I didn’t know what I did want. Until I do know, I’m not getting anything.”

  That look again, slightly haunted, slightly sad, like a dog worried he’ll be hit.

  But then he shakes his head and it’s gone. “Except for a few books.”

  Dazzling smile, movie star good looks. “I am sorry I wasn’t prepared today. It won’t happen again,” he pauses, “if you’ll come back.”

  I nod slowly.

  There is a discomfort in me, a small voice telling me I have agreed to something far bigger and more important than just taking on a new student.

  He stares at me. I reach into my bag, his eyes never leaving mine while my hand searches blindly through the contents of my mammoth purse.

  I find it, the slim, straight volume. Paperback, but barely opened, still possessing that wonderful new book smell.

  My hand shakes when I pass it to him, his eyes glancing with surprise at the title, then back to my face.

  “Until your order comes in,” I clear my throat, “you can read this.”

  He nods, reaching forward and taking the text gingerly from my hand. “My shipment should arrive on Friday.”

  “Then I will see you Friday,” I breath out, trying my best to resurrect my professor face, my professor voice, “at which point, you will have read this and prepared a discussion on the depictions of masculinity and gender politics within the text.”

  Another nod, those siren eyes bearing into mine. I force myself to breathe slowly, a long, deep inhale to prevent myself from fainting.

  Good lord.

  Piercing is apt.

  Straight through me. Tearing through my lungs and taking my breath with it.

  “Don’t,” I step towards the door, fumbling for the handle, “lose my book.”

  ***

  “You got a text!” Jessica calls from the kitchen.

  “What’s it say?” I ask, voice loud, as Penelope and I struggle to lift one of Kate’s priceless glass sculptures up and away from her mantel. She stands behind us, instructing our movements with brief grunts and sharp hand gestures. No words are needed apparently, and I feel an instant swell of pity for her many assistants.

  “It says, ‘Heathcliff is a dick.’”

  Penelope laughs before Kate’s disapproving tsk silences her.

  “Poor Heathcliff,” Christine clucks from behind Kate. She stands, holding a hammer and nails.

  “Who is Heathcliff?” Dory asks, her small form dwarfed by the massive painting we will soon be hanging.

  “He’s a character.”

  “Well, he would be with a name like that,” Christine says. Dory nods.

  “No, he’s a character in a book.”

  Penelope rolls her eyes as we move, slowly a
nd in step, across Kate’s oriental and towards the kitchen table, enormous vase clutched between us.

  “What are you, on a book lovers text thread?” Penelope laughs. Her balance tilts slightly and I gasp as the giant, purple and green glass monstrosity slips an inch in my hand.

  “No more book discussion,” Kate barks, “until the Chihuly is safe and sound.”

  “I don’t mean to criticize,” Dory says mildly, her voice floating towards us from behind the canvas she is holding in front of her, “but where did you find that…sculpture?”

  “Is it a vase?” Christine asks. “Where’s the opening?”

  “I think it’s a lamp,” I dare to tilt my head, even as Penelope and I move, slower than sloths, to bring it carefully, daintily to rest on the floor.

  “It is not a vase,” Kate huffs. “It is not a lamp.”

  “Is it…some kind of animal?” Dory peers out from beside the canvas. “Like, a squid?”

  “It is not a squid. It is an original, and it cost me six figures.”

  Penelope straightens fully and takes two steps back. “I know a guy who could make something a million times better than that, but he’d never get six figures.”

  “Is his name Chihuly?” Kate asks as she approaches the Dr. Seuss-like piece, feather duster in hand.

  “No,” Penelope wipes her hands on her denim overalls. “It’s Frank.”

  Christine flashes a grin and I laugh.

  Dory walks forward with the painting. I look between the sculpture, with its wild tangle of arms and limbs and antennas, all neon and glass, like something created during an acid flashback, and the painting, mad slashes of red and yellow and orange, as if an angry tornado ripped through the paint section of a Home Depot.

  Kate has interesting taste. Or, as she likes to say, she has expensive taste.

  I can’t help but stare at these two weird things, the pieces as she and Penelope like the call them, the art, and wonder what it’s like to have a mortgage worth of glass and neon hanging above your fireplace.

  Christine pulls the ladder forward and steps up, hammer and nails in hand.

  “Right in the middle,” Kate is back to instructing, feather duster held like a gun. More grunts and the occasional finger pointing.