by Hazel Kelly
Her eyes rolled up to the modern light fixture overhead as she inhaled dramatically.
I opened my laptop and waited for it to wake up.
"So you're definitely not coming out?" she asked, feigning a pout. "On ladies’ night? At Cassidy's?"
“I hate to disappoint, but Professor Herstall's going out of his way for me here. I can’t afford to blow this opportunity."
"If you hadn’t already impressed him, he wouldn't be giving you special treatment," she said, shaking her drink to check if her ice had melted. "Why not come out and impress someone else for a change?"
"He's literally the only man I care about impressing right now," I said, startled by the conviction in my voice. Especially because it wasn't true. There was another man on my radar I was eager to impress. Except when it came to him, I had no idea where to start.
All I knew was that he wouldn't be caught dead in Cassidy's Pub on ladies’ night.
T H I R T E E N
- James -
There was a heavy hollowness in my chest when I woke, as if a weight were pressing down on my sternum. I sat up, naïvely hoping it might fall away, but it remained unaltered.
It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling. Just one I wasn't expecting, especially after such an enjoyable night.
I wished I could blame the late-night cheese feast or my lack of sleep, but I knew better. While tiredness often made the feeling worse, I’d been living with its unpredictable visits long enough to know it had nothing to do with my diet.
Perhaps staying up with Brie was a bad idea, but at the time, the prospect was too tempting to resist. Something about her company made me forget myself and my worries. Even the way she licked her lips after an enthusiastic glug of wine made the whole world seem more bearable. Not that I should've noticed her lips or the way my insides stirred when she tucked her hair behind her ear, as if she were more coy than she really was. I probably also shouldn't have been moved by the way her eyes lit up when she talked about writing, but maybe that was innocent enough.
I didn't know.
Maybe that was part of the problem: not knowing if I should feel guilty. Then again, this was nothing compared to how bad the feeling got in London. The grey, drizzly weather didn't help, but being so far away from my family was harder than I thought. It was like having a pebble in my shoe that kept me from ever feeling my best.
I didn't mention that to anyone, though. It’s not right to complain to your friends at home when you're off having a grand adventure. Plus, that's not how things work in my family. I’m the solid structure my mom and sisters lean against. Well, except for Maeve. She's never needed to lean on anyone much. But I'm there for her if that changes, and I make a real effort not to burden them with the things I'm carrying.
I tried once. Right after I got my first job at a small hedge fund in the Loop. I was super stressed trying to prove myself at work while adjusting to the social pressures of living downtown, and I told Maeve about my chest pains. I told her how bad they got sometimes and said the feeling was like an anvil of pressurized sadness that seemed determined to crush my lungs.
She told me it was just anxiety and that it didn't make me special or crazy. She also said, "at least you can turn it off," and went on to say how much harder it must be for people who don't have my “natural charisma” to counteract those niggling pains.
So I "turn it off" as best I can around other people, both to avoid making them and myself uncomfortable. But it's still there, dormant one moment and omnipresent the next. And I'm not convinced its anxiety. I'm convinced it's something more insidious. An evil. Or rather, a weakness.
Like the one my dad has, the one that makes him selfish. The one that used to make him gamble to the point of endangering his family’s welfare. I worry the tangible void inside me is the seed of addiction crying out for fuel. I worry that the void would let me fill it with anything, could get me addicted to anything. I worry that the best I can hope for is that I have the strength to starve it for the rest of my life.
Okay, so maybe “starve” isn't the right word. Systematic denial makes people go crazy, too. But I'm careful when I indulge. I never gamble alone, for example. Nor do I drink alone. Not because I never feel like it, but because I watched those harmless habits destroy my father and, in turn, my family. And I don't want to be that guy. Hell, I can't afford to be. I’m still too busy picking up the pieces he left us in.
I stretched my arms overhead, let my feet find the thick blue rug under my feet, and tried to recall the last time I slept till noon. Then I dragged over to the window and looked out to see if Brie's bike was leaned against the detached garage. It wasn't, of course. She told me if I woke up before she did to throw a cold glass of water in her face. I told her I wouldn't agree to that, and she joked that she couldn't count on me for anything.
At least I hoped it was a joke. Because nothing could be further from the truth. I would do anything for her, including quite a few things I shouldn't. In fact, many of those things crossed my mind last night after I finally dragged myself to bed only to lie awake thinking of all the ways I’d rather wake her up should the task ever fall to me.
I smiled at the memory of her sleeping on the couch when I got home. Like most people, she looked angelic when she slept. But she was no angel. Angels don't fall asleep reading Bukowski and psychoanalyze innocent ice cream lovers against their will. She was a devil, and I wanted nothing more than to figure out where she was hiding her horns.
I grabbed a T-shirt off the back of my desk chair and slipped some socks on as I pictured her gnawing the end of a pencil in some Evanston cafe while her food went untouched. How someone could be so dedicated to something that wasn't guaranteed to pay off was baffling to me. Maybe I was a cynical prick, but the thing I loved most about my job was the fact that it paid me handsomely. And the thing I loved most about rowing was that it kept me fit. Granted, I liked that each of them required discipline. But writing? Didn't that require just as much discipline without any guaranteed reward? I couldn't get my head around it.
Then again, there was lots I didn't understand about her. Her Harry Potter obsession. That moan she let out when she tried the cambozola. The fact that she could tolerate my dad and Nance in a way my sisters and I couldn't. She was like a delicate little sprite with superpowers. A kissable little sprite.
She always had been.
Not that I'd ever kissed her. I used to think about it sometimes, long before our folks got together. It used to cross my mind every time she went quiet when there was clearly something she wanted to say. The way she bit her own tongue made me want to suck the words from it myself.
But I never did anything about it. Because the time was never right, and then one day I woke up to discover the time never would be.
Maybe that was why my chest ached this morning. From the pain of unfinished business. Too bad who she wanted to kiss was none of mine. Didn’t matter if kissing her was the business I wanted to be in.
Fuck.
I hated all this overthinking bullshit, hated that my body refused to accept that she was off limits. Should I check in with her? If I'd had a late night with Maddy, I'd fire off a text without a second thought. But this imagined tension with Brie was making me second guess myself.
And then it hit me.
I could do a hell of a lot better than a text.
F O U R T E E N
- Brie -
I let a yawn escape through my nose less subtly than I would've liked, but Professor Herstall had his back to the class, anyway. The broad shoulders of his tweed overcoat were hiding most of what he was writing, too, so there was nothing to do but enjoy the satisfying sound of chalk swiping against the blackboard.
He was old school like that. Cool old school. Not, like, let's bust out the projector old school. And he loved creative writing. That should be a given, but I'd say more than half the teachers I had growing up weren't passionate about their chosen subjects, which was unfortunate since a teacher's enthus
iasm could make or break a class.
Today he was ranting about character motivation, and the topic had him so enthralled he wasn't even using the chalkboard’s eraser to update his notes. He was just using his hands, collecting chalky fingerprints on the front and sides of his dark jeans between scribbles. It kind of made me adore him a little.
Then again, how could I not? He loved writing more than anything, so we were kindred spirits. Plus, he was the first professor who'd gone out of his way to mentor me, and I was so starved for the opinion of someone I could trust it was ridiculous. Maybe it was the pressure I felt from my ever-mounting student loans or maybe it was the fact that so many rejection slips had come through my mailbox I was starting to daydream about shoving firecrackers in its cruel mouth. Whatever the case, I was looking forward to his feedback on my work in progress.
Unfortunately, I was only catching half of his lesson because I couldn't stop thinking about my conversation with Crystal last Saturday. For one thing, the phrase "relentless orgasms" was haunting me.
What would that even be like? I mean, it must be a far cry from how it feels when a guy comes too quickly and collapses on top of you like an emptied balloon. Because I’d had that experience, and I was pretty sure recalling it didn't make me obnoxiously starry eyed.
Not that I was jealous of my friend. Sure, she and Darnell had all the makings of an IT couple for a minute there, but he'd shown his true colors at this point (and not just to half the varsity cheerleaders). Still, the best sex of her life? How could she have already experienced that when I only seemed to meet hunks who couldn't remember my name after a few beers and poets like Danny, who were beyond sweet but assuredly incapable of producing orgasms that wouldn't relent.
Was it me?
It's not like I was asexual. I'd just never met a guy I felt that much chemistry with, much less a guy who made me believe the sparks that flew between us could stoke that kind of fire. Except for one guy. And his company was so delicious it somehow made me forget the world while simultaneously making me feel like I was at the center of it.
But that guy was off limits.
It didn't matter if his blue-green eyes were more mesmerizing than the sea or if his deep laugh made my bones feel bendy. It didn't matter if he looked like a goddamn underwear model and always knew the right thing to say. And it didn't matter if he could make me feel shiny when I was at my most lackluster. Because good girls from Winnetka don't fall for their stepbrothers. Not in normal families and not in broken families like ours, whose laundry list of indecencies was a matter of public record.
But there was something else Crystal said. About the look guys get when they're about to kiss you. I knew it well. It was an expression I noticed almost every Friday and Saturday night in the ice cream shop. The girl would suck her spoon clean and bat her lashes, and the teenage boy beside her would stop pretending he was there for the ice cream, get this mushy look in his eyes, and then boom. Cold lips would meet cold braces, and then I'd look away because a girl could only watch so many kisses in one night without wanting one of her own.
Except I didn't want a cold, metal kiss. I wanted a hot kiss with groping and growling. The kind that would get you kicked out of Homer’s. The kind boys were incapable of. I wanted someone to kiss me not because they wanted to but because they couldn't stop themselves if they wanted to.
But James always stopped himself.
So even though I was convinced I'd seen that look in his eyes when it couldn't have been for anyone else, I was obviously imagining things. Or he would've kissed me already.
And then at least I’d know if I was crazy. Then again, I was probably certifiable to even let my mind stray down this rabbit hole.
I woke from my reverie when the shuffle of bodies escaping desks enveloped me on all sides. Then I packed up my notebook and pencils slowly so I could hang back and give Professor Herstall the chapters I'd promised him.
When I rose from my desk, I noticed Danny lingering by the door, and he lifted his chin with the harmless enthusiasm of a friendly Labrador who has absolutely no sense of when he's not welcome. I raised a finger to let him know I'd be a minute, since he’d never pick up on that without being assured I'd clocked his wide grin.
Professor Herstall patted his chalky hands on his pants as I approached his desk. “Brie.”
I smiled and glanced towards the door, waiting for the last few students to shuffle out before I pulled my updated manuscript from my bag. "I have those chapters you asked for." I extended the freshly printed papers towards him, and he accepted them before walking around his wide desk, his grey eyes scanning the top page with a level of attention that made my heart rise in my throat.
"This is great." He lifted his face, and the long wrinkles around his eyes deepened. "I'm looking forward to going over your changes."
"I tried to add more tension, like you said." My hands grew clammy as he stepped into my personal space. "But you'll have to tell me if you think it's had a negative effect on the pacing because I had some other ideas."
"No spoilers," he said, lifting a finger between us. "If you've done a good job, the changes will speak for themselves."
I nodded and took a deep breath, holding my ground even though he was so close I could smell the faint scent of Fisherman's Friend on his breath.
"I don't know how soon I'll be able to give you feedback."
"That's okay," I said too quickly. "I'm just grateful you've agreed to take a look."
"The pleasure’s mine," he said, setting a hand on my shoulder for a moment before sliding it to the top of my arm and giving me an almost imperceptible squeeze. "It's a privilege to teach such a talented writer."
My chest swelled with light.
"Better get going," he said, shaking his greying curls towards the door. "Don't want to keep your boyfriend waiting."
I peeked around Professor Herstall's broad shoulders to find Danny loitering outside the rectangular window that stretched the length of the door. "He's not my boyfriend," I said, my cheeks flushing as my eyes flicked back to my teacher.
"Might want to tell him that," he said, looking at me disapprovingly as he strolled back around his desk. "Enjoy the rest of your day."
I opened my mouth, ready to insist that I actually wasn't the kind of girl who got her kicks from leading men on and that if I'd known Danny would think he had some special claim to me because of one drunken, optimistic kiss between friends I never would've let it happen. But he was already organizing the folders on his desk like his mind was elsewhere. So I said, "You, too," and left before I could talk him out of reading my work.
F I F T E E N
- James -
I know it wasn't the builder's fault that I bought a house with a black mold infestation. Still, when he gave me the final quote for what it was going to cost to repair the crack in the foundation that caused the problem, strangling him crossed my mind. I didn't do it in the end because I wasn't sure I could get my hands around his neck, but to say I needed to blow off some steam was an understatement.
As if that weren’t enough, Maeve had prepared a bombshell of her own for me.
"A sperm donor? Are you fucking kidding me? Do you have any idea how badly that could go?"
"Settle down," she said. "It's not that big a deal."
My neck jutted out over the round Starbucks table between us, but she interrupted me before I could object.
"It's not black mold or anything."
I ran a hand through my hair, knowing I had to choose my words carefully with Maeve.
"I mean, I ruled out the sperm banks where people were wearing hazmat suits."
"I sincerely hope you're joking."
"I am. Jeez. So much for you being the fun uncle," she said. "Guess that job will fall to Quinn."
I glared at her, but she was too busy adding sugar to her coffee to notice. "Was that the reaction you were hoping for? That I'd be pumped to be an uncle?"
She shrugged.
"Why
are you even telling me this?" I broke a piece off my cinnamon roll to keep from pulling the hair from my head.
"Because I care about your opinion, and it's been almost a year since I first got the idea."
"A year?"
"Keep it down," she said, her eyes shifting side to side as she unwrapped her chicken salad sandwich. "People I work with come here."
I leaned forward and dropped my voice. "Why don't you just freeze your eggs like a normal person?"
She cocked her head, her dark lashes framing her big brown eyes. "You mean a normal, loaded person?"
"It can't be that expensive. Not with the insurance you must have."
"I do have excellent insurance," she admitted. "But it's not the expense. I don't want to be an old mom."
"What about being a single mother? Doesn't that terrify you?"
"‘Terrify’ is a strong word,” she said. “It's not like I'm destitute or uneducated. I'm a capable person who wants a baby, and I've thought long and hard about it."
"What does Mom think?" I asked, knowing our father's opinion was as irrelevant as the barista’s.
"Are you asking if Mom's excited about the prospect of being a grandma?"
I sighed.
She leaned back in her chair and crossed the legs of her black pantsuit. "You don't approve."
"It's not that I don't approve, but you should've told me sooner."
"When? Right before you went to London? Right when you got back? Maddy and I decided you didn't need the stress."
"What? Since when do you and Maddy keep secrets from me?"
"Since they involve my uterus?"
I raised my palms. "Fair enough. I defer to your judgment on that."
"Thanks," she said, her tone laced with sarcasm.
"So have you picked a baby daddy?" I asked, thinking reverse psychology might wake her up to the gravity of her proposal.
"No, but I've narrowed it down."
"How are you going to choose?"
