Hearts on Hold

by Charish Reid

  “Who is he and what did he want?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “Um...” Victoria needed a minute to put her head back together. She blinked before shifting her gaze towards Debbie. “I’m working with John, I mean, Mr. Donovan—I’m working with the library in hopes of starting an internship.”

  “He’s a librarian?” Debbie whispered. Her blue eyes were huge orbs behind her glasses. “The way he walked by was like a dream. It’s like he just appeared, smelling like the forest. Did you see his tattoos?”

  “Yes, Deb, I saw all of it.” Victoria smelled him too.

  “What does he do at the library?” Debbie asked.

  “He’s the head of the children’s department.”

  Debbie gasped. “You’re joking.”

  Victoria sagged against the door frame and rolled her eyes. “That’s what it says on the library website.”

  “He’s too hot to be a children’s librarian.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Jeez, Deb.”

  “It’s true,” Debbie said with a grin. “Oh, before I forget, are you going to the department meeting tomorrow? I’m ordering sandwiches for everyone.”

  There is no such thing as a free sandwich. “Only if you’re buying.”

  “Great, I’ll put you on the list,” Debbie said. “Are you heading out soon?”

  “No, I’ve got to stick around and finish up some emails.”

  The secretary hitched her purse on her shoulder, “You’re the only one who stays after office hours.” Her tone matched that of Paula’s: concern and judgement.

  “These emails won’t send themselves.” She closed her office door and retreated to the safety of her desk. Behind the solid tank of a desk, she could control all the tasks set before her. Except one. John Donovan had rattled her, in her office, with his smile and his charm. Victoria tried to return to her computer, scrolling through the dozens of emails, all waiting to be answered.

  I can tell I’m going to have to employ other methods on you.

  After meeting John, it would be impossible for her to keep her mind on work. She hoped that the effects of his personality wouldn’t continue being a distraction in the future.

  Chapter Six

  John searched the cupboards for something nutritious to feed his niece. He’d lost track of time and forgot to grocery shop. His short meeting with Victoria Reese was almost enough for him to forget Becca at the library. As he ran his hand through his hair, he searched the refrigerator next. A case of beer, a head of iceberg lettuce, leftover Chinese takeout, and a fuck-ton of condiments. This wasn’t good enough for a little girl. What do kids eat? What does Victoria like to eat?

  “We should order a pizza,” said a haughty voice from behind him. He checked over his shoulder to see Becca with her hands on her hips. She had changed into her pajamas and tied her hair with a silk scarf.

  “Probably...” he said, turning back to the pitiful contents of the fridge. “Remind me to go to the store tomorrow.”

  “You need a planner,” Becca said, taking a seat at the kitchen island. “Then you wouldn’t forget everything all the time.”

  “You raise a good point, honey.” John moved to the “all-purpose” drawer which housed the takeout menus and random screw drivers. When he found the menu to the local pizzeria, he brought it to Becca. “Pick what you want.”

  She didn’t bother looking. “I’ll have cheese.”

  He sighed. “Are you and your mom still doing this vegetarian thing?”

  “Uncle Johnny, it’s not just a ‘vegetarian thing.’ We’re not contributing to the senseless murder of farm animals.”

  He shook his head with a chuckle. “God, it’s like listening to a tiny Jessi. I’m looking forward to two full months of your stern judgement.”

  That pulled a grin out of her. “What was Mom like when she was my age?”

  John leaned down against the counter and took a second to think about it. He and Jessi had gone to the same middle school, but rarely hung out in the same circles. They hadn’t really gotten to know one another until high school. “From what I can remember of your mom, I know she always had her nose in a book,” John joked. “When we got older, she was going to protests and handwriting zines with her feminist collective.”

  “What’s a zine?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s a very indie magazine pamphlet that doesn’t make any money.”

  “And she was just as pretty as she is now?” Becca asked.

  “Sure, I’ll bet she was as cute as you are now,” he said, reaching out to tap her upturned nose. “You both have those big brown eyes and little noses.”

  Becca looked down and sighed. “Yeah right...”

  John drew himself up to full height and looked down at his niece. This felt suspiciously like a landmine. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did we say about that?”

  She gave one of those exaggerated pre-teen shrugs. “I don’t look like any of the girls at my school. I’m too tall and my hair doesn’t do what theirs does. There’s this awful group of girls in third period who sit in the back making fun of people and they keep calling me a giraffe. Sixth grade is stupid and I’m basically alone. Like, there are hardly any other black girls there. There are a couple, but they’re older girls and I’m not cool enough to be around them. And there’s this guy, Connor, he’s in fifth period P.E. and every time I see him, I think I’m going to barf. He keeps saying hi and I don’t know what to say.”

  Boom.

  Where does one even start?

  “First of all, let’s talk about this boy,” John said with a frown. He’d already spent most of his college years prying Jessi away from the lurid clutches of frat boys. He wasn’t ready for round two. “You don’t have to say anything to him if you don’t want to. A simple ‘hi’ will do just fine.”

  Becca just glared. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  “I like him, Uncle Johnny, and I’m trying not to look like a complete idiot in front of him in P.E., which is hard to do when I’m tripping over my own giraffe legs.”

  “You’re going to be tall like your dad and me,” he tried.

  “But do I have to be tall now?”

  “Girls grow earlier than boys,” John said. “And this business about not looking like other girls is silly.” He knew that wasn’t even scratching the surface. What Becca was referring to was much deeper than that. She was attending a predominantly white private school and couldn’t find her crowd. He could relate to an extent, but would never fully understand her anxiety.

  Her expression told him as much. Before she could shut down and return to “nothing,” he had to convince her that she was alright.

  “What has your mom told you about fitting in?”

  “That it doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, she’s right. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still feeling shitty.”

  Becca’s eyes went round. “Uncle Johnny—”

  He held up a hand. “Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush, honey. Being twelve is shitty. You just left fifth grade where you knew everyone, your mom is in Europe doing work you don’t understand or care about, and your parents are divorced. Is that the long and short of it?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, got it. You can’t control these things. You can’t go back to fifth grade, you can’t bring your mom back early, and whatever is going on with your parents is their problem.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “You’re going to one of Farmingdale’s whitest schools, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make friends with girls who think like you. There’s got to be at least ten like-minded girls who can create another vegan feminist collective, right?”

  Becca managed a hesitant smile. “Maybe?”
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  “Alright, find those girls, form a gang, and start your own zine about dismantling industrial farming.”

  “Okay...”

  “And about not being blonde, blue eyed, and average height... You are truly beautiful as you are.”

  A shadow flickered across her delicate features. “I don’t feel like it.”

  “And you’re not going to feel like it for a few years,” John said honestly. “Everyone who hits this age feels strange in their bodies, but it’s because you’re still growing, Becca.”

  “It’s just hard, is all.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” John agreed, walking around the kitchen island. “It’s okay to admit that it’s hard.”

  Becca’s pointed chin rested on her knuckles as she watched him. “Do you need a hug?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I could use one, if you’re not too busy.”

  She threw her arms around his waist and lingered for a moment. “If it makes you feel better,” she murmured against his belly.

  He chuckled as he held her, remembering how small she used to be. An ankle-biter who followed him around asking a million questions about the trees, the sky, ants on the sidewalk. If he closed his eyes, he could keep her at that safe age when her life wasn’t so tumultuous. When he released her and pushed her back on her barstool, he smiled down at her. “I do feel better. Thank you, honey.”

  “Me too,” she admitted.

  Crisis averted. For now.

  * * *

  After getting Becca to bed, entirely too late, John climbed into his own. As he plugged in his phone and set the alarm, he caught a missed email in his notifications. Curious as to who could be emailing at midnight, he took the bait.

  Mr. Donovan:

  I’ve checked my bookshelves, my nightstand, and my “Friend of the Farmingdale Public Library” tote bag. The book in question is not here. It appears that your people are mistaken.

  Regards,

  Victoria Reese, Ph.D.

  Assistant Professor of English

  Pembroke University

  v.reese1@pembroke.edu

  Office: (309) 555-6043

  Cell: (309) 555-3689

  The timestamp read 11:56 p.m. Six minutes ago. John settled against his pillows and read the message again. Really? She thought this was a good time to contact him about a book? It made sense, of course. When they’d met, she was wound tighter than a Swiss-made watch. It didn’t take away from how beautiful she was. As she held it together, he noticed small ticks that made her even more charming. The way she quietly sucked her teeth or cut her eyes when he said something stupid. The turn of her neck when she slipped a braid behind her ear. The way she bit on her lower lip...

  He knew he’d laid on the charm extra thick during their non-meeting. He probably didn’t need to, but she was too captivating to resist. With her buttoned-up demeanor and her classy skirt suit. Patent leather nude pumps, which managed to match her soft cinnamon skin. High-strung and gorgeous. Not necessarily the kind he went after, but he felt drawn to her nonetheless. Upon shaking her hand, he’d felt it. “It” felt like nervous energy that needed to be stroked with a calm hand, kissed away, or held gently. By the time she’d pulled away from him, John wanted to do all of those things and more.

  He was about to reply to the email, but paused. He had a better idea. Should I? He pressed and held her cellphone number until he could copy it into his contacts. He labeled the phone number: “Sexy Prof” and began his text:

  John: Your email regarding a missing book was basically the equivalent of a ‘wyd.’ Just wanted you to know that.

  He waited for her response. This is probably a dumb idea. John was prone to fits of impulsiveness that usually got him into trouble. But picturing her tearing through her home, searching for a smutty paperback, made him smile in the darkness of his bedroom. She even searched her library tote bag. Of course Victoria was a Friend of the Farmingdale Public library.

  Sexy Prof: New phone, who dis?

  John laughed. Okay, Dr. Reese.

  John: Mr. Donovan. I retrieved your number from your email and thought better to text you: $30 fines are not what I expected from a university professor.

  Sexy Prof: Mr. Donovan, I shouldn’t have to tell you about the danger of making assumptions. Either way, the book: Is. Not. Here.

  John: Was it a good book at least? What I’m asking is: Was the Duke worth the trouble?

  Sexy Prof: The Duke was fine.

  John: A *convenient* choice?

  Sexy Prof: Convenient enough at the time.

  John: I encourage you to turn yourself in, Dr. Reese. Throw yourself at the mercy of library law.

  Sexy Prof: NEVER!

  John: Fair enough... Goodnight for now, Dr. Reese.

  Sexy Prof: Mr. Donovan.

  Chapter Seven

  There was no such thing as a free sandwich.

  The department meeting had devolved into the toxic cesspool that she imagined it would. Today’s meeting did not have the pretenses of a democracy as English faculty members sat at a long boardroom table with Kenneth at the head. The sandwich Victoria picked at sat beside a copy of the spring semester schedule. With a mouthful of deli ham, she saw red as she skimmed the printout. Her usual African-American Literature was listed, as was the Post-Colonial Literature, but Composition I and Technical Writing Skills were added to her lineup. Tech and freshman comp? Where the hell did they come from? She glanced from her sheet to the faces of two other women in the department. Jennifer Klaus, their Children’s Literature professor wore an equally confused expression. Alison Kelly, the Victorian Literature professor, was slack-jawed as she stared at Kenneth. He remained oblivious to the three women as he and three male professors, Medieval, Early American, and Creative Writing, laughed it up on the other side of the table.

  “Where on earth are we getting these adjuncts?” he asked the men. “I swear, I saw one of them dressed like a student, just the other day. Wearing a political T-shirt like it was the ’70s...”

  Victoria frowned, hoping he wasn’t bad-mouthing her Paula.

  “I really wondered if she got a handbook from HR.” Kenneth laughed, spraying bits of his sandwich at Gabe Bates, the Creative Writing professor. She doubted Gabe minded the bullets of pastrami since he was already so far up Kenneth’s ass.

  “Someone forgot to tell this generation to dress for the job they want, not the job they have,” said the resident Medievalist, Dan Combs. “I think I know which one you’re talking about, Ken. I passed her class as she was telling students ‘grammar was a tool of the white supremacy.’ I mean, really, Pembroke doesn’t need that kind of agenda.”

  He and Kenneth exchanged a look that ended with an eye roll.

  They were talking about her Paula! She was the only one in the department who would say such a thing. And although Victoria agreed with her, she certainly wouldn’t voice it to her students.

  “It’s sad that we’re reduced to gossiping about underpaid and overworked adjuncts,” she said loudly. “With the way you hire them, I just assumed we needed any warm body at the front of a classroom.”

  The men stopped speaking to see the rest of the faculty members seething. “I’m sorry, Victoria, did you have something to add?” Kenneth asked.

  Her face warmed. “I think we have more important things to discuss than how a woman dresses. Last time I checked, Pembroke didn’t have a dress code policy for faculty.”

  “But we have a standard at this institution,” said Dan. “Our students deserve to see something they can aspire to.”

  If that were really the case, they’d see more faculty of color.

  “Victoria isn’t here to teach you how to avoid another trip to HR, Dan,” said Alison. “I want to know how I ended up getting switched from the university library committee to institutional assessment. Also, why am I teachi
ng two sections of Composition II?”

  “Exactly,” Jennifer said as she swiped a highlighter across her paper. “I’ve had to teach three sections of comp for the past two years, Ken. I’ve had multiple requests from students to offer more Young Adult. Where are the sections?”

  While the men stared at the women, Victoria quickly checked off the classes her male colleagues were teaching next semester. Dan only had two classes, both in his area of study. Gabe was responsible for Intro to Creative Writing, a Poetry Seminar, and an... Independent Study? And because Kenneth was department chair, he had several course releases, freeing him up to teach only one Shakespeare class.

  She and the other women were being dumped on.

  “Why am I teaching two writing classes?” Victoria chimed in.

  “Since Dan is writing his book, he’s asked for a release. It’s only fair. One of Gabe’s majors has taken all of his classes and requires an independent,” Kenneth said, staring at her coldly. It was as if he’d read her thoughts and shut down every possible argument she could lob at him. “As per our conversation last week, I naturally assumed you were more interested in the practical education of our English students. What better class than Technical Writing? You can now show them how to write a business email.”

  Victoria underestimated just how petty Kenneth could be. She’d caught him unawares at their last meeting and he’d held on to his grudge for the whole weekend. But he wasn’t just punishing her, he was dragging Jennifer and Alison into the fray. She closed her eyes and took a breath. “Is there a reason why some of these classes aren’t going to the adjuncts?” she asked.

  Kenneth gave a mirthless chuckle and glanced at his male colleagues. “But didn’t you just say they were overworked as is?” He shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt to have full-time faculty shoulder some of these responsibilities for the next semester. Who knows? Maybe that will be my Four-Week Initiative, cutting non-unionized contingency labor. That would save money, wouldn’t it?”