The Absolute Novels: Absolute Beginners & Absolute Lovers: The Absolutely Complete Love Story (An Absolute Novel)

by Sj Hooks

  “It’s just for six months,” she added. “I know your parents aren’t going to be thrilled that you’re leaving again.”

  “That we’re leaving,” I corrected. “They won’t be happy to see either of us go. But they’ll have more than enough to focus on when they become grandparents.”

  “You’re right. We’ll come back for a visit when Meg gives birth. I can’t believe those two are going to be parents.”

  I laughed, shaking my head. My brother had come a long way and his lothario ways were far behind him. Now, he had a fiancée and a baby on the way, and he’d never been happier.

  I grabbed my bag and took Julia’s hand in mine as we exited the classroom.

  “Do you think that will be us someday?” she asked. “With a baby, I mean?”

  “Yes,” I answered without hesitation. “We have time still. Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

  I knew that Julia worried about that, mostly because of our age difference and the fact that she wanted to have a career. I was pushing forty now, but I’d honestly never felt better. We were healthy and active, and I didn’t see why we couldn’t wait another year. Julia wasn’t even thirty yet, after all. She stopped, tilting her head back to look at me.

  “I’m ready now,” she said.

  I gaped at her.

  “Y-you are? Really?”

  She nodded her head. “I could stop taking birth control when we get to London. Even if I got pregnant right away, it’s still enough time to finish the semester. What do you think?”

  “I think…I think this is the best idea I’ve ever heard!” I exclaimed, lifting her off her feet to swing us around in a circle. “Oh, Julia!”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, clinging to me.

  I pulled back. “For what?”

  “For not giving up on me,” she said softly. “For not letting me ruin this with my insecurity and cynicism when we first met. For putting up with all of my annoying habits and helping me study all those nights. For coming to London. For loving me.” She caressed my face with her fingers. “Thank you for all of it.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I was the one who should be giving thanks to her. I didn’t even want to think about how things would have turned out for me if not for her. She was my whole world.

  “I love you,” I said simply, leaning down to give her a gentle kiss. “Let’s go home, sweetheart.”

  She smiled, taking my hand again.

  “Let’s go home,” she agreed.

  We strolled through the nearly deserted campus, bits and pieces of our conversation floating through the air.

  “…hear that Sophia and Shawn are in Paraguay…”

  “…buy a house when we get back…”

  “…not naming our baby ‘Jack,’ Stephen!…”

  This was my wife. This was my life. And it was absolutely wonderful.

  THE END

  Or is it? Read on for Julia’s side of the story…

  The Wilde Side

  I hum to myself as I do my hair, piling it on top of my head in small sections.

  “You’re in a good mood,” Megan remarks, looking up from her computer.

  “Yep,” I reply.

  “Lit class this afternoon?” she guesses.

  I nod as I close my eyes to shield them from the cloud of hairspray I aim at the top of my head.

  “There has to be a reason you like that class so much. It can’t just be all the old books. There’s a guy, isn’t there?” she asks as I start my makeup.

  I flash her a grin. “Isn’t there always?”

  She laughs, stretching her arms above her head. “Are we doing anything tonight?”

  I start applying a smoky eye, my favorite look. “I have dinner with Pop at five o’clock, but I should be done around eight.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  I look away from my own reflection toward Megan, detecting concern in her voice. My good mood dissipates, but I try not to let it show, dipping my brush in the charcoal eye shadow before sweeping it across my closed lid.

  “The same, mostly.”

  I don’t tell her that the last time I saw him, he didn’t recognize me at all. Usually, it takes him a little while to remember me, but lately he seems to think I work at the home where he lives. He hasn’t been out of bed much in the past few months. He’s lost weight. He’s stopped moving around. They put a fucking diaper on him.

  It won’t be long now.

  I look at myself in the mirror—one side made up with dark shades, the other one still natural, revealing how worn out I am. Both eyes sting as I force them not to tear up.

  “Let’s go out,” I suggest as I finish doing my makeup. I’m going to need a distraction tonight after my visit with Pop, and I know my girls are always up for a good time.

  “It’s Tuesday, not a lot going on,” Megan starts. “Well, I guess there’s a baseball game tonight. Sports bar?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Sports bars will be crawling with jocks. Big guys with big di…stractions.

  I chuckle at my thoughts as I roam through the top drawer in Megan’s bedroom. I spend a few nights a week at Megan and Sophia’s after study sessions, so I always have a few items of clothing here. I strip out of my oversized shirt and put on the outfit I’ve chosen.

  “I wish I had your ass,” Megan remarks.

  I look over my shoulder at her, smiling. “I wish I had your tits.”

  She returns the smile, focusing on her computer screen again while I finish dressing.

  “How do I look?”

  “Hot. And like you don’t take shit from anyone.”

  “Perfect.”

  The day passes uneventfully, but somehow I’m still running late for Lit class in the afternoon. It’s my favorite class this semester. The syllabus is awesome. And, of course, there’s him.

  I open the door to the classroom with less than a minute to spare and I’m happy to see my usual spot in the front row is unoccupied. The professor is watching me closely as I walk inside, and I can’t help myself—when I pass, I give him a wink, knowing it’ll make him flustered. It always does. Taking my seat, I turn off my iPod, remove my headphones, and find my notepad and pen in my bag. Most students prefer taking notes on their laptops, but I’ve found that I remember the lessons better when I write on paper. Later, at home, I’ll transfer my notes to my computer. That way, I’ll have everything I need on my hard drive in case I lose my notes—and since I’m not exactly neat, the chances of that are unfortunately high.

  The professor clears his throat and everyone settles down. I watch him as he starts talking about Nabokov, the author of Lolita, which is the novel we’re discussing today.

  Professor Stephen Worthington is not my usual type. Most of the time, I find myself attracted to guys who fit the “bad boy” stereotype, with tattoos, leather jackets, bad habits, and more street smarts than book smarts. Stephen isn’t like that at all. He’s neat and proper, well-read and eloquent, with absolutely terrible fashion sense—his hair is combed down with a sharp part on the side, his clothes look like something a sixty-year-old would wear, and his glasses are smudged. But despite all of that, he’s incredibly hot: tall and broad-shouldered, with amazing green eyes and a strong jaw, big hands, and elegant fingers. I wonder how those hands and fingers would feel on my body, stroking and caressing me.

  Fuck, I need to get laid tonight.

  I’ve been both battling and reveling in my inappropriate attraction to Stephen ever since the first day of the semester. I don’t know if it’s just because it’s illicit or if maybe my tastes have changed, but I do know that I want him. Badly. And it totally sucks knowing that I can’t have him. Maybe that’s why I like to tease and push his buttons so much—it's one way to take out my frustrations.

  I force myself to stop lusting after my professor and pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth—his sensual-looking mouth. I bet he’d be great at going down on a woman. He seems like a considerate kind of guy, a
generous lover. I wonder how big—

  Enough!

  He’s my professor and while I love flirting with him, I know nothing will ever come of it. Fraternization between professors and students is strictly off-limits. Plus, he looks like the kind of guy who’s all about stability and long-term relationships, and that’s definitely not my thing. Still, I love the thrill it gives me whenever I tease him, and the embarrassed look he adopts whenever I do.

  I start taking notes, listening to my classmates stumble their way through their simplistic analyses of Lolita and the poor professor’s attempts to drag anything useful out of them. I wonder if half the class has even read the book, or if they settled for watching one of the movie adaptations. When one girl starts arguing that the main character seduces and corrupts Dolores, I roll my eyes, scribbling the word idiot on my notepad.

  “Actually, I think it’s the other way around,” I interrupt, erasing the word.

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack,” I say. “I’m fairly certain that Lolita is the one who corrupts Humbert. She seduces him and he loves it. What guy wouldn’t?”

  “But she’s just a kid!”

  “She is, but she’s well aware of what she’s doing when she seduces him. She’s had sex before, and afterward he is basically eating out of the palm of her hand. I’m not saying that what he did wasn’t wrong, but you have to remember that he sees her as a young woman, and he himself only possesses the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old.”

  “That’s a good point,” the professor says.

  I look up and smile, but he’s frowning and not looking at me. Most of the time, it seems like he makes an effort to avoid eye contact with me. I wonder why that is. I know I look hot today.

  “So, why do you think that the author chose to write about such a controversial topic?”

  “This whole story can be seen as an allegory of sorts—”

  “Ms. Wilde!”

  The professor is staring straight at me for once.

  “Yes, Stephen?” I ask, making my voice smooth and low, like a phone sex operator.

  “Professor Worthington,” he insists.

  I give him a smile. God, he’s hot when he’s stern. He doesn’t like it when I speak without being called upon, and he hates it when I use his first name, which is why I do it. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but there’s something exhilarating about getting under that stuffy exterior.

  Plus, he’s given me top marks on all of my assignments, so I know it isn’t affecting my grades.

  “You will wait your turn to speak or you can leave my classroom.”

  I resist the urge to tease him further by saluting and merely wave my hand for him to continue. The rest of the students in class have mostly zoned out at this point and the few who do comment don’t have much to add to the discussion. It pisses me off that a lot of people seem to treat Lit classes as “Netflixers,” meaning they can watch TV on their tablets during class and still pass the exam. I’m sure some classes are like that, but not professor Worthington’s. He actually seems to want to hear what we have to say—when we raise our hands—and he doesn’t expect us to just regurgitate his own words back at him.

  “I think this Nabokov guy is a total pervert for coming up with the story!” one of the girls insists, looking scandalized. If she were wearing pearls, she’d be clutching them. The professor looks a bit deflated. Suddenly, he turns to me.

  “Ms. Wilde?”

  There’s something in his eyes—a glimmer of hope, maybe? I flash him a grin, leaning forward on my elbows.

  “I think that Nabokov is using the main characters as symbols.”

  I can see relief in his otherwise stern expression. He nods in acknowledgment and it makes me soar on the inside.

  “How so?”

  “Humbert is older and sophisticated, but emotionally stunted. He likes serious literature and classical music. He represents Europe. Lolita is young, fun-loving, and naïve. She likes Coca-Cola, rock music, and glossy magazines. She’s obviously supposed to be the author’s interpretation of the US, which isn’t particularly flattering.”

  I’m confident I’m right in my assessment and I should stop talking now, but I just can’t help myself from flirting a little, just to see how he’ll react. I smile at him.

  “But I could be wrong,” I continue. “Maybe Nabokov’s motives were much simpler. Maybe it just came to him in a dream one night.”

  I pin him with my gaze, grinning.

  “After all, don’t all older men dream of sleeping with a younger woman?”

  More importantly, do you, Stephen?

  I wink at him and his cheeks flush slightly. I’m sure the class beyond the front row can’t see it, but I can. Wetting my lips, I look into his eyes.

  Do you want me? Do you feel as attracted as I do?

  “Class dismissed.”

  He turns his back to the class and people immediately start packing up their stuff. The professor’s movements are choppy as he sits at his desk, putting his books away, and for a moment I feel bad for teasing him. I respect him and his job. There’s just something about him that brings out my bad side. I don’t get why he dresses and acts so repressed. He’s a handsome man with a brilliant career, but he looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his corduroy-clad shoulders, and I wish I knew why.

  “See you Friday, Stephen,” I tell him as I pass by.

  I feel his eyes on me and sway my hips as I walk toward the door. Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as his eyes snap up to mine. I smile at him, knowing he was checking out my ass.

  Well, well. Looks like there’s some life in you after all, professor.

  * * *

  At home, I change into a pair of dark jeans and a pretty blouse before wiping the makeup off my face. I take down my hair, brushing the hairspray out before gathering it into a low ponytail. Looking at myself in the mirror, I’m satisfied with what I see—I look like I did in high school, which is what Pops seems to respond to the best. On the inside, though, I’m not that girl anymore. I’m harder now, less sweet and accommodating.

  I arrive at South Haven a little before five, knowing that dinner will soon be served. The residents eat super early, too early for my taste, but they seem to prefer it that way—I guess because most of them are in bed by eight. But Pops never leaves his anymore. When I moved him here three years ago, we actually used to have fun. We’d eat in the dining room with some of the other residents, the ones who weren’t too elderly or ill, while sharing stories and laughs. Pops and I would play the piano and sometimes a few of the gentlemen would even ask the ladies to dance.

  We don’t do that anymore.

  We don’t really do anything, and I wonder why I still bother coming here at all since he hardly recognizes me. But deep down, I know why. He’s my only family, and while he doesn’t remember me, I remember him. I remember how he used to be, and how much he loved me. Without him, I probably would have ended up in the system, and instead he gave me a loving home. I owe everything to him and I’ll keep up our weekly dinners as long as he’s alive.

  “How’s he doing?” I ask as I sign in with the nurse at the desk.

  Her smile is sympathetic. “About the same as last time, hon.”

  “Did he eat today?”

  She shakes her head. “The dayshift staff managed to get a little protein shake in him around noon, but that’s about it.”

  “OK, will you ask the kitchen for something and I’ll see if I can get him to eat?” I ask with fake cheerfulness.

  “Sure thing,” she says, giving me another one of those sad smiles.

  We both know he probably won’t touch the food, but I have to try. I’m not ready to let him go.

  Carrying a bowl of mushroom soup in one hand, I knock on his door before entering.

  “Hello,” I greet softly as I approach the bed.

  Please, please recognize me!

  His eyes flutter open and he blinks a few
times.

  “I don’t want anything,” he whispers, shaking his head before closing his eyes.

  I sit down next to his bed, placing the soup on the nightstand.

  “Something to drink, then?”

  I pick up a glass of juice and lean over to place the straw against his cracked lips. He takes a small sip. Even sucking through a straw seems taxing to him.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “Y—you’re welcome.” I draw a deep breath, calming myself. “How are you today?”

  “Fine, just fine. Tired. How are you?”

  “I had school today. A history class and contemporary literature.”

  He opens his eyes and looks straight at me. “That’s good. Education is very important.”

  There’s a flare of something in his gaze and he smiles. My heart leaps in my chest.

  “Fiona. Where is your mother?”

  Fiona is my mother—he thinks I’m her, and is asking about my grandmother. I don’t correct him anymore. It only upsets him. The nurses all agree that it’s best to keep him calm and happy, so we all play along with his memory lapses.

  “Hi, Daddy,” I whisper. “Mom just went to the store. She’ll be back soon. I’ll look after you until she gets back.” I place my hand in his. It feels cold and frail.

  “Ah, you’re a good girl, Fiona. Tell me more about school and your friends.”

  And so I do. I tell him about my classes, my apartment, and my two best friends. The details don’t seem to matter to him, as long as I refer to myself as his daughter. A few times I ask him to eat, but he says no, that he isn’t hungry. When the nurses come in to change him into his pajamas, I take the opportunity to slip away. Most likely, he won’t remember I’ve been here at all once they’ve finished with him. I kiss him on the cheek and whisper good-bye.