Easy Love: A Modern Romance

by Piper Lawson

  It’s every researcher’s nightmare.

  I know that life has luck, but so much seems predicated on what comes before. Do this right, you’ll get here.

  Now, everything I worked for could be over in a second.

  I need to call the associate dean, but my classes are starting and I don’t have a chance.

  This morning, my students demand my full attention, and their antics help me push aside my anxiety until lunch, when I make my call.

  “It’s Wes Robinson,” I say when he answers.

  “Wes, I told you I’d be in touch.” He laughs. “But I can’t blame you for being eager, I suppose.”

  I rub a hand over my face. “I got an email from my lab. About a data contamination.” He’s silent, and I rush on. “I know how to fix it. I’ve already followed up. They’re going to figure out what happened, and I’ll repeat any affected experiments.”

  “Does it impact your forthcoming publication?”

  I wait a beat. “Yes. I’ve contacted the journal to see if they can hold off on publishing until I’ve made the amendments, but it’s already in press.”

  He curses. “They’ll have to issue a retraction. Everyone will know.”

  I feel as if a rock’s been lowered onto my chest, and I can’t get it off. “This was a lab issue. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “You know that’s not how this works.” He sighs. “I’m going to have to tell the committee.”

  “I understand. Is there a chance this will still work out?”

  “Our other candidate is very competitive. It was close to begin with. So, I don’t see that happening, Wes. It’s a shame because you could’ve had a real impact here.”

  I hang up with the kind of numbness I’ve only felt once before—when I got the call from my mom that my dad had been given six months to live.

  I force myself to open my laptop and forward the email I got to the associate dean. He should know exactly what we’re working with. My fingers are clumsy, and after I do hit Send, I stare at the computer, sightless.

  “Hard at work. That’s what I like to see.”

  The voice from the doorway has me looking up. “Dr. Crawford.”

  The chair of the board is dressed in a dark suit, his graying hair catching the light from the window. His face is back to normal.

  “I see you’ve recovered from our boxing match,” I say, keeping my voice level.

  He closes in on my desk, his eyes sharp. “How was your visit to Seattle?”

  “There’s been a wrinkle in my plans to return to UW.”

  His brows knit together. “I trust it’s nothing serious. I would hate to have you compromise your future for anything here. That’s why we didn’t want to wait until you got the official word to try to replace someone of your caliber.”

  I shake my head. “It’s been a long couple of days. What are you saying?”

  “Since it was always the plan for you to return to UW after your father’s passing, we’ve already begun interviews. For your replacement.”

  Laughter from the hallway pulls me in and out of focus on the man in front of me.

  He claps me on the shoulder with a broad smile. “I understand the debate team qualified for regionals. If the new teacher is half the debate coach you are, Baden will be grateful.”

  He’s forcing me out. If I’d thought I was at rock bottom, turns out I was wrong.

  Terry Crawford walks toward the door, his dress shoes squeaking lightly on the floor.

  And that’s the sound of my world imploding.

  26

  Rena

  “Rena. Kendall.”

  I look up to see Daisy approach our desks. I smooth down my trendy jacket over my black skirt. My hair is pinned up in a half bun that looks professional and on point. I expect Daisy to ask if we’re sure we have this covered or grill us about how we’re going to run the meeting.

  Instead, all she says is, “The clients are here.”

  That’s French for, “Don’t screw this up, or you’re out on your ass.”

  Kendall and I exchange a look as we file after Daisy toward the conference room. Inside, two faces greet us.

  “Mia, David, you know Kendall. This is Rena.”

  I shake Mia’s hand warmly.

  “I’m the business partner,” David says.

  “Great. And of course I know who you are,” I say to Mia.

  She smiles. Her dark hair gleams, down around her shoulders. And if I didn’t get it before, I do now. She exudes the kind of calm we all need more of. She’s elegant and easy and composed, and I wish Wes could see her because he’d get a huge kick out of this.

  Wes.

  I had trouble sleeping last night, not because of my pitch today, but because of our conversation. I’m happy his talk went well, but I want to see him.

  “Thank you for coming in,” Kendall starts, and I push Wes from my mind.

  “The pleasure’s ours,” Mia purrs in her soothing voice.

  Kendall and Daisy look toward me, and our guests follow their lead.

  It’s go time.

  “When Kendall first told me about your work, I didn’t get it,” I say. Daisy stiffens beside me, but I ignore her. “I thought it was another online gimmick cash grab. Until one night I had anxiety I didn’t know what to do with.”

  Mia raises a brow. “And what did you do?”

  “Normally I’d do something… destructive. To distract myself.” Throw myself at some guy, for instance. “Instead, I listened to one of your videos. I didn’t even watch it, just put it on my headphones while I lay there.” My fingers play with the facedown cardstock in front of me. “It was like I defused a bomb I didn’t know was inside my head, just ticking there. Threatening but never quite going off.”

  Her lips curve in a smile. “I’m so glad to hear that, Rena. That’s why we want to do this expansion. So we can reach more people.”

  “We have ideas.” I lean in. “Social media’s all about competing for attention. The focus of your brand is ‘quiet.’ It’s understated and personal. We don’t want to compete with the noise.

  “Which is why, if you go with us, we’ll do the opposite.” I flip over the first cardstock sheet, showing a glossy photo with a simple image and text. “Instead of bright colors, we’re going with silver and white. An invitation to share with a friend who needs some quiet time.”

  Mia reaches for the poster, and I hand it to her. I wait a beat for her to look it over, her face unreadable as she passes it to David.

  “And for the launch party”—I flip the next piece of cardstock—“it’s a sensory journey. Guests go through the experience one by one, then meet and talk with their friends after.”

  She takes that one too, while I sit back and fold my hands. I look at Kendall, who jumps in to offer some additions. I resist seeking Daisy’s reaction.

  Finally, Mia looks back at me. “You think people will understand it?”

  “I think our target audience will, including people new to ASMR. They may not get why you’re rubbing a comb on a microphone, but they get what it’s like to be stressed by things that feel beyond their control. To think that life is passing them by and they can’t keep up.”

  “‘Touch yourself,’” Mia reads off the page. “It’s provocative.”

  “It is.”

  “I love it,” she says at last.

  I feel Daisy’s eyes on me as I lean in. “Great. Let’s talk details.”

  We spend the next hour working through social media strategies.

  At the end, Daisy pulls me aside. “Nicely done.”

  I swallow my excitement at the kudos in her dark-rimmed eyes. She shoots me a wink, and I stop her before she leaves.

  “Daisy, can I ask you something? Why did you start this company? I mean, I know it’s about empowering women. But why this company—about relationships?”

  Surprise crosses her face. “Because relationships are what we have in common. It’s not about the color of our skin or our b
eliefs. We’re all human. We crave approval and comfort, and above everything else? Love. And love looks like many different things.” She smiles and strides back to her office.

  Kendall congratulates me. “We have to celebrate. We could go tonight, but I have to get Rory from the babysitter’s.”

  “Rain check? I have to get somewhere.”

  November isn’t usually rainy, but by the time I get out of the office, it’s spitting. I forgot my umbrella, but at least my hair’s up.

  The doorman at the club holds the door, and I step inside, wiping drops from my face. I spot Wes immediately, waiting inside the lobby. He’s dressed in a wool coat, hands in his pockets as he inspects one of the paintings.

  It’s true that NYC has the most gorgeous guys on the planet, but lately, there’s only one I care about.

  “Hey.”

  Wes turns, and his handsome face relaxes when he sees me.

  I haven’t seen him since I stayed at his place Sunday, and he’s rocking some serious five o’clock shadow as he hands his rain jacket to the concierge. We’re a few feet apart. In his baby-blue collared shirt, his tie loose, his shoulders look squarer than I remember. His jaw tighter. His hair’s messy, from the rain or something else.

  The backdrop is gold and wood and wool carpet, but I’m torn between admiring him and dragging him toward the locker room to argue over whose tongue should be in whose mouth.

  He breaks the tension first. “I’m surprised they let me in here after I hit your dad.”

  “Oh, you’d have to do far worse.”

  “Like invite a woman to meet me in the men’s changing room?”

  “Yeah, like that. Want to get a drink?” I ask.

  He nods, leading the way toward the bar. Wes claims one of two wingback chairs by the fireplace, and I make a quick request of the bartender on my way to the other one.

  Two reddish cocktails are set on the side table between us.

  “Since Jake’s not here to order cocktails, I took the liberty. I hope you like Manhattans,” I offer. We clink glasses, and I meet his gaze over the rim.

  The room isn’t empty, but I’m caught up in his attention, as if in this room of bankers and rich men, he’s the only one who matters. He is the only one who matters.

  I take a sip because my throat is suddenly parched.

  God, I missed him.

  I need to say something, or I’m going to drop my feelings on this expensive carpet at his feet. I shift in my chair, the leather squeaking under me. “We got the ASMR client.”

  His brows draw together, and competing emotions war in his eyes. “Congratulations.”

  “It’s okay. I’m off probation, back to a level playing field now.”

  “You always do that. Make something big small. Promise me you’ll stop.”

  Unease shifts into me. Promises are something you make someone when they won’t be there to see you follow through. I’m afraid to ask my next question, but I need to know.

  “Have you heard from Washington?”

  “I did.”

  He explains the situation, what happened with his data.

  Each sentence, issued in a bitter monotone, has my heart clutching in fear.

  I know the upset Wes, the ambitious one, the one where he’s trying to hold in things that he shouldn’t. I know all of them, which only reinforces the feelings that have been circling forever.

  “What does that mean for you?”

  I shift to the edge of my seat, and we’re not even touching, but I feel oddly vulnerable. As if what he says next matters more than any words being said in the world right now. To me, it does.

  He rises from his chair and takes his drink to the fireplace. I follow.

  “They understand the error, but they’re not willing to forgive it. They’ve offered the position to another candidate.”

  I’m glad I didn’t bring my drink, because I’d have dropped it. “Wes, I’m so sorry.”

  His throat works. I want to kiss him there, to press my lips against that dully thudding heartbeat and reassure him that everything’s going to be okay.

  “Everything I’ve worked for. It’s all gone.” His voice is hoarse. He’s trying to hold it together, for my sake, his, or the place we’re in. “Rena, this was my plan. All of it.”

  “You’ll find another plan. You can get the program working and sell it to Ben, and…”

  Wes tosses back his drink. “Ben passed,” he says. “It wasn’t far enough along.”

  Shit.

  That’s my fault, my inexperience, but I can’t dwell on it now.

  I step closer and reach out a hand, linking my pinkie with his. I don’t care where we are. I just need to hold on, as if he might drift away if I don’t.

  “Then we’ll find someone else. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Another Manhattan, Dr. Robinson?”

  Wes pulls back from my touch, staring at the server, but eventually nods.

  “You’re right—I need to figure this out.” He takes a breath, lifting his dark-blue gaze to mine. “And I need to do it on my own.”

  My breath whooshes out of me.

  The waiter sets a fresh glass on the table between us but neither of us acknowledges it, or him. I’m consumed with the panic, the denial, rising up inside me.

  “You don’t,” I argue. “You don’t because you’re not alone. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I love you, Wes.”

  The clinking of glasses in the background, the quiet music, are the only sounds besides the thudding of my heart.

  He flinches.

  In Wes-speak it’s practically a slap.

  My heart is cracking even before he speaks. “You have no idea how much I wanted to hear that. When I was in Seattle, it was all I could think about. Right now…” His haunted gaze meets mine. “I can’t even think about us. And it hurts to say those words because they’re selfish. But they’re also true, and you deserve the truth.”

  A deep ache starts in my ribs. He cares about me. About us. He has to, I see it in the way he looks at me. The way he has my back. Every time he touches me.

  But right now, it’s as if Wes’s entire world is as bleak and gray as the skies outside.

  “I get it, Wes. You need some time.”

  Wes lifts the cocktail to his lips. I expect him to down this one too, but instead, he takes a sip, then sets it on the table. “It’s possible. Or maybe this is who I am, and I can’t pretend to be something else, even if I wish it was true. I don’t want to promise something I can’t promise. Because you, Josephine Elizabeth Serena Crawford, have everything to give another person. And you deserve better than to wait around for someone. You deserve everything.”

  I don’t want everything, I want to say. I want you.

  I fight the tears, watching defeat and agony and bitterness dance through his eyes.

  I don’t touch him again, because if I do, it’s over. I won’t ever leave.

  But I won’t beg. Not even for Wes.

  I won’t try to change his mind, or tell him I hate the thought of not being with him, or that he’s being completely irrational.

  Because Wes is smart and he knows all of it.

  Which makes this hurt that much worse.

  “Excuse me.”

  I head for the bathroom, keeping my head held high. A throat clearing behind the bar has me pausing midway there.

  “Are you leaving, Miss Crawford?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Are you and Dr. Robinson finished?”

  I feel Wes’s gaze heavy on me, but when I turn toward him, he’s back in the chair, staring at the fire.

  “I hope not.”

  The bartender clears his throat. “I meant with your drinks.”

  “Oh.” I rub the corner of my eye. “I am. But get him whatever he wants for as long as he wants.”

  27

  Wes

  “Wesley. You sublet my apartment to a dozen grad students to earn double what I’m charging you i
n rent yet?”

  It’s nearly midnight here when my friend, whose apartment I’m in, calls.

  “I only found five. Barely breaking even. How’s Australia?”

  “Hot as hell. You know there’re snakes here? Big ones?”

  “I heard a rumor.” I stop folding laundry long enough to switch on my headphones, sticking the phone back in my pocket.

  “How’s your dad doing?” he asks.

  “He died. Ten weeks ago.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry. That sucks.”

  At the risk of sounding melodramatic, everything sucks.

  It’s been five days since I got back from Seattle, and in that time, I’ve been going to class, but I’m a robot.

  Even Beck knows something’s up. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’m leaving after the semester.

  Not leaving. Being replaced.

  Because Terry Crawford’s made it abundantly clear my time at Baden is over.

  “I heard you interviewed at UW.” I snap back to the present. “Figured I’d call to see if you were planning to move out.”

  “I didn’t get it.” I cross to the bedroom window and glance toward the ground. I can barely see it, but on a Sunday, with the sudden cold spell that’s come over the city, I know the streets will be quiet. “Let’s not talk about me. I can live vicariously through you. You’re on sabbatical, living it up.”

  “If it makes you feel better, getting the job is only the start. Once you get in, you’ve got five more years of busting your ass for tenure.”

  “You made it.”

  “Yeah, and I ended up getting divorced over it.” He chuckles, and I wonder if I imagine the bitterness in his voice.

  “But now you’re on a beach in Sydney.” Every seven years, my friend gets a year off to do something abroad. It seems like the perfect lifestyle.

  “Alone.” He sighs. “What are you going to do?”

  “Find another academic job.” I’ve sorted out the issue with the journal—I think—and am trying to get my article published in a later edition. “I know I’m off the hiring cycle, but there’s always next year.”

  “I’ll put out some feelers. Ask around.”