There’s the contractor’s truck pulling up. I suppose I should go make sure there are no poppy seeds stuck in my teeth before I answer the door.
A quick look in the hall mirror, and on cue, the knocker reverberates off the old wooden door.
I don’t know who I was expecting to see when I opened the door, but you could knock me over with a feather in this moment, so shocked am I.
It’s him. Eddie’s uncle. Evan.
“Lovely morning,” he says as I stand there, the door half-open where it halted in my shock. “Let’s see if we can get this done quickly so you can get out and enjoy the sun.”
I’m frozen. Unprepared for this.
“This is the right house, yea? You wanted an energy audit and quote on retrofitting?”
I nod and pull the door open. “Of course. Come in.”
He extends his hand. “I’m Evan Sharp.”
“Jillian Carew.”
“Nice house. I’d guess it was built in the 1920s?”
“Good guess. The deed says 1921.”
“That might not be good news for you. Could be a lot of work to upgrade. Can we start in the basement?”
Crap. The basement is a proper state.
“There’s a lot of clutter down there. I haven’t unpacked everything yet.” And likely never will.
“You haven’t seen my basement.” His laugh is deep. Deeper than his voice, which has a slight accent that places him from around the bay somewhere. I don’t have a lot of friends who aren’t from St. John’s, so I can’t even guess where on the island his particular twang comes from.
For the next hour he pokes and prods his way around the house, gabbing the entire time. There’s nothing shy about him, that’s for sure. And he seems to know what he’s talking about. He’s a smart guy. Knows a lot about houses and energy and the environment. By the time we get back to the kitchen, he already has a plan. He just needs to figure out what it will cost me.
As I pour up two glasses of water, he looks at my raggy yard.
“What a great garden.”
“Yea, for the weeds.”
“No way. You could have some fantastic raised beds out there and have a nice kitchen garden. Herbs, greens, some veg that doesn’t need a lot of depth.”
Is he nuts? He wants me to turn my backyard into a farm? He must be a hippie. Mom’s vision for this garden involves new sod, lots of easy to care for flowering shrubs—because she knows I’m not capable of growing anything—and some tidy beds of annuals. My vision for the backyard is something I can look out at without wanting to shudder.
“I’m not a gardener. Anything I plant out there will die from neglect.”
A shoulder shrug is all I get in return. “Self-reliance isn’t for everyone.”
Woah. Judgey much?
“It’s not that. I just prefer to get my veg from the farmers’ market than from my own hard work.”
Any minute now he’s going to tell me he’s a farmer too and has a booth set up at the market. A full-on environmental granola type who would balk at my misuse of power by playing games on a 50-inch television.
“So, Professor Carew, I’ll work the numbers and get back to you by Monday with some options.”
“How do you know I’m a professor?”
God, his smile is to die for. “I recognized you. You’re my nephew’s teacher. I saw you at MUN earlier this week.”
Eddie’s words came back to me. “My uncle thinks you’re hot.”
Oh shit. This could get messy. Play it cool, Carew. Play it cool.
“Oh, who’s your nephew?”
“Eddie Sharp. He’s in your Latin class. We all find it hilarious that he’s taking Latin. But when I saw you this week, I called my brother and told him I now understood why.”
Stomach, stop clenching. Heart, quit racing. Mouth, say something not totally stupid.
“He’s a sweet kid.”
There’s nothing I can do to get out of this conversation other than walk away. I need to get him out of the house before I start to blush.
“Thanks for coming by so quickly. Just email me your quotes whenever you’re ready.”
By the time I’ve reached the door, he’s caught up to me.
“What game is that?”
He’s staring at the TV that has the intro screen for the game on display in all its fifty-inch glory. It’s my little secret. I don’t tell my friends I play video games. It would dash their image of me as the sophisticated academic. But he’s looking right at it. What am I supposed to say?
“It looks old,” he says. “I thought I knew every computer game out there but this is new to me.”
“It’s Caesar III. It’s from the nineties and I’ve wanted to play it forever but couldn’t find it for my Mac. I figured it out last night, finally.” Oh, what the hell. He wasn’t going to judge me. “I’m going to play it now.”
“Can I watch?”
“You want to watch me play a video game?”
“Why not? Don’t you watch your friends when they play?”
“My friends don’t play video games. They’re—”
“They’re not geeks.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Hey, I’m cool with being a geek. Now a nerd, that’s an entirely other thing.”
“There’s a difference between nerds and geeks?” Clearly. Because this guy didn’t look like a nerd.
“I think so.”
“Like what?”
“Well, social skills, for starters. Geeks have friends. Girl friends. We’re social. We don’t hide out in our house and play by ourselves.”
“Are you calling me a nerd?”
“I’d never call a woman like you a nerd. Besides, I get the feeling that you’re a closet geek, you just don’t know it yet.”
Those were fighting words. And yet, instead of getting mad, I’m inviting him in to watch me play. My brain is messed up.
Monday.
Alright. There’s something insane happening. I haven’t talked to Ingrid about it because, well, I don’t think she’d understand. It’s hard to explain anyhow. It’s Evan. I’ve never in my life met a guy like this. I think he’s attracted to me. He sure as hell made no attempt to be subtle when he complimented the dress I wore when we walked down to pick up some Indian food for supper Saturday evening. And he was quick to point out that he liked my hair down better than up yesterday when he came over to drop off some other games he thought I might like. And then he stayed until nearly ten when I said I needed to get to bed because I had to work in the morning.
Still, he didn’t make any move to hint that he’d like to stay. There was no sexual banter about going to bed. No almost kiss before he left the house. He’s not behaving the way any of my guy friends do. And he’s not acting like a guy who wants to sleep with me. I can’t figure it out.
All I know for certain is that I’ve had more fun in the past two days than I’ve had in a long, long time. Real fun. Not the sort where you reluctantly go along with someone’s idea of a great afternoon and then later admit that it was a good day. This was actual fun. As in we did things I wanted to do, and talked about things I found interesting. And the odd thing is, I think it was the same for him.
What’s not the same, I think, is that I feel as if I’ve met someone special. I know, I know. Two days. No kissing. I get it. But I can’t help it. This is why I can’t talk to anyone about it. Because it seems ridiculous. I know it’s probably because he’s cute, and smart, and nice and clearly has no interest in me as anything beyond a friend that I’ve deluded myself into this train of thought. But there it is.
You know what it’s like? It’s like this crush I had on Chris Power back in grade eight. Chris used to come over and we’d play Scrabble or Super Mario Brothers or just do our homework together. And then one day, Chris called and asked if he could come over. He had something important he wanted to talk to me about. I remember putting on the shell ring he’d bought for me when both of our fa
milies were on vacation in Florida and we’d met up at Disneyworld for the day. And what did Chris have to say that was so important?
“Hey, Jill. Do you think Ingrid would go to a movie with me? I’ve liked her ever since that party you had here last weekend.”
Yup. Not only was that the end of me and Chris, it was almost the end of me and Ingrid. Who thankfully realized that dating Chris Power wasn’t as important to her as the friendship we’d had since we met in violin lessons when we were four.
Something like that is bound to happen with Evan. It’s inevitable. I’m not flirting with him because I like hanging out with him too much to use my normal tricks. And he’s not flirting with me because, well, because he’s not.
Now it’s Monday and he’s supposed to call me with quotes on the house, and I’m checking my phone and my email obsessively.
There’s something wrong with me.
Tuesday.
Evan’s great-aunt died and he’s gone around the bay for the funeral. That’s why I didn’t hear from him yesterday, other than an email with the quotes and a quick note to apologize for not calling me. Spotty cell service and a five-hour drive kinda made sure that wasn’t going to happen.
I did what any normal, new friend would do. I texted him a smiley face (yea, this from the girl who abhors emoticons) and said:
-Text me anytime you need a smile.-
Turns out there’s one area of the church where Great-Aunt Audrey is waking that has two bars of service. Those two bars are why I was up most of the night texting with him. He’s from some small little place where wakes are a serious business. Seems people sit with the body during the whole thing, and last night he and his brothers were keeping his mother company.
So here’s what I know about him based on those texts. He only drinks tea, not coffee. And he only drinks Red Rose, not Tetley. Something about toxins or something. The church only stocks Tetley tea bags, so he was forced to suffer. His mother’s rosary beads click louder than his Aunt Lorraine’s. Apparently, he and his brothers made a game out of it. His ex-girlfriend’s husband is his first cousin and is terrible at cribbage. If a nun catches you playing cribbage in church, she will take your cards and your crib board and stare at you as if you’re the Devil for the rest of the night. His brothers (he’s the seventh son of a seventh son, and I think that’s supposed to mean something to me) teased him all night about our texting. He has no problem taking a picture of a body in a casket and sending it to a woman who admitted she’s never seen a corpse before, and then telling her ghost stories until four in the morning.
I am going to marry Evan Sharp. I’m just putting it out there so that should it ever happen, you can tell people, she said it would happen. Here are some other text gems from him.
-You shouldn’t answer my texts. You’re just encouraging me.-
What, you ask, was I encouraging?
-That’s more than I’m going to say in a text.-
Argh. Men. Anyway, other text gems.
-Eddie has a picture of you on his phone. I’d watch out for him, by the way. He showed it to my brother Andrew. He said you reminded him of Anne Hathaway. I think you’re more like Zooey Deschanel.-
Either is good, right? I’m cool with either of those. But I happen to know that he thinks Zooey is a geek’s wet dream. His words. Not mine.
And then there was this one that just came in on my phone, maybe thirty seconds ago.
-Hope you slept well. Thanks for keeping me company last night. Miss your voice.-
What? He misses my voice? Why is he more flirtatious via text than in person? Gah. This man is screwing with my head.
Still, I should text him back.
-Thanks for my first sleep-deprived teaching session of my career. You’re the first man to wear me out from texting.-
You know what I hate? That I’m now sitting here waiting for the ping of the phone. When I know full well that if he moves an inch in one direction or another, he could lose what tenuous connection he has with the modern world.
Ping!
-Heh.-
What? Is that it?
Ping!
-Glad to know I was your first.-
I’m blushing over a totally innocent text. God, when is he coming back to town?
Thursday.
Four hundred and thirty-six text messages. That’s the total messages sent between us this week. Not even a week. Since Monday. It was a week ago today I first spotted Evan on campus, and tonight he’s coming over for supper to explain the various quotes he sent me. Is it terrible I’m thinking more about which option will keep him around the house than I am about cost or efficiency?
I’ve also talked to him for a total of eighty-eight minutes. Cell phones are awesome tools for those of us obsessed with quantifiable data.
Supper is a meal fit for a man who has spent most of the week eating turkey, ham, roast, and potatoes (in all their forms: baked, boiled, scalloped, mashed, deep fried and salad). Any moment now, Evan will show up bearing a Chinese feast for two. I haven’t changed out of my teaching tweeds because I think he might have a little hot for teacher thing going on. Although I’ve made some minor adjustments.
My blouse is unbuttoned a little more than usual, and I’m wearing my big boob bra, which normally only gets pulled out for low cut dresses. I also tend to wear short heels, or flats. Right now I’m wearing the only pair of stilettos I own. I’ve also changed into stockings with a noticeable seam up the back, trailing up to the ruffle of my pencil skirt. It’s about as sexy as tweed can get.
This is the test, my friends. It’s one thing to flirt with me for days on the phone. As my friend Nick said to me the one time he’d seen me wearing this outfit (minus the breast enhancing bra and slutty nylons), “Christ, Jill. If I’d had profs who looked like you, I wouldn’t have dropped out of MUN.” (Don’t feel bad for him. He studied real estate and now makes a fortune selling up-modelled old St. John’s houses to people like me.)
I have to confess, I’ve also done my best to get a Zooey Deschanel hairstyle on the go. Yes. I am pulling out all the stops. When Evan leaves here tonight, I am going to know one way or the other if this is platonic flirting, or substantive flirting.
“Careful, something’s leaking,” he says as I take a bag from him when I answer the door. “Smells like almond guy ding.”
I wait a second until he’s in the hallway and I figure I have his full attention before slowly walking down the hall. The click of my shoes down the hardwood sounds ridiculous to me. What am I doing?
Before I disappear into the kitchen, I take a quick look behind me. He’s still standing in the doorway. I know he’s watching.
“Are you coming?”
I know! I know. Over the top, maybe. I sound stupid to my own ears. But there’s a new look on his face. One I haven’t seen yet. Fierce and masculine. This man might think he’s a geek, but he’s alone in that assessment.
In my mind, he enters the kitchen, slides his arms around me, and says, “Enough of this playing around. Supper can wait.” The reality is, he walks in, sets a bag on the table and pulls out a wrapped gift.
“I got a surprise for you.”
This version works too. Until he holds it out of my reach. “After supper. I’m starving.”
No point begging. I have bigger plans. “You unpack the food. I’ll grab the plates.”
This skirt has a secret. If I stretch real high, it lifts a little. Which is why I’m getting the fancy plates that hang out on the top shelf. I just hope he’s looking and not already face and eyes into the pork low mein.
“Let me get that,” he says before I get a chance to work it.
I’d be upset except I think he just tried to look down my shirt while I moved out of the way.
Supper is a pretty tame affair. Mainly talking about what he proposes to do to the house. It sounds like a lot of work. Taking off the clapboard, putting on a new layer of insulation, and replacing the oil furnace with a heat pump. And that’s jus
t the first option. There are so many extras. He can build me a solar heating unit out of soft drink cans, even replace my single pane glass windows with double or triple panes without destroying my wooden windows. Hell, he can line my roof with solar panels and cut my electrical bill. I want him to do it all. Preferably with little clothing on. I think construction work and nakedness might be a safety hazard. But I also have to pay attention to money. Damn money.
Part of making a point about following your heart in career choices to your financially settled and money-obsessed parents is maintaining a willingness to live a lifestyle different from how you grew up.
“Can we start with the first option and then see how it goes? I’d love to do all the other things, but I’m not sure if I can afford it all right now.”
“Sure we can. And if you start saving all your cans instead of recycling them, it won’t cost much for the can solar set-up. I’ll ask the guys tonight to start saving some for you.”
“Oh. What’s up tonight?” Please let that have sounded casual. Just because my head is screaming: What? You’re not staying?
“Dungeons & Dragons.”
You know when your face reacts before you have a chance to get your shit together? That’s what’s happening right now. I think my eyes might have even bulged. I want to sound cool, but I can’t help myself.
“Adults play D&D?”
“Plenty of us do. What do you think happens to the kids who played it in their parents’ basements when they grow up?”
“They grow up?” My cousin played that game when he was a teenager. He and a group of his nerdy friends all hanging around a table rolling dice and talking about orcs and not letting girls play. Nerds. Geeks. Whatever. I wondered now if he still played.
Geek God (Forever Geek Trilogy Book 1) Page 2
