Commencement (Becoming Jane)

by Adare, Alexis

  U should have let me fix that. :P

  Soon enough.

  When?

  You know when.

  Will I see u before then tho?

  No, actually. Let’s avoid that. No phone or video or sleepovers.

  :( U need more space?

  Only so I don’t ruin you before it’s time. Nothing more. Adore you.

  Ugh. Torture.

  It’s one week. You’ll survive.

  I’ll die of lonely.

  You won’t. We can text. Email. Court.

  ?

  As your Mother mother suggested, I’ll court you.

  Buy me dinner? Send me poems and flowers? Why? I’m a sure thing.

  Doesn’t matter, I’d love to buy you dinner. And you deserve to be showered in poems and flowers.

  I smiled at the phone. It was a beautiful thing to say. It made me feel cherished, special, like a lady.

  “Oh please!” Lizzy Bendit screamed in my head. She was already overriding my sappy reaction and drafting a sassy response to his text.

  “Flattery will earn you a blow job, big boy,” she said. “Text it! Text it!”

  I stopped myself, thumbs poised above my phone, mentally putting duct tape over her mouth, and typed quickly before she could rip it off.

  Thank u.

  My pleasure. Ciao for now. Talk tomorrow. Have a lovely day.

  U too.

  I floated through the rest of the day. That is, until I remembered I had final exams.

  * * *

  Years of struggle, heartache and purposeless wandering had eventually led me to college. I’d worked my ass off, and now in just three and a half years, I was going to graduate early, mid-year, with my degree in business. To say I was excited would be an understatement. But while visions of mortar boards, black robes and spirals of parchment tied with red ribbon were dancing in my head, it was Thomas’s face—and the memory of his hands on my skin—that was dominating my thoughts.

  Which made it a little hard to study.

  I spent the rest of the weekend trying to cram information into my brain, thankful I’d had the foresight to take some time off at the club. Just a handful of exams stood between me and my degree, between me and Thomas. I was starting to think of him as a graduation present. There was no way I was going to blow this.

  But it took hours to get my brain to cooperate. I took a shower, ordered lunch in, put on a pair of flannel pajamas, and hit the books. By Sunday evening my head was pounding and I was wishing Thomas were there, his strong hands massaging the knots out of my neck. That’s when he texted me.

  Hello darling.

  Was just thinking of u.

  Oh? Do tell.

  Wish u were here 2 rub my neck n buy me that dinner. Studying all day. Head hurts, hungry.

  Allow the good Doctor to help. First go take two aspirin.

  I walked to the kitchen, and dutifully followed his instructions, throwing back two pills with a glass of water.

  Done.

  Okay now open a bottle of wine and allow me to buy you dinner. What do you want?

  Really?

  Really.

  Chinese. Orange chicken, fried rice, egg rolls. :) :) :)

  A lady with a healthy appetite. I like that.

  Studying makes me hungry. So does being horny.

  LOL

  I laughed out loud. The mental picture of him, my Professor, bookish and proper, texting in his tweed blazer, LOL, was just too much. I felt my shoulders relax and I rubbed at my neck idly as my eyes lingered on his text.

  I can do nothing right now for the horny, I’m afraid.

  Ur feeding me, that’s sweet. Sasha says if women can’t fill one hole, we fill another.

  LOL. Genuinely.

  Only this man would text that his LOL was genuine.

  Good. I’d hate to think you were faking it.

  Never.

  Okay so that’s dinner. Where’s the flowers? Poetry?

  I watched my phone as three gray dots rippled across the bottom of the text window. He was typing. He was typing for quite a while, actually. I pulled a bottle of Riesling from my wine rack, scraped the foil from the neck, popped the cork, filled my glass and took a sip. He was still typing. I was on my second glass when my phone buzzed and his text popped up on the screen.

  There once was a lassie named Jane.

  Who studied till she was in pain.

  She wished she were dead,

  and pounded her head,

  till words did fall out of her brain.

  I laughed so hard I nearly spit wine back into my glass.

  LOL. Genuinely. I typed.

  Glad you liked it. :)

  I did, but do limericks really count as courting poetry?

  Good point. Hang on.

  More gray dots rippled across my screen. I took the phone with me into the living room and settled onto the couch with my wine. I turned on the television, and tried to distract myself with a home decorating show, glancing at my phone every few seconds to see if he’d replied yet. Minutes later, my phone buzzed.

  Thy form’s possessed of beauty fairest.

  Tell me, lover, what doth thou wearest?

  I grinned at the phone, shook my head, and set my wine glass on the coffee table.

  Did you just sext me in iambic pentameter?

  Tried to. Not a perfect verse.

  U r adorkable.

  ;) Let me try again.

  My doorbell rang, and I left my phone on the couch to go answer it, glancing through the peephole before opening to my favorite delivery guy from Chen’s Chinese.

  “Here you go!” he said. “All paid for, plus tip. Enjoy!”

  “Thanks, Pat,” I said, waving at his back as he bounded down the stairs.

  I returned to the coffee table and dove into the bag, forking a heaping portion of fried rice into my mouth, just as my phone buzzed again.

  To court thy mind in metered verse,

  Some would find a task perverse.

  But if the lady will permit,

  I’ll seduce thee with mere words and wit.

  OMG. You’re good.

  Your turn.

  “My turn?” I said out loud to the empty room. In iambic pentameter? Ugh, I was drawing a blank. Reaching for the orange chicken, I shoveled a forkful and chewed, hoping a clever response would come to me as I ate. Aha! I grabbed the phone and typed.

  Thy words so sweet cause my pulse to quicken.

  Or perhaps it’s just this fine orange chicken.

  LOL. Well done darling. Well done.

  ;)

  How’s the food?

  Lovely. Thank you.

  You’re very welcome. Goodnight darling, study well. Luck on your exams.

  Parting is such sweet sorrow…

  Good night Janiette. I’ll text you on the morrow.

  Good night.

  I threw my phone on the sofa, fell back into the cushions and sighed—audibly sighed, like Juliette on that freaking balcony.

  Oh boy, I thought as I picked up the Riesling and drank straight from the bottle.

  * * *

  Monday morning brought freezing rain, and winds that chilled me to the bone. I’d had a restless night, barely sleeping, rising early to cram a bit more before today’s exam. I’d told myself that my insomnia was just nerves about the test, but the truth was, I was freaked out about Thomas.

  When I’d first pursued him, I honestly thought we’d fuck a few times, have fun, and then go our separate ways. I never expected to feel anything for him, and certainly not this intensely. I was unsettled enough that I stopped by Sasha’s office at the club that afternoon on the pretense of discussing my schedule, but secretly hoping for a bit of a girl chat.

  “When do you go back to your mother’s?” she asked when I walked in. “I need more supplies.”

  “Out of salami, huh?”

  “In every way.”

  I laughed at her answer as I shed my coat, dropped it on a chair and perched
on the end of her desk.

  “I’m going back early, before Christmas, remember? I wrote it on the schedule.”

  “Right.” She nodded. “I think I blocked that out. I can’t imagine being without you that long.”

  “Don’t be dramatic. I’ll be back for the New Year’s bash.”

  “Thank God,” she said, peering over the edge of her glasses. “And thank God you’re okay. I cannot apologize enough for what happened.”

  “Yeah, I know. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Still, it happened on my watch. Parker told me you decided not to press charges. Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, but only because I don’t need to. The guy jumped parole in New Hampshire, and is wanted for assault in Boston. He’s going back to jail for sure.”

  “Yes, Parker told me that as well. It’s like one of those ‘four turns and you’re dead’ things, isn’t it.”

  “Three strikes and you’re out,” I said, laughing. “It’s a sports metaphor.”

  “I don’t follow hockey.”

  “Oh my God, Sash, it’s baseball!”

  “Whatever.”

  “But yeah,” I said, “it’s fine. I’m over it.” I sighed and picked up a pen from her desk, rolling it between my fingers thoughtfully.

  Sasha removed her glasses and placed them on the desk. “What is it? Something going on?”

  “Just a little conflicted.”

  “About?”

  “Thomas.”

  “He has a first name now,” she drawled. “Things must be getting serious.”

  “Things are.” I nodded. “And that’s the problem. I didn’t expect that.”

  “You thought it would just be sex.”

  “Yep.”

  “And now there are feelings involved.”

  “Yep.”

  “And that feels risky.”

  “Yep.”

  “And you,” she said pointing at me, “are risk averse. You hate flying without a net. And if you say ‘yep’ one more time I’ll stab you with that pen.”

  “I’m not risk averse,” I scoffed, gently setting the pen back on the desk. “I moved away on my own, right out of high school. I went to college and got a degree despite not having any idea what to do with it. That’s pretty net-less. And I work in a strip club. That’s risky.”

  “Risqué, not risky, and sorry, I’m not going to agree with you. You may have an unconventional story and a titillating career but your choices are stubbornly conservative when it comes to your heart.”

  “What?” I said, shocked at her words.

  “I’m not judging, darling. I’m much the same myself. But the truth is you don’t let people in. And when someone gets through even a tiny bit, you tend to batten down the hatches and lock your heart up tight.” She retrieved her glasses and placed them on her nose, picked up a piece of paper from her desk and perused it.

  “I do not,” I said, frowning at how petulant my tone sounded.

  “You do.” She waved her hand at me dismissively, still reading the paper in her hand. “You’ve not had a boyfriend since I’ve known you, you have no social life, no friends.”

  “Well, what is this?” I said, gesturing between us. “Am I just a minion to you? Or are you my friend?”

  “I like to think so. But we’ve never spent time together outside of work. I’ve never set foot in your apartment.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying,” she said, finally looking up at me, “that your past has been dictating your present. Think carefully before you let it control your future.”

  “Wow. That was deep.”

  Sasha crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and threw it at me. I batted it away.

  “Let’s be blunt,” she said. “You’re afraid of falling in love.”

  I nodded.

  “More than that you’re afraid that you’ll get your heart broken.”

  “Duh. Isn’t everyone?”

  “Yes. But they don’t let that stop them from living.”

  “I don’t…” I began, but she raised a hand, stopping me mid-sentence.

  “Yes, you do. You really do. You have engineered your life so that to the outside observer it looks both exciting and on track, but it’s a facade. You play at risk so that you don’t actually have to take any. You get on that stage and get naked for strangers so that you never have to with the people you’re closest to.”

  Her words hit me like a punch to the gut.

  “Jesus Christ, Sash,” I said, tears welling.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, rising from her chair. She walked around the desk and stood in front of me, taking my hands in hers. “Listen, don’t feel bad. Takes one to know one, right?”

  “Right,” I said, sniffing.

  “The decision’s yours, darling, obviously. But if you take a risk and it doesn’t work out,” —she shrugged— “that’s life. And you’ve survived worse.”

  “I have.” I nodded.

  She snatched a tissue from the box on her desk and dabbed under my eyes for me.

  “Now, shamelessly changing the subject, I’ll ask, how does this early graduation-thing work?”

  “I just go down to the registrar’s office on Friday. They’ll give me a slip of paper saying I’m officially all done, and then I’m out of there.”

  “No ceremony?”

  “No, there are only five of us graduating,” I said, taking the tissue from her. “We all opted to come back in the spring for the official ceremony. So it’s just a piece of paper and I’m free.”

  “Will you be celebrating?” she asked.

  “I believe so,” I said, grinning. “I haven’t spoken to Thomas about it yet, but I hope that we’ll be spending the weekend together.”

  “I’m sure you will be.” She smiled. “Well, I wish you multiple mind-blowing orgasms with your handsome Professor.”

  “Thanks, Sash,” I said, popping up off the desk to retrieve my coat. “You’re a good friend.”

  “I’m glad to help,” she said.

  “Maybe one of these days I’ll even invite you over,” I called as I walked out the door.

  “Get out of here before I dock your pay, minion!” she yelled back.

  * * *

  The rest of the week crawled by. I studied during every spare minute of the day. My brain felt like an overcrowded hard drive badly in need of defragging. But it was a welcome distraction. I needed some reprieve from obsessing about me and Thomas, and Thomas and me, and blah blah blah. Nothing like cramming for an economics exam to take your mind off of sex.

  That is, until the evening, when he’d texted me. My cheeks hurt from grinning at the phone, and my thumbs felt strained from texting him back. The rest of me just ached. Ached for him, the feel of his lips on mine, his fingers caressing my skin, slipping inside me. I ached for his words too, his thoughts, his voice. I wanted to hear him speak to me again, that low seductive rasp tickling my ear as he told me I was beautiful, that he wanted me.

  I took my last exam on Thursday, and that afternoon, I made a decision. I was going all in. Time to take that risk. Just weeks ago he’d sent me his medical records, his disease-free clean bill of health, along with a note that read:

  "No barriers, no uncertainty. When next I touch you, I want nothing to come between us."

  It was partly symbolic, I knew that. A gesture of trust on his part when we’d both needed that affirmation. But I hadn’t answered him yet, hadn’t confirmed or rejected his request. I hadn’t been sure what my answer was going to be, actually. Until now.

  I diligently practice safe sex. And while I’ve been on the pill for years, I’ve always used condoms with a partner. I realized, sadly, that this was only because I’ve never had a relationship that got to the point where forgoing condoms seemed like a reasonable option. Going to the clinic with your partner to get tested, discussions about birth control, all of that stuff is what couples do, what lovers do. I’d never done any of that. It occurred to m
e now that aside from he-who-must-not-be-named (Brian), all I’d ever had in the way of relationships was a handful of prolonged one night stands. But Thomas was my lover, he’d made that clear. And he wanted to…well… my mind drifted back to his words from the weekend, and I shivered at the memory.

  He wanted to be the only one, he’d said. To feel me, from the inside, my pussy gasping and sucking at his cock as he fucks me. Plunging into me over and over, watching as I erupt, watching my face as I cum, my cunt spasming around him as he releases inside me.

  God, I wanted that too.

  Thursday evening I opened my laptop and pulled up my gynecologist’s website, accessing my most recent test results from her office’s secure online database. My last visit had been just seven weeks ago, right before I’d met Thomas. I took screenshots of my records and attached them in an email to him. My phone buzzed as the email left my sent box. It was Thomas right on time with his nightly text.