Austentatious

by Alyssa Goodnight

  When the kiss came, hard and bittersweet, I wasn’t expecting it. And before I’d even recovered my breath, he was gone.

  18

  In which the regret sinks its teeth in.

  After that I refused to speak to Fairy Jane and slid her tidily back onto the shelf with The Collected Works, nudging them close together and pinning them in with a makeshift bookend. The calendar, by association, was shunned in equal measure, and slid back into the darkness of the kitchen drawer. The banishment wasn’t nearly as satisfying as I’d hoped. I would have liked to return to “life as usual,” but the trouble was, I’d changed. I’d quit my job, I was starting fresh, and I owned a Weird shirt after eight years in this city. The Nic James Life Plan had been obliterated.

  I had decided to spend my suddenly free Saturday moping in my shirt, but soon came up with a better idea. I’d develop the pictures from the disposable camera and then treat myself to a signature Keep Austin Weird cupcake from a bakery on North Mopac. I suppose it was sort of a statement: me in my Weird shirt, with my Weird cupcake, perusing pictures of the Weirdest day of my life. I was hoping for a little closure.

  Intentional or not, the camera had been a diabolical touch, and every last picture proved a bittersweet reminder of a magical week and a perfectly charming, irresistibly sexy, never-ending surprise of a man. Sean couldn’t have engineered a more wrenching parting gift if he’d made a concerted effort.

  The cupcake helped—the fusion of mango, citrus, and cayenne was definitely a distraction, and the chocolate ganache provided enough of a sugar rush for me to want to give Fairy Jane forty lashes with a poison pen. I settled for a ballpoint.

  While flipping pages in my quest for an empty one, my gaze fell on the most recent excerpt, a definite contender for the most confusing: life is full of surprises—surprise it back. The fragile reality of my current sucker-punched state—surprise!—just fueled my ire. And I wielded my pen like a weapon.

  You’re suddenly bearing a remarkable resemblance to the interfering, bitchy fairy godmother in Shrek. Although, I’ll admit, I can’t imagine how the kerfuffle you made of my life fits into any kind of agenda. The man you’ve been hyping for the past week is gone—back across the pond (really a ginormous ocean) to Scotland. Color me surprised! My little adventure is over. What else could you possibly have in store??

  One solid benefit of a ballpoint: It barely smears when wet—the words just go a little wobbly. I’d never before had to dash away angry tears, but here I was, dealing with another first.

  But before you answer that (or not), I should probably tell you flat-out that it’s going to be damn near impossible for me to trust you now, seeing as you’ve proven yourself woefully untrustworthy. I’ve considered giving up on you entirely, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Lucky for you, I never figured out how to work my Ouija board. But just so you know, this time I’m on to you, and blind acceptance of your particular cheeky brand of advice is a thing of the past. You, Dear Journal, are on probation indefinitely....

  It felt very empowering to snap the journal closed and banish it once again to the bookshelf, pushing it far, far back this time until it was completely hidden from view. Best I’d felt all day, not counting the time I’d shared with a cupcake. So I suppose it was a tie.

  The rest of the weekend was consumed with a Lord of the Rings marathon, my objective no more well considered than to crowd my mind with Aragorn and leave no empty spots for Sean. Success eluded me, possibly because I could smell Sean on the pillows—and because I could imagine him speaking elvish sweet nothings to a pointy-eared version of myself. It was late into day two when I finally dredged my groggy, tear-stained self from the sofa to trudge off to bed.

  As I crowded the popcorn bowl onto the counter, along with a trio of cups from my hours in front of the television, my eyes strayed guiltily to the bookcase. Damn it if I didn’t want to look. I couldn’t help it—I wanted to see her response to my little on-paper outburst. So stalking across the living room, I yanked the charming little book with its little brass doorknob and key plate and all its secrets and attitude out of hiding, and I looked.

  life surprised you, and You ...

  I could actually feel my body clench, ready for a fight. This little snippet was more in-my-face than any of the others—it was taunting me. What did I do? Well, let’s see. Life surprised me—you could say knocked me on my ass—and I did what I had to do. I did what made sense—the only thing I could do. What could I say, nobody would be making a cobbler out of me anytime soon. Luckily I preferred cupcakes.

  “What the hell was I supposed to do?”

  Yep. I’d reached the point where I was actually talking to the beastly little book. It occurred to me that I might not be dealing with a fairy godmother at all. Perhaps I’d been ambushed by an actual fairy—the bitchy sort, the kind inclined to play tricks on unsuspecting humans. Sounded about right.

  Well, either, or. I was ready for a throwdown. Before I could change my mind, I snatched up the key and thrust it into the lock, watching the journal’s transformation with a cynical eye. As the book’s binding stretched and new pages filled the space, I waited, wondering if Fairy Jane would come out of hiding, urgently hoping she would, and at the same time desperately hoping I could deal with it. When the journal once again lapsed inanimate, I waited patiently for one solid minute. Nothing happened. I suppose I never really expected it to. In fact, now that I considered it, it was kind of a huge relief that it hadn’t. I suppose I’d been imagining a sort of “genie in the lamp” confrontation. Thank God I’d been spared. Points to Fairy Jane for coddling the nervous skeptic.

  Left with only one sure-fire way to communicate, I flipped to the now-unabridged version of my latest entry, skipped down a few lines, and wrote:

  You tell me—what should I have done? Dropped everything and followed him? Offered to make a go of a long-distance relationship that’s doomed to failure? Begged him to stay? None of those options seemed quite right at the time. And I don’t regret my decision—like it or not, it was mine to make!

  As my chest swelled with a cleansing intake of breath, a fraction of my anger and resentment fell away. But as I watched my words slowly fade from the page beneath my shocked gaze, my breath caught, almost choking me. One by one, it was as if they were being sucked back into the journal, perhaps never to return. Sitting in the dark, hopped up on Tolkien and witness to some arcane magic, my life suddenly felt terrifyingly Gothic.

  Line one had disappeared completely. Four more words and line two was gone as well, with line three slipping away fast. I couldn’t help but wonder if she planned to erase all traces of my lippy reply. But suddenly her intention was clear, because two words stayed even after the final lines were obliterated. Two words I’d hastily scribbled just two minutes ago shimmered in front of my eyes all alone. Blinking them away wasn’t an option, because I definitely tried—they were there to stay.

  regret it

  Shit! I slammed the book closed, yanked out the key, and watched wide-eyed as the journal shrank to normal size. Shit, shit, shit! Was this a warning, a dire prediction of bad things to come? Oh my God! I didn’t want to be holding the journal right now, but at the same time, I wasn’t comfortable with it palling around with The Collected Works either. Charging down the hall to my bedroom, I tossed both journal and key in with the maroon bridesmaid heels and then buried the shoe box in the laundry bin and slid the closet doors shut for good measure. I wanted the perfidious little book out of my sight—I wanted to forget every last bit of magic that had gotten me into this heartbreaking mess. But I couldn’t. And so I sat cross-legged on the bed, my mind whirling with crazy, mixed-up thoughts of fairies, magic, regrets, and Sean.

  I woke up dressed, slumped over on the pillow, with the lights still on. Needless to say, I wasn’t ready to face work, but I figured it was the best medicine—if anything could wrench my thoughts away from last night’s freak show and this weekend’s pity party, it was a day of log
ical thinking and problem solving.

  By eleven I was inclined to think distraction was a pipe dream, and I decided to pull out all the stops. I dropped what I was doing, ducked out of my cubicle, and navigated the maze toward Brett’s. Not too long ago, I’d thought he was the one. Maybe, with time, he still could be. It was worth giving it a shot. But as I approached his cube, my steps started to slow as my heart started to pound with urgent warning. I could hear his voice, chatting with someone invisible, and suddenly I was in a panic. I didn’t want that voice, that face, sitting across from me at lunch, droning on about the specials and reminding me that I hadn’t chosen him. The fact was, I’d chosen someone else and then let him go. I felt like Lizzy Bennet, standing in the rain, without the happily-ever-after.

  Pivoting quickly, I ran on tiptoes back down the corridor, praying Brett wouldn’t tip his head out, wouldn’t see me, wouldn’t ever know I’d come by. Once in the clear, I detoured over to Gabe’s cube, texting him on the way.

  NJames: You up for lunch?

  By the time his reply came in:

  GVogler: sure. what time?

  I was already there, so I answered.

  “How about now?”

  While this sort of surprise drop-in would have jolted my heart rate sufficiently to require resuscitation, Gabe took it in stride, turning in his chair, flicking his gaze to the phone in my hand, and finally shrugging.

  “Works for me.”

  Lunch with Gabe was comfortingly familiar, despite the fact that we’d mostly been dealing in teasing jabs and text messages ever since Sean and Beck had bulldozed themselves into our lives. One of us had gotten scooped up, one of us had gotten flattened—I hadn’t been the lucky one, and I didn’t want to talk about it.

  “How is Beck faring with the Q and A?” I probed once we’d ordered.

  “Is that all we’re ever going to talk about?” he countered, one eyebrow raised, swirling his iced tea with a straw.

  “Right now it’s the most interesting thing about you,” I told him honestly. Surely he realized that Beck was a colorful force of nature.

  “True,” he conceded. “Okay, fine. The most recent question, from potential match Jana, was ‘What two celebrities, living or dead, would you invite to dinner and what would you serve?’ ”

  “Match-up’s answer?”

  “Martha Stewart and Katie Couric. Pumpkin-sage ravioli.” Gabe’s opinion on this inspired a curled lip and a couple of quirked eyebrows.

  I made a face. “And Beck?”

  “Jane Austen and Colin Firth, buffalo wings, sweet potato fries, and coleslaw. And key lime pie.” Gabe shook his head slightly, whether in confusion or disbelief, or a combination of both, I couldn’t tell. But I could totally relate: It was downright mind-boggling how Ms. Austen was suddenly popping up everywhere. I wondered if her recent run-in with Fairy Jane had anything to do with Beck’s top picks.

  “No contest. So things are going good, huh?”

  With a rueful smile, he confided, “We’ve sort of decided to keep things ‘friendly’ until she graduates. And then we’ll see where it goes.”

  “How friendly?”

  “That’s a little personal, don’t you think?” He was giving me the eye, implying, I guessed, that he too could get personal.

  “You’re right. Sorry.” I’d rather back down than deal with a possible trouncing later. “Whose idea was it to be ‘just friendly’ for another year plus?”

  “Mutual. But I was just being chivalrous.”

  “That’s admirable, Gabe. But if you step back, someone else is bound to step forward.”

  His eyes held mine for a long moment before he came back with, “Is this the voice of experience talking?”

  Refusing to meet his eyes, I answered quickly, “You could say I have some recent experience in stepping away.” Suddenly parched, I reached for my lemon water and gulped.

  Gabe’s eyes speared me. I couldn’t tell if he was still playing the chivalry card or if he was busy deciding how best to broach the subject of Sean. I broke under the pressure.

  “Sean and I are done. Turns out, he’s from Scotland.” I sounded bitchy without intending to.

  Faced with Gabe’s puzzled stare, I widened my eyes and nodded.

  “Seriously? You didn’t know that?” he said. “They’re a Scottish band, Nic—they’re an import.”

  “Yeah! I know that now.” The bitchy just kept on coming. “I assumed that they were originally from Scotland and were inexorably drawn to the sunny weather and quirky melting pot lifestyle of this, the Live Music Capital of the World!” After this little tirade I promptly shut up, pressed my lips together, and fought against the onslaught of tears.

  “Aw, Nic. It never occurred to me that you didn’t know. Then again, maybe I’m off my game—I’m still reeling from the news that The Plan is waving the white flag. I’m planning a victory parade. With baton twirlers and marching bands.”

  I could see the tears edging my lashes, but Gabe managed to lure a smile out of me without one falling.

  “I thought about resurrecting it, but it didn’t take.”

  “Thank God.” The sentiment came punctuated with a sympathetic smile.

  Our food showed up rather conveniently at that moment, and we each concentrated on keeping our mouths full for a very long time.

  I’d expected to feel a sense of relief to have my life back on my own terms, but ironically, I was constantly cranky and on edge, overwhelmed by the feeling that everything was just “off.”

  I’d set the calendar back on the counter on Wednesday morning, the front page curiously current with the day’s date. I can only assume that the displayed quote, “ ‘Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.’ Northanger Abbey,” was largely what compelled me to agree to go to dinner with Laura and Leslie. Only a bit of quick thinking saved me from untold awkwardness—I invited Beck to tag along. As far as I knew, the Ls were unaware of Sean’s sudden disappearance, but it was bound to come out over dinner, and I was relieved to have a little backup. Beck agreed to swing by early to get the whole story.

  Hunkering down at the kitchen table, we dove right in.

  “Wow. So he just left? And you just let him?” Beck was obviously as crushed as I by the fairy tale gone awry.

  “We hit a snag,” I reminded her. “It was all I could handle when he was a phone call away. A continent is out of my league.”

  Leaning toward me, eyes wide, she whispered, “What does Fairy Jane have to say?”

  “Plenty. And none of it helpful.”

  Her eyes grew impossibly wider, but glancing at the clock, realizing we were already running late, I pulled the journal and the key out of hiding and hustled her out the door as she queried, “Why do you still own maroon bridesmaid pumps?”

  In the pale glow of twilight, under the spotlight of streetlamps, Beck turned the key. And judging from the sparkle in her eyes, she was thoroughly enchanted. Making one of us. I indulged her as long as I dared, but eventually we had to step away from the magic and into the restaurant. And mum was most definitely the word.

  Leslie took Beck’s appearance in stride, promptly putting out feelers as to the nature of our relationship. I could tell she was optimistic that our “friendship” would mutate into something more to her liking eventually.

  Shortly after dispatching that topic, Leslie’s trademark “touch of crass” invaded the dimly lit elegance of our little corner of Chinatown, hitting on the subject I’d most been dreading. “I haven’t heard the roar of a motorcycle on a booty call recently. Trouble in paradise?” Beck’s eyes flitted toward me in silent shock, and I smiled blandly, hoping to convey that as chats with Leslie went this was relatively tame.

  “Paradise lost,” I confirmed matter-of-factly. “Well, technically I suppose not lost, just out of range.”

  Laura gaped at me, and Beck’s eyes were sad. Rather than look at them, I let my eyes blur, watching the candlelight flicker and wink. F
or a single exquisite moment, even Leslie was stunned speechless.

  She quickly recovered.

  “Is it possible you’ve decided to transfer your name to another team’s roster?” Across the table, Leslie’s eyes were twinkling with mischief.

  “For God’s sake, Les! Give the lesbian press-gang tactics a rest, will you?” Laura turned back to me oozing supportiveness, clearly waiting for the story.

  “That can’t be your actual team name,” I insisted, tongue firmly in cheek. No reaction.

  The arrangement of Leslie’s lips put me in mind of an old-fashioned snap-closure coin purse. Her eyes were snapping too. I optimistically assumed it was with amusement. And judging by her eventual response, she wasn’t holding any sort of grudge.

  “Which one of you got squeamish?”

  “Neither,” I snapped before collecting myself. “We just weren’t ... geographically compatible.”

  “In the bedroom?” This, naturally, came from Leslie.

  “Will you get your head out of your vagina for one second, Leslie, and let Nic tell the story?” It was not until the words were ringing in the air around us that it dawned on Laura that this might have come out a touch too loud. Our little group was suddenly garnering a lot of attention from surrounding tables, and Beck and I could barely hold back the bubbles of laughter. Meanwhile Leslie was highly amused at Laura’s expense.