“Why doesn’t it matter?”
He shrugs. “It just doesn’t.” He rotates the chair, facing the computer screen once again.
I explain, “The guy in the hall is just a friend of mine. He was kissing me because he’s an idiot. And so am I.”
He gives me a what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about look.
“That’s Wolfgang. You remember him? He was supposed to help me out for my photography project, but he sliced his hand. We’ve been friends for almost four years. He’s not my boyfriend, and we aren’t seeing each other. He doesn’t even play for the hetero team. He’s gay.”
Foster lifts his brows.
“I told him about us—you know, the other night—and he thought he was being helpful.”
“You are making absolutely no sense.”
I sigh heavily. “Listen, this is really weird for me.” I point a finger back and forth between the two of us a few times. “So, I’m just going to come out and say it. Thanks for the good boning, but I’m not interested in anything else. That likely makes me sound like a bitch, but it’s the truth. I wasn’t cheating, and I’m not dating anyone.”
He laughs. “You’re nervous.”
“Hell yeah, I am. Aren’t you?”
“No. Well, I was until I saw you kissing that guy, and then I just got pissed. I’m not into playing someone’s revenge fuck, but I’m good now.”
“A revenge fuck? No, it definitely wasn’t anything like that.” I tongue the inside of my cheek. “Just a bit of fun between the sheets.”
He tightens his lips, amused. “That’s good to hear. Glad I could entertain you in a way that you like.”
“Well, it wasn’t that much fun,” I backpedal, trying not to inflate his ego.
“No, no, you can’t take it back. It was the best night of your life, and you know it.”
My hands fly up in play surrender. “I admit it. The truth has set me free.”
“Well, as long as you acknowledge it.” He lowers his voice and adds, “And even if you didn’t, the fact that you practically made me deaf by screaming the hell out of my name is proof enough for me.”
My jaw hits the floor as Foster stifles a grin.
“You did not just say that.”
“There’s proof in the action. Cause and effect.”
I shake my head and return my attention to the task at hand. Stacking the books together, I check in the top manual as Foster scoots toward his monitor, resuming work.
It would appear that Wolfgang was right. If I don’t make a big deal out of it, then neither will Foster. However, he was obviously unhappy when he thought that I was being unfaithful to someone else, which I understand, but then he was able to quickly resign that my dating someone didn’t matter. Curious.
“Hey, Foster?”
“Yes, EJ?”
I edge closer to him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Before, you said something about, it doesn’t matter if I’m dating someone. What did you mean?”
He closes his lids. “This is why I was nervous to see you.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I like you, Evelyn. I do. But I can’t…we can’t…”
“Date?”
“It’s nothing against you. It’s me. I just…can’t. I’m sorry.”
I laugh. “Stop, Fozzie. You’re going to hurt yourself. I had a lot of fun, and I like you, too. I’m not looking to date you either, so don’t worry.”
He adjusts his dark frames. “Still friends then?”
“Yes, friends.”
The server clears our plates and then sweeps the crumbs from the crisp linen tablecloth. My father dabs the corners of his mouth with the black napkin and then places it on his knee. Out of habit, I smooth my palms over the napkin lying across my lap.
My father called yesterday, informing me that he was going to be passing through town for a business meeting on his way to Los Angeles, and hoped that we might be able to get together for a late lunch. With his constant work schedule, time with him is so difficult to come by, but I do enjoy his company for the most part. So, I made arrangements with my professor to miss class in order to meet my father. Even though I will see him during winter break in about two weeks, I couldn’t pass up this opportunity for some one-on-one time.
This morning, knowing my father’s tastes for international fare, I emailed his secretary the address of a Scottish restaurant downtown for us to meet. He was late since his meeting ran over schedule, so our time together will be quicker than expected. Lunch is now coming to a close, and he will be leaving to board a plane shortly for the West Coast.
He signals for the server, and she arrives promptly. My father has a commanding air to his demeanor, and everyone respects it when in his presence. He’s been this way for as long as I can remember. Even my excessively assertive and opinionated mother respects his word. He has a balanced mix of authority, gentleness, and just enough charisma.
“A twelve-year-old scotch, please,” he tells the petite woman. Then, he asks me, “Would you like one, E?”
“No, thanks.” I smile kindly. “I’m scheduled to work tonight.”
“Of course.” He addresses the woman at his side, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, “Just one for me, and you can bring the check with it.”
She nods and leaves the two of us alone in the sparse restaurant where the bussers are readying the tables for the evening service.
Shaking his head, he states, “I will never understand why you took a job with the school library system.”
“I thought a good work ethic was important to you?”
“It is,” he agrees, leaning over the table. “But I could have easily set you up with a local advertising firm. At least then, maybe you could have gotten some hands-on experience with the business.”
Frustrated by the constant fight on this topic, I blurt, “Who says I want to join the business?”
“E, I thought we discussed this already. The only reason I even supported your…desire to pursue art was because we agreed that it would be beneficial to the company. Art history is a good path because it could help with future research as well as it looks good on your transcripts when applying to grad school. Thankfully, this school is commendable enough that Ivy League won’t be out of the question.”
I peek out the window as pedestrians meander down the sidewalk under the late afternoon sun. In his charcoal-gray suit, the patriarch of my family sits a little taller in his seat and spreads his fingers along the linen-covered surface.
“I remember the conversation,” I answer quietly.
The server brings my father his drink along with the bill. He quickly slips his credit card into the billfold, and she scurries off to run it through the machine.
He takes a slow sip of his scotch and then rests it on the table, his fingers still wrapped around the fine crystal. “E, listen. You should have choices, but I still want what’s best for you and your future.”
“Working for the family business certainly doesn’t feel like a choice.”
His shoulders slump. “I know how much you love your art, and I think you have talent—a lot of it actually. I still have some of your work hanging on the walls in my office and not because you’re my daughter. It’s really good.”
I peer at him, hopeful.
“However,” he continues, “the life of an artist is no guarantee. I want to support your wishes, but I won’t back a decision that could leave you penniless and dependent for the rest of your life.”
“I don’t need much,” I argue.
“No doubt,” he scoffs, “thanks to the trust your grandparents set up for you. But a kid who lives off their family’s fortune for the rest of her existence is trouble in the making. Look at the Jacksons’ boys, living out west, spending money like it’s going out of style. No job. No prospects. No desire. They’re lazy and unmotivated—not to mention, their occasional run-ins with the law. I don’t want that for you. You�
��re better than that.”
“I would never end up like that,” I protest.
“No, you won’t,” he states firmly, “and I’ll make sure of it. I’m not taking your hobby—”
I judge him sternly, insulted by the term hobby.
“Your talent,” he substitutes, “away from you. I just want to make sure you have a future—one with purpose as well as independence.”
“I understand,” I resign.
My father continues to indulge his scotch as I patiently wait for our time to be up.
“How’s Barbara?” I inquire about my sister, changing the subject.
He sighs. “Married.”
“Yeah.” I giggle over his reluctance in saying it. “I remember. I was there for the wedding, too.”
“I wish she would have waited.”
Quirking my head to the side, I ask, “I thought you liked Geoffrey?”
“He’s a good guy, but I don’t think they needed to get married so quickly. They dated only a few months before getting engaged. They barely knew one another. But what’s done is done.”
“She’s happy though, right?” I ask, wondering if there’s something that I don’t know.
“She seems to be.” He downs the rest of his drink, gently placing the empty glass on the table. “She’s so different than you.”
“No kidding. Winning Miss Congeniality in a Miss Teen America Pageant was never my thing,” I say, referring to one of my sister’s many accolades. “Nor was having a championship poodle a necessity for me.”
“She’s more like your mother. You ended up being more like me.”
I laugh. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Depends on who you ask.” Subconsciously, he fingers the top of his dark brown hair with specs of silver running throughout, a habit I witness only in the comfort of family. “Trust me, always speaking your mind has its drawbacks as well as its perks.”
“Yeah, I’m still learning that lesson.”
“You will figure it out with time. Life has a way of forcing you to see your place, one way or another.”
The server returns the check, thanks us for coming, and wishes us a good afternoon. My father and I rise from our seats, and together, we make our way toward the exit while shrugging into our jackets. Emerging from the comfortable restaurant, I slip on my gloves and walk half a block down the street to where the town car is waiting. We duck inside the cabin, rich with black leather upholstery and tinted windows, and then my father instructs the driver to take me to my apartment, reciting the address by memory.
“How are your applications coming, by the way?” my father asks when we’re about halfway to our destination. “Any problems or questions? I’m happy to help.”
“Thanks, but I sent them all off a few weeks ago. Now, I’m just waiting.”
“Let me know as soon as you hear anything. I’m happy to make a call, if need be. You’re a legacy at Yale, so that should be a shoo-in.”
“I don’t want you to make a call,” I say with slight disgust.
“Don’t sound so turned off. It’s the way it’s done sometimes, whether you like it or not.”
I sigh. “But if it doesn’t happen on my own merit, then I shouldn’t go in the first place.”
“I hope you didn’t botch your applications,” he says in warning. “I can fix a lot of things, but outright mocking will not be ignored.”
“Of course not. I would never do that. You and Mother always taught me to do my best, no matter what. So, I did.”
“Good. Because you will get your MBA. It will open more doors for you than you could possibly imagine.”
“Maybe I want to find a different kind of door with a different key,” I mumble.
“I heard you,” he says, humored. “You might want to work on your whisper technique.” He leans in my direction, over the vehicle’s bench seat. “Your mother is really good at her whisper technique. Sometimes, I miss an entire conversation.”
I chuckle. “That might be a result of your own self-preservation, Dad.”
“Possibly.” He shrugs. “But it might be the secret to all marriages. However, when she really wants to talk to me, she sure as hell makes sure she has my attention.” A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re like her, too. When you really want something, you make sure you have everyone’s attention. I love that about both of you. You might not realize it, but you get your passion from her.”
I slump back in my seat. “Too bad we have dissimilar interests.”
“It might seem that way, but you are both motivated by love, and there’s no arguing the reasoning behind that.”
There’s currently a lull of students at the engineering library, so I’m using the opportunity to scan through the images I recently took for my final photography project. I’ve been working on my fire study for over a week, and I’m confident with the collection of frames and compositions. The purpose of this project was to show a situation or object that was on the opposite spectrum of our last study.
Fire and water are counterparts in almost every sense. One is gaseous and hot while the other is fluid and tends to do well at room temperature. In different realms on the color spectrum, one is generally thought of as red while the other is blue. Knowing this as well as the fact that they don’t mix, extinguishing one another upon contact, I’m attempting to show how they are similar. My study focuses on the fluidity of the flame in comparison to that of water.
Foster is currently in the stacks, helping a student, while I man the desk. It’s been a little over a week since our one-nighter, and right now, it’s like it was a surreal moment, more fiction than fact. Our first few shifts together were somewhat awkward, but we’ve been moving forward toward a better comfort level. There are occasions when I do glance in his direction, recalling his naked body, but I shake it off as hormones and curiosity.
There is definitely a strangeness to working with someone who you’ve seen in the nude with his full nakedness on you, in you, yet never had anything romantic with—and have no feelings of regret or assumptions for a relationship. One-night stands are more low maintenance than I thought, especially since he and I are on the same page about what occurred.
Our interactions aren’t exactly the same. There is a little more filter, like we’re both being careful not to cross any line, but working with him has been easy enough up to this point. Of course, whenever I enter the building, I ask him to turn around, so I can get a good look at his ass, but it’s only as an icebreaker for each shift. He happily obliges, shaking his head. I hope he’s not documenting my requests for a sexual harassment case.
With my laptop on my knees, I continue to scroll through the images, noting my favorites for print. The assignment is due next week, and I plan to get most of the printing and matting done this weekend.
“That’s hot,” Foster comments over my shoulder, leaning across the counter. “New project?”
“Yeah,” I answer, focused. “It’s for my photography final. I’m finally getting a good grasp on this one.”
“So, you went with fire this time? No wind or earth?” He rounds the desk, taking his seat next to me, scooting closer to his monitor.
“No.” I shut my laptop and shove it back into its bag. “It just kind of worked out that way since I did water on my last shoot.”
“Ah, you needed to do that opposites thing?”
“How did you know?” I ask, straightening in my chair.
“It’s kind of obvious. Water and fire don’t mix on any level.” He pauses in contemplation. “Well, that’s not true now that I think about it. Chemically speaking, they can work aside one another. It’s a battle but possible.”
“You’ve gone all scientist on me again. It’s not complex. One is hot, and the other is wet. The end.”
“Sorry, bad habit.” Foster removes the dark frames from his face, placing them next to the keyboard. “I was just thinking that, even though fire and water generally work against one
another—one always winning the war, so to speak—there are some environments where they can coexist. It’s all about having the right chemistry.”
“Well, I’ll take your word for it.” I roll my seat forward to reach my monitor. “You do know chemistry a lot better than I do.”
“Yes, we established that pretty well about a week ago.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But my knowledge of Newton’s first law totally kicked your ass.”
“No, that was EJ Cunning’s law mixed with my desire to see you kiss your friend.”
“Call it what you like.”
“I almost feel like I should call it cheating.”
“Fozzie.”
“Evelyn.”
“I outwitted you. That’s all that was, nothing more.” I playfully grin in his direction, tucking a fading rouge lock behind my ear. “Besides, if I recall, you still had a happy ending to the evening.”
“And…” He exhales. “You went there.”
“So, it wasn’t happy?”
“No comment.”
“That’s what I thought.” Smug, I return my attention back to the computer screen. “Cunning wins again.”
He clicks the mouse a few times, and I take the cue that our little conversation is over. With not much to do, I pull out a book on Van Gogh for my thesis, wanting to do a little more research on his childhood, hoping to find a way to properly connect it to his work.
“It wasn’t bad,” Foster remarks out of nowhere.
“What did you say?”
He chuckles. “I said it wasn’t bad. The ending. The one you were referring to last week.”
I flip a page. “Well, when they end the way yours did, most people consider them to be very good, fantastic.” I peek at his concentrated profile. “Orgasmic even.”
“True.” He stays focused on the monitor, holding his mouth tight so not to show any delight in our conversation. “If I recall correctly, yours was pleasant also.”
“No complaints here.”
“That’s good to hear.” A huge grin begins to form across his mouth.
“Don’t look so self-assured,” I remark.
More Than Water Page 9
