“Are you ready to go?” She smiles pleasantly at Dan, but then turns back to me.
“Yes.” God, yes. “It was really good to see you again…Dan. And thank you for–” gesturing to the large sweatshirt– “this.”
He ignores the last part. “It was good to see you, too, Sarah.”
The sincerity in his face is oddly reassuring. It’s impossible to think that I’d conveyed anything remotely resembling my best self, but his genuine kindness makes the calamity of the last half hour feel, maybe, slightly less calamitous. At least temporarily…
§
Leaving Charlie’s, Selene and I walk along University Avenue, only distantly aware of the people around us, and of our necessary course corrections to avoid running into them. Neither of us says a word for long minutes.
“He was my high school biology teacher,” I finally whisper as the indignity seeps back into my consciousness.
“That guy is a science teacher?” She’s definitely taken aback by this little nugget of information, and gives herself a moment to process. “He’s not like any science teacher I’ve ever had.”
That’s probably true for most people, but it doesn’t help my humiliation in the least to dwell on it.
“That was horrifying.”
“Yeah, it pretty much was,” she affirms. Like it or not, Selene never pulls punches. It’s actually one of the things I like best about her. Although every once in a while, I wouldn’t mind being lied to. Just a little bit. “Someone needed to step in there before you reprised the Celtic dance you did at Sheryl’s 21st birthday. You were definitely heading in that direction.”
“God, was it that bad?”
“So to recap: You dropped your tampon at his feet; bent to pick it up, thus, spilling your drink on his shoes and pants; and carried on a full conversation while exposing your breasts. Did I leave anything out?”
“I told him I wanted to plagiarize his Ph.D.”
“Oh, nice touch! Well, look at it this way–you probably won’t ever have to see him again.”
I take a deep breath. That’s true, I tell myself in a consoling manner. Although…
“He offered to help me with my scholarship essay.”
Selene turns to me, eyebrows raised. “Was that before or after you popped your blouse open?”
“Oh, my God.” A fresh wave of nausea ripples through my stomach.
“You should definitely take him up on it, though.”
“There is no way I could do that now. I just gave him a peep show!”
“So what. They’re just boobs. He’s a biology teacher, after all.”
Right.
“What got you so wacked, anyway? He’s ridiculously hot, but that was…” She shakes her head as if she’s at a loss to commit an adjective to that particular scene.
“I really don’t know what that was. I think I’m just tired.”
But, truthfully, I think it’s more than that. It’s a funny thing to see someone after many years, and to find him so different from what you remember. Maybe he seems different to me because I’m different, but I would never have described him as friendly or warm.
Although to be fair, I can’t imagine I’d have weathered much better in his memory. I can only guess how I would have come across to him at that tumultuous time in my life: introverted, sullen, obsessively focused on my college resume. I stop short before I can allow myself to consider how I might have come across tonight.
When we finally reach our apartment, I go quickly to my bedroom. I collapse to the bed, and stare up at the sparkling popcorn ceiling for a long time. It’s astonishing how running into someone you knew years ago throws you back immediately to who you were when you knew him. I feel the need to mentally shake off that person I once was. But it’s also a good reminder of what has changed in the time between–how far I’ve come in many ways, and what’s still in front of me to do. I dial my friend Marcus on an impulse.
“I need to ask you a favor…”
Chapter 2
Danny
“JUST MARRY ME. YOU DON’T even have to have sex with me,” I announce to Mel, as I walk into the Callahan’s spacious kitchen on Sunday night.
She’s facing the 8-burner stainless cooktop, slicing up lasagna so good, it could make a grown man cry. I grab her by the hips, and plant a chaste kiss on the top of her straight, shoulder-length brown hair.
“You’re about eleven years too late on the marriage proposal, but I’ll consider the sex,” she replies. “I hear you’re adequate in bed.”
“Fine. As long as it can involve your cooking.”
Mel Callahan is my second best friend in the world, only narrowly trailing her husband, Jamie, who has been like a brother to me since we were nine years old.
“Are you offering your body, again, in exchange for dinner?” Jamie cracks, as he strides in.
“No, this time I offered to marry her.”
“Wow! You’ve finally asked someone to marry you?”
“Fuck you.” I grin, without an ounce of malice. Then I strike quickly, cuffing him on the back of the head. He turns and punches me squarely on the shoulder. It’s good to see him again.
Jamie is the front man and guitarist of Cadence, a well-established alternative rock band. He’s spent the last few weeks on tour in the Southern states to promote the new album, which is already getting great reviews.
“How’d it go in the Bible Belt?”
“Pretty damn well for a bunch of sinners, I suppose.” He laughs, tossing me a beer from the fridge, and casually leaning against the counter. “The new material went off well; crowds were friendly.”
It’s still a surreal experience for me to watch his success and fortunes grow because in my head, he’ll always just be Jamie–a scrawny Irish kid with a funny accent and auburn hair; a tough guy with a big mouth and a huge heart.
As we’re catching up, Mel comes over, tapping Jamie on the hip so he’ll step to the side of the silverware drawer.
“Need some help?” I offer, as she gathers a collection of forks and knives.
“Nope, we’re good,” she says to me, and then hands the mass of utensils to Jamie. “Grab some water for the boys, as well?”
She caps off the request by pushing up on her toes to plant a swift kiss on his jaw, which he answers by wrapping his arm around her waist and going in for a much more thorough one.
I’m used to this. Their reunions after Jamie’s been away for a while are always a little… amorous. So, I pull the phone out of my pocket and check my email, giving them a moment to themselves.
Almost instantly, my inbox refreshes and a message appears from Sarah Kyle. I just stare at it for a second, shocked as hell to hear from her. It’s been almost two months since I gave her my email, and I figured she either lost it, or didn’t want my help.
“What is it?” Jamie asks, assessing my expression.
“Nothing. Just a work thing.”
Jamie continues to stare expectantly. Nosy bastard.
“It’s from a former student of mine that I ran into at Charlie’s a while back. I told her I would help her with an outline she’s working on.”
Jamie heads over to the large farmer’s table and begins haphazardly dropping silverware and paper napkins at each place setting. While he does, I glance through the attached outline on my phone. It’s a good start, which doesn’t surprise me; I remember Sarah as being very bright and hard working. But some of the ideas here could use some development, and I think I can help her choose the ones that she’ll be able to land most effectively.
I’m glad to do it. The other thing I remember about Sarah is that we shared a similar fate. From what I had heard, Sarah’s father died suddenly when she was fifteen, and when I knew her a couple of years later, she still seemed sad to me. I understood it; I lost my parents to a car accident at twenty-three, and know all too well how devastating something like that can be. It’s an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
It would be nice
to help her, and also to pay forward some of the generosity that others have shown me in my own career.
“So, what have you got, there?” Jamie says, nodding his chin at the box of supplies I left on the island. “Tell me you’re not going to blow anything up in my backyard.”
I laugh.
My godsons, Patrick and Shane, love science. I’ve made it my mission to enhance their education by bringing over an experiment for us to conduct almost every time I come over. We’ve made slime, determined the necessary components of combustion, dissected things, checked out our body parts in a microscope, and compared the Leindenfrost effect on solutions with different boiling points. The boys and I don’t limit ourselves to any one scientific discipline–pretty much everything is fair game. And the messier the better, in their eyes; they love to get dirty. Mel may not love it quite as much, but she’s generally a good sport.
Today’s experiment is a rather dramatic example of a chemical reaction, a real fan favorite among kids, assuming, of course, that you take the proper safety precautions. Thus, is the reason I’ve brought test tubes, goggles and protective clothing, which form the basis of Jamie’s suspicions. We’re going to demonstrate an exothermic reaction by dropping Gummi Bears into heated potassium chlorate. The effect is a spectacular conflagration of total Gummi Bear annihilation.
“I think ‘blow up’ is a little strong,” I answer with a straight face, pretending not to feel the full weight of Mel’s gimlet eye behind me. “This is just a friendly little experiment involving the oxidation of sugar,” I continue, waving offhandedly at the box as I gauge their exact level of disbelief.
“A friendly experiment?”
“Very.”
“Requiring safety gear and a fire extinguisher?” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the table.
“All overkill, really. I’m a professional; and the kids will be observing from a safe distance.”
He laughs. “Interestingly enough, it actually wasn’t the kids I was worried about. But I’d rather not have the neighbors going bats, thinking I’m getting ready to torch the place.”
“The amount of potassium chlorate we’re using requires only a very small flame. Tiny, really. Smaller than the one on your barbecue.”
Jamie looks to Mel for back up. “It’s like arguing with Bill Nye,” he says to her.
I laugh. “It’s all in the name of science.”
He shakes his head, finishing his task by tossing the small forks in the general vicinity of where Paddy and Shane will be sitting. Then he turns to me, his dimples fighting their way onto his face.
“Mark my words, mate. When you have kids someday, I’m buying them a drum kit.”
§
Sarah
Even if I lived in some alternate universe, I never would have predicted the email that I receive back from Dan on Monday night.
Sarah,
You’ve got some great ideas here but, as I expressed to you, I’m concerned about your trying to tackle too expansive a topic. Attached is your outline with my suggestions. Be warned: There’s a lot of red, although no crime was committed, I assure you. :) If the notes don’t make sense, I’d be glad to talk through them with you, either live or by phone.
Dan
Attached to the email is my outline, as promised, with a voluminous amount of commentary, articles for reference, and various political and educational organizations that are doing work in this area. In short, he must have put hours of time into this. And he’s right; there is a lot of red. My head is spinning as I scroll through his notes and suggestions, trying to make sense of the flow and content.
Wow. I have no idea what to think. I had debated for weeks whether to reach out to him as he had suggested. I drafted an outline on my own–actually, I drafted seven of them–but he was right, they all felt like a superficial treatment of the subject. And I knew I couldn’t jeopardize my scholarship for the sake of vanity–well, utter humiliation is probably more accurate. The essay is literally worth tens of thousands of dollars in funding. I wanted the help–God knows I needed it–I just didn’t know him well enough to know if his offer was genuine. Apparently, it was.
Selene walks in to our tiny kitchen as I’m looking through the material. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just heard back from Dan Moore. He sent me a enough notes to fill a novel.”
She moves around to see the screen, and whistles at the maze of comments, uttering something expressive in Greek.
“He offered to walk me through this. Would that be too weird to do in person?”
“No. Why would that be weird? You can keep your top on, right?”
“Oh, very funny.”
But, here’s the thing: I trust her judgment. She’s been my best friend since freshman orientation, and I know for a fact that she’d never let me do something stupid.
So, emboldened by her confidence, I respond to his message that, indeed, talking through his comments would be very helpful. And after some back and forth, (and much consideration on my part over my clothing selection) we exchange cell numbers, and agree to meet at 5PM on Wednesday at Starbucks near campus.
Chapter 3
Sarah
I ARRIVE AT STARBUCKS RIGHT at 5:00, and Dan is already there, seated at a small round table in the corner, his laptop in front of him. Today, he looks just like the teacher I remember, dressed in a lavender-striped dress shirt that sets off his coloring nicely, and dark jeans. I already know he’s intelligent, but his whole appearance just emphasizes it.
Over the course of the next hour, I take him through my original idea. He listens carefully, taking notes and asking questions. Then, he walks me through his comments, pointing out areas in which the research won’t support my thesis, and helping me to focus my area of interest to a more manageable scope.
He knows so much about this subject that it’s a little intimidating, but I never feel as though he’s talking down to me. He seems genuinely interested in my perspective.
As our final concept is coming together, we’re sitting close, both of us focused on the computer. I’m typing and he’s leaning in, watching the screen to make sure that I capture the idea in its entirety. I’m so close to him that I can smell the light, fresh scent of his aftershave or soap.
“Perfect.” He smiles, turning to me, and nodding his head slightly. “You’re just missing a hyphen right there,” he says, pointing to the screen, casually.
Now, fun fact about Sarah: I’m a bit of an enthusiast when it comes to grammar and punctuation.
Dan is, in fact, one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. But, in this particular instance, I know he’s incorrect. So, I ignore his comment.
Annoyingly, he reiterates.
I inhale a deep breath. “Actually, it doesn’t need a hyphen,” I say carefully.
“I think it actually does,” he says, squinting one eye, and making kind of a pirate face, as if he’s embarrassed to be pointing out my ignorance.
And that is exactly what kicking the hornet’s nest looks like. I purse my lips and just stare at him. Oh Lord, I’m dying to tease him. Dying. If I were a stronger person, I’d be able to resist. I should resist.
But I just can’t.
“Doesn’t,” I enunciate.
Dan is initially stunned. In fact, if it were possible, his eyeballs would be burning holes in my face. They’re moving rapidly back and forth across mine, like the answer to a monumentally important question is written right there.
Then, patiently, as if it explains everything, he drawls, “I’m a teacher.”
Equally as patient, I reply, “A science teacher.”
“I’m a doctoral candidate,” he responds in dismay.
“In education,” I say slowly.
He blinks several times. It’s a comical moment. My heart is attempting to pound its way right out of my chest, and his face, which is just a short distance from mine, looks like it’s going to explode. We’re having this crazy-ass stando
ff over a hyphen, the world’s most innocuous of all punctuation marks. And yet, here we are.
In that moment, there is no breath between us, no movement, whatsoever. You could hear a pin drop in China with all of the stone-cold quiet. He has the most incredulous look on his face. It’s not anger; it’s more like shock and awe, topped with a huge dollop of what the hell???
“I’m just saying,” I prod him casually. “Being a teacher doesn’t make you an expert in everything.” Then I raise my eyebrows for dramatic effect.
He barks out a laugh and places his hands on the table, palms down. A smile spreads across his stunning face, as he looks me over from head to toe. His posture is pure challenge; the smile is pure glee, mischievous glee–100 megawatts of perfect white teeth and supermodel confidence. It would be entirely disarming if it weren’t for the fact that I know with absolute certainty, he is plotting revenge.
“A bet, then.” His sparkling eyes never leave mine.
“Fine,” I reply, matching his confidence.
He glances down at his watch, and, then back to me. “Dinner. Tonight. Winner pays.”
I see his game. He thinks he’s going to both win the bet, and have the upper hand by paying for dinner. The problem with his smug plan is that I know he’s wrong about the hyphen. It’s not that I care, but now he’s thrown the gauntlet and, quite frankly, I’m enjoying myself.
“Deal. I owe you dinner anyway,” I shrug. “I’m going to use the restroom. You look it up on any site you trust and show me what you’ve found when I come back.”
His uber confidence falters for just a moment revealing a flash of uncertainty. I take that opportunity to get up and leave the table, laughing to myself at the image I conjure of him furiously scouring the Internet for his answer.
When I return, he’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, looking both irritated and greatly amused. We stare at each other for a long moment and, at last, he lowers his eyes smiling, shaking his head slowly and muttering a curse under his breath.
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