by Brea Brown
*****
If we weren’t speaking on video chat, and I couldn’t see my only friend, I’d think we’d been disconnected. But he’s merely staring at me.
“You are Rose?” he finally asks in the most normal tone of voice I’ve ever heard him use.
I take a deep breath. “In a way. The things that happen to her happened to me. But Rose is a lot stronger than I am. She’s the version of me I wish I could be. She reacts to adversity in ways I could only dream of.”
“And I really am Jack?”
“Well… yeah. But you already knew that.”
“Yeah, he’s too awesome to come from your imagination,” he says, rubbing his chin. “But Chicka-Chicka-Boom-Boom! Did that really happen to your family? Did you really have two sisters who died in a fire?” He makes the last word sound like two syllables.
It’s probably the only possible way someone could ask me about it that would make me smile. So, I do, albeit sadly. Then I say, “Yes. And my parents died, too.”
He gasps and covers his mouth. “OMG, Jayne!” he muffles. He blinks rapidly. “I—I—I—”
“Please, Gus. Please,” I interrupt him. “Don’t say it. I know you’re sorry. I know it’s awful. I lived it. I wrote it. I whored my story out—”
“Now, wait just a buh-donk-a-donk minute, Missy May—”
“I didn’t say it so that you’d reassure me it was the opposite.”
“I know you didn’t! You mean it, which is the most bajiggity part of it. You actually think that! Good guh-ravy!” He fans his face. “Girl, you’re gonna make me cry!”
“Why are you crying?”
“Well, one of us should be!” he replies defensively. “It’s a horrible thing you lived through, and you obviously feel guilty for surviving and for profiting from it, although you should not consider this profiting. You will never, ever, ever even break even, not with a bazillion dollars, and not by meeting a thousand movie stars—even Nicholas Hoult. Not even by having someone like Luke-Ass Edwards fall in love with you and sweep you off your feet in his ever-so-awkward, grumpy way. Oh, girl!” He dabs at the corners of his eyes with his pinkies.
Having been semi-distracted throughout this entire conversation by what Luke told me earlier today, and already thinking about him, it takes me a second to realize how out-of-place Gus’s mention of him is. When I do, though, I say, “Wait. What? What about Luke? What are you talking about?”
I never told Gus anything about what happened between Luke and me. As a matter of fact, I had to make up a bunch of nonsense to explain having to cancel—yet again—our fun weekend together in Marblehead, when I left earlier than I’d planned. Gus was none-too-pleased about it, too. My lies kept getting more and more complicated as I made up increasingly-impossible reasons we couldn’t stay at that house, even after my manuscript was finished. It was horrible.
Gus weakly slaps himself in the face. “Oh, shoot! I’ve done it now!” he says without sounding at all remorseful. “And I promised him I wouldn’t tell you. Oh, well. What’s done is done.”
“Tell me what?” I demand, feeling breathless and panicky.
Casually, on the verge of sounding extremely bored, he explains, “After you went back to Indiana, he stopped by my work one day, and we had a man-to-man. He invited me to stay out at Marblehead the weekend I was supposed to stay, anyway, and I jumped at it.” When I make an indignant sound, he says, “Hey! Twice you took back your invitation, which wasn’t fair, so I figured it was only right that I get to spend a couple of days at a house like that, even if you weren’t there.”
“You stayed there alone all weekend?”
“Hells to the no, sister! Luke-Ass was there with me.”
This is an even more incredible scenario. “Huh?! You and Luke spent a weekend together in Marblehead? I don’t believe it.”
He becomes more animated now. “Buh-lieve it, Babushka. Cuz it happened. And let me tell you, it was awkward at first.”
“I can only imagine.”
“But it got better. I mean, at first, I could tell he wanted to talk about… stuff… but he didn’t know how to get things started, so I finally got the ball rolling and told him how you and I met, which led to your book, which led to him not being able to shut the hell up about you.”
My heart stutter-steps. “R-really?”
“Oh, yes! Finally, by Sunday morning, I was like, ‘I love Jayne, but can we talk about something else… or not at all?’ My ears were tired! What did you do to that man, anyway? He’s got it bad!”
“I didn’t do anything to him!” I defend myself too vehemently. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before now?”
He thinks about it for a second and then says, “It never came up in conversation. If you had mentioned him, it would have reminded me, and I probably would have said something.”
“Probably?”
“Maybe. I dunno. You know how I am sometimes.”
“How about mentioning that you went to Marblehead and stayed at the beach house? That would have been a start. For one thing, it would have let me know I was off the hook for canceling on you twice.”
“You didn’t deserve to be off the hook, sister-friend! But like I said, I just kept forgetting.”
“Liar.”
He sighs. “Okay, fine. He did ask me not to tell you that he invited me out there. But he kept saying that he’d heard so much about me and that he was disappointed that your finishing your book ahead of schedule meant that I didn’t get to spend my weekend at his house.” He laughs. “I mean, he didn’t say it that eloquently. It was kind of a bumbling, stumbling delivery, but that was the gist of it. I could tell he was fishing for information about you, too, but since you hadn’t mentioned his name once since leaving Boston, I figured you didn’t feel the same way he feels about you, so I kept mum. Not that it was hard to do, since he hardly let me get a word in edgewise, anyway. He was so busy talk-talk-talking about how wonderful you are.”
“Stop it. That can’t be true!”
“So he did a good job of hiding it around you.”
“Well, there were some indications that he tolerated my company, but… If you’re wondering if we had sex, the answer is no.”
“I know you didn’t. He told me.”
“What?!”
“Yeah. He said you were freaked out about his crazy wife, and then he had some worries about your professional relationship, but he figured that as soon as the book was out, you guys wouldn’t have to worry so much.”
My heart takes a nosedive. “He’d still be married.”
“You know it’s only a matter of time before he kicks that bitch to the curb, though.”
“I refuse to stand in the background and wait,” I grumble mulishly.
“Good for you! But he told me that he can’t continue to live in limbo with that crazy dipshit always interfering in his life.”
He’s known that for a long time, though, and it hasn’t motivated him enough to divorce her. I stare at my laptop keyboard, replaying in my head my most recent conversation with Luke, in light of all this information.
Gus interrupts my woolgathering by trilling, “Woo-hoo!! Helloo, Ms. Greer? Are you alive there?”
“Barely,” I mumble, too low for him to hear. Then I focus my eyes and smile shakily at him. “I guess I can’t be mad at you for not telling me this, all things considered, huh?”
“Damn right. I mean, I had a feeling your parents were no longer living, but I had no idea their deaths were so… dramatic. And… I dunno… I never thought to ask. Is that weird?” he asks.
For anyone else, yes. For self-absorbed Gus, no. Instead of putting it that way, though, I say, “I was glad you never asked. Saved me from telling lies.”
“You wouldn’t have told me the truth, even if I asked?”
“No.”
“Uh!”
“If the whole world weren’t about to know, I wouldn’t be telling you now,” I admit. “It’s… too difficult.”
>
“We don’t ever have to talk about it, Babushka, unless you want to,” he promises, uncharacteristically gentle.
I tear up. “Really?”
“Absolutely! I won’t ever say anything about it, unless you bring it up.”
I nod furiously before I can choke out, “Thanks, Gus.”
“You betcha. Now what’re you gonna do about Luke-Ass Edwards?”
My hand on my forehead, I admit, “I have no idea.”
*****
Before Gus could get too carried away with crazy ideas (lounging naked next to the pool at the beach house and waiting for Luke to notice me out there being one of the tamer ones he proposed before I stopped him), I revealed that I wasn’t sure I was going to do anything about Luke for the time being. I had my reasons (in addition to the hugest one, his wife): classes were about to start at Fairfax; things were about to get extremely tense between several people and me at Thornfield; and I needed to think about why Luke would be so willing to tell Gus—a practical stranger—all the things he told him (obviously with the intent that Gus wouldn’t keep it from me) but not tell me any of those things directly.
Gus didn’t like my decision, but he seemed content with my promise to let him know if anything noteworthy happens. I don’t expect to be giving him a report anytime soon.
Teaching is taking up most of my attention and energy right now. I have a small class, and I’m sure they’re not representative of the average American college student (at least they’re not like any of the people I went to college with), considering they attend a very small, very selective school, but their enthusiasm astounds me. I guess I was still sleepwalking through life when I was an undergraduate, because I wasn’t anything like they are. I expected to spend most of my classroom time lecturing about various styles and techniques and then giving assignments, but these kids like to talk. And ask questions. And discuss my answers. That’s great, too. I’m glad. Surprised, but glad.
Also not what I expected: my office hours are busy. I pictured myself grading papers, keeping an eye on the clock, and going home when my office period was over. The reality is that I haven’t left campus on time once so far. Students are waiting for me when I arrive at my office; they queue up along the wall outside. Sometimes they’re looking for clarification on an assignment; sometimes they want to chat about how to get published; sometimes they want me to look over something they’ve written in their spare time; and other times they merely want to shoot the breeze.
As long as we’re not talking about me, I enjoy the conversations. I only get uncomfortable when they ask me for personal specifics regarding my thoughts, experiences, and feelings about writing and publishing. That’s when I find myself very obviously closing up and becoming terse. That’s when I enforce my fifteen-minute-per-student time limit.
Conversely, things aren’t going so great for me on my personal publishing journey. I’ve appealed all the way up the Thornfield chain of command to Arthur Thornfield, himself, regarding my plight about their using my personal history as a marketing tool. While the people under him put on a fairly good show of being pleasant and sympathetic to my concerns, Arthur didn’t mince words.
“Welcome to the Big Leagues, kiddo,” he said condescendingly. “You’re not going to get your way all the time, especially when you don’t make your wishes known upfront.”
The more I persuaded (and eventually, pleaded), the harder he became. He interrupted me two or three times and even mocked me once, after I said, “This is my life your trifling with.” Using the same plaintive tone of voice, he replied, “This is my business you’re trifling with, Ms. Greer. And you started it, by writing a book about your life, and selling it to my company.”
“I never wanted anyone to know that’s what it was about, though,” I explained, foolishly thinking he’d finally understand.
He simply laughed and said, “Well, that didn’t work out according to plan, now, did it? I’m sorry, Ms. Greer, but I’m afraid that’s going to have to be the last word. I have a lunch meeting. Please trust us, though… your biography is going to lend a dimension to your book that will probably triple your sales. Your book signings will be packed. Readings will be sold out. And talks with the movie studio are going well, I know firsthand. Try to relax and enjoy the ride. You deserve it. Bye now.”
I could think of a few things he deserves. Like a slow, painful, lonely death.
I wanted to call Luke and tell him all about it, too, but I didn’t see the point in exposing myself as unimportant and ineffectual when I figured he’d find out soon enough from the man himself that I’d been in touch and that I’d been “handled.”
Anyway, I didn’t want Luke to get the wrong idea and think that I was telling him in the hopes that he’d do something about it. That’s definitely not what I had in mind. What did I have in mind? Well, I wanted a sympathetic ear, I guess. But then I realized I’d be telling him, in effect, that he was right about my not being able to fight Thornfield, and that killed the urge to call him, once and for all.
Today, I’m saying goodbye to the last student to visit me during office hours (a fast-talking female essayist who reminds me of Gus and who wants to know how to transition from writing personal essays to novels) when Dr. Brooks peeks his head around the door frame and asks, “Is it my turn, finally?” with a comically pathetic look on his face that makes me laugh at its unexpectedness.
“How long have you been waiting?” I ask when I’ve recovered.
“On and off for about forty-five minutes,” he tells me, taking the seat next to my desk. “Jayne Greer, you’re a popular lady!”
“An oddity, maybe,” I reply, shutting down my laptop and tucking it into its bag.
Now it’s his turn to laugh. “I don’t know about that. Students here are typically more hands on than at some other universities and colleges. They like intellectual discourse.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Other than the long hours, are you enjoying the experience so far?”
I smile at him. “Immensely. This is… nice. It’s very comfortable and familiar. I’ve always enjoyed academia. And it’s even better now that I’m not the student with seven papers to write.”
He rubs his chin in a Machiavellian manner, closes one eye, and states, “Ah, yes. I find it’s much better to give than receive when it comes to term paper assignments.” Becoming more serious, he says, “The reason I stopped by, though, was to see if you’d like to maybeIdunnojoinafewofusfordinnertonight.”
The way he runs the end of the invitation together makes me laugh.
Encouraged by my reaction, he continues, “It’s a little Thursday night tradition some of us English nerds have. We talk about everything and nothing and compare notes about how to most effectively torture our students.”
I consider the alternative (going home alone to watch TV alone and eat a frozen dinner alone before going to bed alone and reflecting on how alone I am) and immediately accept.
He grins. “Great! We meet up at a place called Saul’s, usually sometime around six. It’s close to campus and easy to find, but you can ride with me… or one of the others… if you want.”
“I’ll find it, I’m sure,” I say confidently. “I’m going to stop by home first, though, to—”
“Oh!” he interrupts me. “That reminds me. There are a few silly ground rules about our Thursday nights at Saul’s.”
“Okay…” I say hesitantly, not sure I like the sound of this.
It’s obvious he’s trying to suppress a smile at my reaction when he continues, “Yes. Um, rule number one: first names only. No ‘Doctors’ or anything fussy like that.”
“Got it.”
“Rule number two: no fancy clothes. You wear what you wore to work or—even better—what you’d wear if you were going to hang out in front of the TV at your house. Unless, of course, you’re an exhibitionist. You get the idea, though.”
“Yes. Ultra casual.”
“Exactly!” He ho
lds up his hand and displays three fingers. “And, finally, rule number three: what happens at Saul’s stays at Saul’s. Not that anything ever happens there. It’s more like a succinct way of saying we don’t hold grudges about conversations that may get heated after someone’s had a few glasses of wine with dinner and forgets that politics and religion aren’t very pleasant topics. We do a decent job of moderating ourselves, but sometimes we get carried away. Some of us are pretty passionate about certain topics.”
“Intellectuals,” I say with a snort.
“Yep. Oh! I guess there’s a sub-rule associated with rule number three,” he adds. “When someone in the group says, ‘Subject change!’ you must immediately and unquestioningly obey the command. That’s how we keep things civil. The person requesting the subject change does not have to explain his or her reasons for wanting one, because that could cause further discomfort. You can call for a subject change on your own behalf or if you simply feel one is in order, based on the reactions of others around you.”
“I see. A proactive approach to conflict avoidance.”
“Yes! Oh, I can tell you’re going to fit in very well, Jayne Greer.” He stands. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Looking forward to it,” I tell him. And I am. It sounds like exactly the sort of nerdy crowd I can disappear into.
Chapter Twenty-Three
These people make me look cool. And I love it!
Oops. Let me backtrack. Saul’s. Very cool hole-in-the-wall-looking place on the outside with an old-fashioned speakeasy atmosphere on the inside. Dim, but not creepy. Very flattering light, actually. I’ve met or seen most of the people in this group before tonight, but they’ve never looked better, even in their “ultra casual” attire after a long day at work. It certainly beats the fluorescent lights in the halls and classrooms of the English building.
Our group of nearly twenty occupies several tables pushed together to make one long table along the side wall of the place. I’m smack-dab in the middle of it all, listening to bits of every conversation but not participating in any so far. I’m trying to get a feel for who I’m dealing with.
