by Brea Brown
If he’s shocked, he’s hiding it well. Or maybe I can’t tell, because his dismay at my initial announcement is overshadowing it.
“This is bad news,” he says simply.
“Tell me about it.” When I realize he’s not talking about my lack of ideas but rather about my not taking the job offer, I change tracks mentally. “Oh! That. Yes. Oh, no. You did vouch for me, didn’t you? And now you’re going to look bad when I don’t accept.”
He waves away my worries. “No. Nothing like that. You have every right to make whatever decision you want to make, and it has no bearing on my status at the school.” Leaning forward, he puts his weight on his elbows on the table. “But it’s bad news for all of us who have gotten to know you and… like you. A lot.”
After holding his eye contact for a few seconds, I venture, “Nobody has to stop knowing me, just because I’m not teaching at Fairfax. I hope to keep in touch with a lot of people. But… it’s not possible for me to do what needs to be done with my writing career and be tied to a classroom. This was a nice break, but that’s always what it was meant to be. A temporary break. From reality.” I smile to soften what appears to be the worst news he’s heard in a long time. I’ve never seen him look so somber.
Distractedly, he says, “Yeah. I mean… I know. I mean, I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course, you have to see to things with your book.” He licks his lips and attempts a smile that falls slightly flat. “Silly fantasy, I guess.”
“Not silly. If I were to be completely honest—and this is just between you and me—I’d rather continue teaching than make appearances and be in front of a bunch of strangers, but I agreed to do all that before I had a clue what I was agreeing to, when I thought it was what I wanted. I was an idiot.” I look off into space and try to remember the person who signed those contracts. She’s practically a stranger to me.
Trying to capture some of his usual enthusiasm and optimism, he says brightly, “Well, you’re always welcome at Fairfax, as long as I have anything to say about it. So, when you’re finished with your glamorous, whirlwind book tour, and if, during filming, a movie star hasn’t swept you off your feet and taken you to exotic, overseas locales, come back to see us. We’d be honored.”
He reaches across the table and grabs my hand. I let him. We both stare at our hands. He has nice ones, I notice not for the first time. I hope he doesn’t notice that winter has not been kind to mine.
“I’m going to miss you, Jayne Greer,” he says quietly.
Finding the nerve to look into his chocolate eyes, I tear up at the emotion I see there. “You’ll be fine,” I reassure him. I clear my throat and continue, “Dan will probably go to the movies with you, if you ask him nicely and only go to the ones based on true stories of political conspiracies. And for the English period pieces, you can always call up Gert. Isn’t she the one who blogs about them? You two would have—”
“I don’t want to go with anyone else.”
Okay, this is a lot less ambiguous than anything he’s said to date. As in, not ambiguous at all. As in, I’m pretty clueless, but I think he’s making the first move. As in, I have to acknowledge what he’s saying, or it’ll seem like I’m rejecting him. And I’m not. I sort of wanted this, right? More than sort of. I have wanted this. For a while. I want to prove I can move on. I’m not broken. There’s more than one person out there for me, and he doesn’t have to be a bad-tempered editor who lives in Massachusetts. He can be a sweet, single, intellectual, optimistic professor at a liberal arts private college. He can be an avid filmgoer and reader. He can call me by my first and last names and make it sound affectionate.
“I don’t want to go with anyone else, either,” I tell him, ignoring the irritating voice in my head that’s screaming, “Second choice!” She can go to Hell. Or be alone for the rest of her life, which seems worse to me at the moment.
His shoulders relax, and he rubs the top of my (scaly) hand with his thumb. “That’s excellent news, Jayne Greer.” Signaling for the check, he asks uncertainly, “Can I take you home? I mean… with me? Or… you don’t have to. Never mind. That’s crass. I’m getting carried away, and—”
“Miles Brooks. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous!” He laughs at my impersonation of him. “I’d love to go home with you. Unless you’ve taken back your invitation for real.”
He shakes his head. “No, the invitation is still very much out there, exposed and unsophisticated though it may be.”
“Then let’s go, Professor.”
*****
I’m a big talker. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. Which I guess isn’t all that bad. Maybe it’s good. Maybe it would suggest a flaw in my character if I could hop in bed with a guy at a second’s notice. Of course, it wasn’t a second’s notice. We’ve been friends for months. I’ve wanted to be more than friends—and so has he, obviously—for at least half of those months, or maybe more. Or maybe less. I don’t know. I’m so confused!
The truth is, it felt weird. I barely had my coat off and had looked around his nice, modest house—which, however clean and tidy it was, had very apparently never benefitted from a woman’s influence—when he was kissing the back of my neck and steering me toward the sofa, a very large, very leather thing in the middle of the living room. I was tense and robotic as he turned me around so that he could kiss my lips. And when we sank to the couch, I was determined to remain sitting, even though he attempted to push me onto my back every thirty seconds or so, like he was saying, Now? No? Okay, how about now? No? What about now?
I finally stopped kissing back and pushed away from him. Smiling gently, I said, “Let’s stay vertical for a while, huh?”
Looking sheepish, he replied, “Okay. Sorry.”
“No apologies necessary. But it’s… been a long time for me.” It was the truth, so I didn’t feel horribly guilty about it being less than the half the reason I couldn’t get into our little makeout session.
“For me, too,” he admitted. “That’s probably why I’m anxious. Do you want to stop?”
That seemed extreme. I worried it’d never feel right if we gave up and stopped. I just had to get used to it, right? That’s what I told myself, anyway.
“No. But I don’t want to lie down.”
He studied my face and then smiled crookedly. “I love that you use correct grammar, no matter the situation.” Before I could reply, he kissed me again. I closed my eyes, hoping I could relax, knowing he wasn’t going to try to force me to do something I didn’t want to do.
No dice. I was as stiff as a wax figure. Eventually, he gave up. He was a good sport about it, because that’s his nature, but I felt like a horrible, frigid tease. Before I had a chance to apologize or explain myself more than I already had, he stood and said, “Let me show you around the place. It’s not much, but it’s home.” His upbeat tone made it clear he didn’t want to dwell on what had just happened… or not happened.
Now I lie in bed in my own tiny apartment and wonder what’s wrong with me. Or, more accurately, what’s wrong with Miles? He meets all the requirements—and then some—of an ideal guy for me. He’s even a good kisser. I guess. But when I think about being with Miles (as in, being with him), the strongest reaction I can summon is, “Meh. Okay.” And that’s not right. I should experience that loin-jerking, stomach-fluttering feeling that someone as horny as I am right now should have no problem feeling for the right—or even currently available—person.
It wasn’t that long ago that I felt it. But like the cold Maryland winter has dulled the memory of the hot summer temperatures on the Massachusetts coast, months of separation and sadness have made it equally difficult to remember exactly how it felt to want someone so much that it was like another sense. Taste, smell, hear, feel, see, desire. Right now, it’s merely a vague recollection. I know I felt it. I remember how it felt. But I can’t quite conjure the same feeling for anyone else.
Ambivalence is killing me. I want to stop feeling
sad and lonely, and I want to stop missing the man who shall not be named, but when someone hands me what appears to be the solution, I stare at it, like, “Hmm… On second thought… Maybe I don’t want that.”
But I do!
Unfortunately, any man won’t do.
It was a mistake to try to turn Miles into something he’s not. We’re friends. That’s it. That’s all we’ll ever be. I’m too hung up on… that other guy, and Miles is too hung up on someone he thinks he knows but who doesn’t exist. I’m not a mysterious and enigmatic and complicated author. I’m just Jayne, posing as the author part and somehow unintentionally giving the impression that I’m those other things. I think the truth is simply too boring for him to believe.
I’m so boring that I can’t even muster the interestingness to have sex with someone for the fun of it.
*****
I knock on Miles’s open office door. To my relief, he seems glad to see me when he looks up from his computer monitor.
“Jayne Greer! It seems like I haven’t seen you in forever.”
It’s only been three days, but I don’t point that out to him. Instead, I say, “End of semester insanity, you know. Nobody warned me about that.”
He cocks his head. “You mean, how you have to give an exam or collect on an assignment weighty enough to judge that someone’s learned something in your class, but you only have twenty-four hours to grade or assess that work?”
I grin. “Exactly. I never even considered that side of things when I was a student.”
“Students generally don’t consider anything from their instructors’ points of view, I’ve found.”
I edge further into the room and point with my thumb to the door. “Do you mind if I…?”
His smile fades, but he answers, “Not at all!” so I close the door and sit in the chair across the desk from him.
“I know you’re going to tell me not to worry about it, but I want to apologize for last weekend.” To my surprise, he says nothing but looks at an invisible speck on his desk that must be uber-interesting, so I continue, “I thought I was ready, but… I guess not. Well, I know not. Obviously.” I sigh. “I’m fucked up right now.”
This statement gets his attention, including full eye contact, in a hurry. Brow furrowed, he asks, “Is everything okay? Do you need help?”
I laugh so he’ll relax a bit. “Probably. The professional kind. But not for anything serious. Just run-of-the-mill angst typically reserved for people half my age or slightly older.”
“There’s someone else,” he states.
I hate admitting it, but I do with a curt nod.
“Anyone I know? Because, you know, I could… uh… beat him up… or something.”
We both laugh at the image, but then I shake my head. “No one you know. I assume you don’t know him, anyway. He’s not someone here.” After an awkward silence, I repeat, “I’m sorry.”
“I am, too.”
His quiet intensity makes me gulp. “I mean, I could fake it. I considered it. But that wouldn’t be fair to you. You deserve better than that. You deserve more than being someone’s second choice.” I choke on the last two words.
He rubs his thumbnail. “Bitterness isn’t in my nature, but I do have to tell you, being a second choice does get old. I’ve been there a few too many times, unfortunately.”
“It won’t always be that way, though,” I confidently assure him. Sniffing, I blink rapidly and say, “One of these semesters, your guest lecturer is going to be a stunning model-slash-writer-slash-film-critic with a sharp wit and a shared love of Andrew Davies movies, and you two will fall madly in love and have tons of highly-literate babies, who can read before they hit their third birthdays.”
My joke gets a soft chuckle and a, “Yeah. I thought I’d already met that woman, but… I guess not.”
“Not yet, Miles Brooks. But you will.”
He humors me with a nod. “And what about you, Jayne Greer? Are you saving yourself for someone worthy? Or just another asshole who makes life difficult for us nice guys?”
For someone whose personality doesn’t allow for bitterness, he has it down. I guess it’s only fair to let him have his moment, so I don’t call him on it but say lightly, “Oh… this is unrequited love of the highest order.”
“A celebrity asshole, then?”
I laugh. “No! I’m not that delusional.”
“Married?”
Squirming in my chair gives him all the answer he needs. “Ah,” he says knowingly, his face tightening. He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second longer than a blink and then turns back to his computer. “Well, good luck with that,” he snipes. “I, uh, have a lot to do, so… I’ll catch up with you later?”
His judgment hurts. And I can’t resist defending myself against it.
“It’s not like that,” I say quietly.
At first, it seems like he’s not going to engage, but then he swivels in his chair to face me once more. “Not like what?”
“I didn’t have an affair with a married man. It’s not all… sordid… and other-woman-ish.”
He pulls his head back. “What is it like, then? One woman’s not good enough for this guy? Let me guess: he doesn’t love his wife, but he can’t leave her for whatever reason—kids, religion, money, all of the above—and he’s so miserable, but you understand him, and you can be for him what she can’t be. Is that it? Wake up, Jayne!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Unfortunately, I do. Because I’m surrounded by these scumbags. They’re all the same. And they all seem to be irresistible to otherwise-intelligent women like you, who don’t have enough self-respect or good sense to be with a man who loves you and nobody else.” He runs his hand through his hair. “So guys like me are forced to step aside and watch… Anyway. Whatever.” He clears his throat. “I can’t compete with that. I’m too damn attainable.”
I stare down at my hands in my lap. “I can’t help how I feel.”
He clicks his tongue, pauses, and says, “You’re right. Something or someone a long time ago taught you that this is the best you can ever expect, that this is all you deserve, being someone else’s second priority—if that—while you make him your top priority and get nowhere.”
When I stand to leave without defending myself, he turns back to his computer and says, “Don’t forget your final grades are due in the system by the end of the day today.”
I yank the door open. “You got it, Dr. Brooks.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
It’s Week Two of the book tour, and I’ve made it to the East Coast, a destination I’ve been both dreading and anticipating. I’ve been especially wishy-washy in regards to my feelings about the party Thornfield Publishing is throwing for me tonight at a fancy Boston venue, but as I prepare in my hotel room, I realize I’ve been looking forward to it more than dreading it. I want to see him. That’s all. See that he’s okay, show him that I’m okay, do that nod thing across the crowded room, and get on with my life.
Gus is going with me as my date to the party. I considered not going at all, considering the way they’ve treated me lately, but then I thought, Why should everyone else get to drink the booze and eat the food, when I’m the one who did all the work? Actually, that’s what Gus pointed out to me when he informed me we were going. He has a good point. Plus, how else am I going to see Luke?
A knock on the door informs me my date has arrived. I let him in and go right back into the bathroom, where I put the finishing touches on my makeup.
“If I were a straight man, I’d be all over you, Babushka!” Gus gushes. “Look at you! You’re gorgeous!”
“Thanks!” I trill back, nervous energy making my voice higher than usual.
“No, I’m serious! If I had bumped into you on the street, I wouldn’t have recognized you. Put your shoes on and let me get the full effect.” He thrusts the Jimmy Choo pumps at me and won’t stop nudging me with them until I set down my mascara wan
d and take them from him.
After sliding my feet into them, I stand tall and strike a one-hand-on-the-hip pose.
He whistles. “Lawd have mercy! I think I almost felt the first twinges of a stiffie when you did that.” He fans himself while I laugh. “Luke-Ass better do all his eating and drinking before you get there, because once he gets a load of you, his jaw will be permanently on the floor. He’ll have to drag it around the rest of the night.”
“That’s quite the mental image.”
“My half-stiffie or Luke-Ass’s dragging jaw?”
“Both.” I cap the mascara, give myself one final look in the mirror and one final shot of hairspray, and say, “Well. I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
When Gus doesn’t move and continues to stare at me, I say, “What?”
He blinks and shakes his head. “Nothing, but… Well, I don’t want to hurt your feelings—”
“What? Is something wrong? Do I not fill out the top of this dress enough?” I yank at the bustline and look down into my cleavage, which seems impressive from up here, but maybe that’s an optical illusion from this angle…
“No! I already told you that you look amazing!” he snaps. “Stop fussing with your dress! Stop!”
I freeze.
“I’ve never seen you look like this. Ever. It’s unbelievable.”
I blush. “It’s amazing what a lot of makeup and hairspray can do for someone.”
“That’s just it. I’ve never seen you wear makeup. Or do… whatever miracle it is you did to your hair.” He walks in a circle around me. “I had a feeling that all you needed was a decent makeover to bring out your inner swan, but girl, you’re a whole ’nother species of bird altogether!”
“Okay, okay, I get it. I know I’m naturally plain. I’ve never had a reason to make an effort at my appearance, that’s all.”
