by Lola Darling
“How’s your trip going, sweetheart?”
“Great!” I tell her all about the last week since I’ve caught up with her. I talk about Mary Kate’s party (leaving out the details, of course), and about my classes, and the exciting new research project I was picked to help out with (also leaving out the details).
By this point, my dad has appeared over Mom’s shoulder, crouching down so he can make faces behind her back at eye level. She swats him without interrupting my story, but that only makes me crack up, and them too.
“I’m proud of you, honey,” she says. “But I hope that courses aren’t the only thing you’re focusing on!”
It’s so unexpected coming from the mother who raised me to work my ass off for a 4.0 in high school that I can’t help but stare. My father continues to laugh, probably at my expression.
“She’s right, kid. We didn’t spend all this money to send you abroad just so you could live like a nun!”
God, I really hope my face isn’t lighting up beet red at that remark. My poor, naïve parents.
“Go out and enjoy yourself,” Mom adds. “What time is it, almost seven-thirty? Shouldn’t you be out having dinner with your friends?”
My stomach growls, right on cue. “Um, I guess. But I was trying to finish this assignment . . . ”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Harps.” Dad leans closer to the microphone, and assumes a gimmicky stage whisper. “No one expects you to get perfect grades over there.”
“My professors all but told me our study abroad semester was the one time we could slack off,” Mom added. Then she pursed her lips. “Though, I mean, not too much. Don’t start smoking reefer or whatever the kids do these days.”
I snort. “Yeah, because that was totally my plan. Go to a foreign country and get arrested for drug use.”
“Welllll, you know, some drugs . . . ” Dad swallows the rest of that sentence with an innocent smile as Mom turns to whack him upside the head again.
I rest my hand over my heart. “I promise I’ll enjoy myself. Responsibly.”
“That’s all we ask.” Mom blows a kiss, and I say goodbye quickly before the conversation can delve into sappy territory.
As I turn off my webcam, though, I can’t help but find the timing of that call downright suspicious. A quick scan of my room ensures that there aren’t any hidden cameras installed (at least, none hidden so poorly that I can find them).
Maybe it’s fate throwing you a bone, I think. The universe cosmically yelling at me: Stop being a dumbass! Not everyone gets a chance like this, to live abroad and experience a whole new country. I need to live up to it.
Besides, it’s only 7:40 now. If the football match ends by nine or so, I can easily finish tidying up my notes and have something to submit to Kingston by the end of the night.
In a last nod toward productivity, I sweep the pile of notes into my purse, just in case I get inspired while I’m at the bar. Then I grab my keys, switch off the lights, and jog to catch up to my friends.
Jack
I’m not really in the mood for drinks, or even for a footie match. But Mindy and Drew practically begged me to come out. Drew especially, who didn’t want to be the only guy among Mindy’s circle of Latin grad student friends. He’s not a professor himself, but as he runs the grumpy old man bar closest to campus (aka the only one not perpetually flooded with “just turned eighteen” parties), 90 percent of his friends are professors like me.
As usual, Mindy doesn’t want to walk too far from the flat they share (which is probably why they end up throwing so many grad/undergrad mixed ragers like the Tarts and Vicars party last weekend), so they tell me to meet them at the corner bar.
As usual, the Eagle and Child is crammed with people. I sidestep through the narrow corridors of the pub, which has always reminded me of an odd melding of Victorian-era sitting rooms with the way I imagine the interior of a gentlemen’s club would look.
Not that I’d know. My father still holds to those kinds of outdated traditions, but I like to think we’ve moved beyond the need for expensively decorated private social clubs where we decide the future of the country with more than half of said country locked outside our closed doors.
I peer into the first couple of side rooms I pass. Lots of undergrads, and a few clusters of faculty that I duck my head to avoid. The last thing I want is to wind up trapped in a conversation with a huddle of deans in my present mood. I’d probably tell them to go stuff themselves.
Somehow, the much-needed release I found with Harper earlier has not helped me move the fuck on. In fact, it’s made me more obsessed than ever. Every flash of auburn hair I see, I’m picturing hers pulled around my fist. Every time I close my eyes, I can see her bent over in front of me, and hear her desperate moans. All I want is to get the fuck out of here so I can go home and relive that moment again in private, since it can never happen again in real life.
My hard-on is pretty pissed at me about that part. As far as it’s concerned, Harper and I need to reenact that in at least a dozen more positions, if possible.
Still desperately trying to redivert blood flow to my skull, I finally locate my friends in the very back of the pub, secluded in the room that, according to the bronze plaque on the door that I’ve long since memorized, used to be Tolkien and C. S. Lewis’s regular spot. Drew and Mindy are sitting with a handful of Mindy’s friends, most of whom I recognize from brunches we’ve gone out to. One of them, Sara, pats my knee the moment I slide into the booth across from her. She’s been doing that for months, anytime I’m around. I don’t know why she can never take a hint.
Even now, I jerk my leg away, and it only makes her wink at me.
Have a little dignity, I want to say. Instead, I slap Drew on the back. “How’s it going, mate?”
“’Bout as well as you can expect when we’re down two already and not even through the first half.” He points at the nearest TV screen.
“Bad luck,” I agree, though to be honest, I couldn’t care less. Newcastle’s my team, and we’ve been playing even worse than Oxford this year, so he can cry me a river.
“Jack!” Mindy squeals, only just now noticing me. She reaches across to squeeze my hand. Mindy’s French on her mother’s side, which shows in how often she’s always touching and hugging people. Nothing sexual, just her exuberant personality. “Where’s your other half?”
I blink at her a few times, convinced I must have heard wrong. Then I figure I’ll go for humor instead. “Afraid I’ve left the cat at home, tonight. Figured he wouldn’t appreciate all the noise.”
A few of Mindy’s friends titter at my reply, yet she only shakes her head in exasperation. “So I take it you’re still holding out on us, oui?”
“What on earth are you talking about, Mindy?”
Her eyes meet mine with no sign of guile in them as she says, “Hannah, of course. She told me you two were thinking about going back on.” The moment the words are out of her mouth, she must realize the misstep. Her eyes widen, her perpetual smile dipping into a faint frown. “I’m sorry, did I misunderstand her?”
I ball my hands into fists beneath the table and school my face into a practiced, blank expression. “No. No, I’m sure you didn’t. Excuse me, I need a drink.”
Sorry, Drew mouths at me as I rise to go. I shake my head, and hope it conveys what I mean.
Don’t worry about it. Because he shouldn’t. It’s not Mindy’s fault that Hannah’s using her to get to me.
It’s not Mindy’s fault that everyone around me seems to take Hannah’s side.
It’s not Mindy’s fault that this morning only reinforced what I already knew, had been sure about ever since the year Hannah and I went out—I’m not the settling-down type.
Granted, Hannah never made me feel even half of what Harper did in just one quirk of her lips. I’ve never lost control of myself with Hannah. I’ve never fucked her like that, never nearly blacked out when I came, never pushed her across a desk or forgot
ten myself so badly I left marks behind.
Sex with Hannah was so . . . well . . . British. Polite, gentle, orderly. No muss and no fuss.
No heat and no fire.
But what Harper and I did . . . If we kept on like that, someone would get hurt. Me, or even worse, her. Not physically hurt, because we clearly both enjoyed that. But emotionally; fire like that would drag us both through the ringer. Hannah and I didn’t even have half that kind of chemistry, and look how badly our tepid relationship messed her up. She’s descended to the level of lying to my friends about being with me.
I’m not delusional. I know it’s my fault, my screw-ups, that drove her into becoming that kind of person. After all the other serious relationships I’d ended, I thought, here’s a woman who fits me to the T. Every detail matches on paper. I told myself if it didn’t work with Hannah, clearly it would never work with anyone. Not long term.
The final breakup with her a year later proved that theory.
Better to cut Harper off now. I’ll never be able to give a woman the full package. Never be able to do what my parents, my sister, Mindy, Drew, what everyone wants me to, and just settle for some polite, gentle, orderly relationship. I’m just not capable of it. I’ve accepted that, made my peace with it. But I need to keep reminding myself: the people around me have not.
I reach the large central room, the one with the bar in it, and sidle up to order a neat whisky (Scotch, Laphroaig 10 year, which tastes like inhaling a forest fire, just the way I like it). If nothing else, this will fix my head on straight again. Or at least, help me forget all this shit for long enough to relax for the duration of the game.
That’s when my eyes snag on her.
Goddamn it. It’s like the universe wants to punish me. It just keeps throwing her in my path headlong, heedless of the consequences.
Harper hasn’t seen me yet. Her head’s thrown back as she laughs, full and throaty (though I notice with a rush of amusement that she’s wearing a turtleneck to hide the bites I left behind).
Watching her head fall back, the way her hair sways against the small of her back, and imagining her arcing her neck that way as I drove into her, it makes me hard again in an instant. Goddamn, it’s like I’m fucking fifteen.
Speaking of fifteen-year-olds, she’s with a group of undergrads now, I notice. People her own age, students like her. The way it should be.
She belongs with them, and I belong alone.
Then one of the kids with her, some punk-ass idiot with his hair slicked full of grease and a faux leather jacket on like he’s starring in a production of Grease, slides his arm around her shoulders.
My whole body tightens. I want to throw him off of her. I want to grab her and take her right here in the middle of the pub, everyone watching, so they’ll all know she’s mine.
Which, of course, is exactly the opposite of what I’ve just convinced myself is the right thing to do. As hard as it is, I force myself to turn away from her, trying to block her out of my mind.
The bartender passes my drink over the counter, and even though it’s the kind of Scotch you really ought to savor, and shame on anyone who doesn’t, I toss the drink back in two swift swallows, and slide it across the counter, tapping a finger on the wood to order a second.
The bartender’s eyebrows rise, but he refills my glass all the same.
Deep breaths, Jack. Calm the fuck down. Why has this girl got you tied up in knots? You barely know her. Yes, she was a good lay—okay, a great one. Beyond that, though?
I clench the glass in my fist and start to wind my way through the crowd toward our secluded side room. Before I can exit the main room, though, Drew intercepts me and drags me back toward the bar.
“I need a break from the girl talk,” he says, running a hand through his hair as he orders a pint of Stella. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Mindy’s friends, but wow, they sure do enjoy discussing the haircuts their favorite singers got last week.”
I force a grin, trying to act normal. “Thanks, mate.”
Drew shoots me a look of total confusion. “For what?”
“Reminding me why I fly solo.” I slap him on the back, which nearly makes him choke on his pint. He glowers at me over the rim. I continue to smirk as I swallow a mouthful of my drink. It burns my throat on the way down, which is exactly what I enjoy about it. Scotch is the kind of drink that reminds you what it feels like to be alive.
Painfully good.
“Better watch out. Between all the ladies gunning for you, I don’t know if you can keep up the solo act for long.”
My eyes roll so far up they’re in danger of getting lost in the back of my head. “Not you too.”
“Hey, I’m not taking sides. I’m only saying, can you loan me some of whatever pheromones you’ve been spraying on lately?”
“It’s called being attractive; you should try it some time. Maybe if you cut down on the Stella and up on the gym time . . . ” This quickly devolves into a few minutes of good-natured insulting one another.
Halfway through this, we order another round. But I’m interrupted in the middle of a heavy-handed insinuation that Mindy has Drew padlocked around her ring finger when his attention drifts to behind me, and his eyebrows rise.
“Don’t look now,” he says in an undertone, “But I think your Eau de Jack’s Lusty Lady Parfum has ensnared another innocent bystander.”
I turn, fully expecting to see Sara or one of her girlfriends behind me, probably to offer me a crappy mixed drink like last time. Instead, I find Harper standing at my elbow, eyes on me, though judging by the way they’re narrowed, I’m guessing she might have overheard the tail end of Drew’s pronouncement.
“Ms. Reed,” I say curtly, before she can speak, emphasizing the two words to try and give her the hint. Not the time or the place to talk, if that’s what she’s trying to do.
“Professor.” Her voice is even, giving nothing away. Is she upset? Annoyed at me? Just trying to get a drink? I start to sidestep, in case she’s only trying to get to the bar behind us, but she steps with me, tracking my movement. Her gaze narrows, and her hands come to rest on her hips. The same place I dug my fingers into earlier.
This time, her voice hardens, sharper than diamond. “I just wanted to let you know I might be a little late on that assignment you foisted on me.”
Ah. Well, I can hardly blame her for being mad. Especially, now that I think about it, since I’m in a bar right after leaving her with a single day to complete an assignment that would take most students at her level at least two weeks to puzzle out.
Mad is good, in fact. She needs to be mad. That way we won’t risk any kind of repeat of this morning’s . . . activities. “That’s all right,” I say. “If you’re finding it too challenging, I can reassign you something a little more your speed.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I can handle it. I just plan to make sure it’s done correctly, and not left in a haphazard mess because someone didn’t want to spend the time it deserves.”
The Grease wannabe from earlier slides up behind Harper to rest one hand at her hip as well, his fingers curling around hers in a gesture that’s far too familiar. “Everything all right here?” he says, staring me down.
I stare right back, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to punch this kid right here. “Perfectly fine, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Jack?” Drew shoots me a what the fuck? look, the hand holding his beer drifting toward the counter like he can sense my fight urge rising, and he wants to be ready to either back me up or hold me off, whichever the scene calls for.
I ignore everyone but Harper. “Ms. Reed, thank you for the notice. Drew, have a good one.” I toss a twenty-pound note onto the bar, never mind that it’s almost double than the cost of my last drink, and storm out of the bar.
Harper
Patrick’s arm is still wrapped around me, his fingers toying with mine, trying to slip between them and grab onto any part of me I’ll let him hol
d. It feels nice enough, to have his warm body pressed up against my side, and his soft, vaguely beer-scented breath brushing my neck.
But he’s not the one I want.
The one I want just stormed out of this bar like the place is on fire. Oh right, after acting like a total jerkwad. Again.
I lean over the bar to grin up at the bartender. “Can I get another JD and coke?”
“Whoa, easy there.” Patrick squeezes my hand. “You already had two. That a good idea?”
“I’m fine,” I reply imperiously, shrugging his arm off of me with more confidence than I actually feel. He’s probably right; I should wait a little before the next one. But right now, with the way my day has been going, and now running into Jack again on top of everything, I’m just ready to shut off my brain as fast as possible.
“Okay, okay. You heard the lady,” he calls to the bartender, unnecessarily, since the bartender’s already pouring my drink. “One for me too.”
I toss it back faster than I probably should, and meander back to our table with Patrick in tow. Mary Kate and Nick have been exchanging shots of Fireball chased by cider backs, so they hardly seem to notice our return—or that we had left in the first place.
“So what’s with Professor Butthurt?” Patrick inquires as we slide into our seats across from one another. “Sounds like you sure got his pants in a twist.”
I bark out a laugh. If only you knew. “Oh, he’s just mad that I called him out for being totally unrealistic. I mean, he gave me this assignment today, right?” I tug open my bag to expose the folder, which, now that I’m looking at it in the bright light of the pub, seems a lot thicker than it did when we were studying it in his office this morning. Blinded by infatuation, I didn’t notice exactly how extensive this project would be, I guess. “And he asks me to finish it by tonight. While he’s out here . . . ” I wave a hand in the bar’s general direction.
Okay, so maybe I’m at the bar too. But something about it still feels unfair—that he blew me off the way he did this morning, only to go out carousing himself.
