by Havana Scott
“It’s okay,” she says, though I can tell it’s not. “Maybe we can go eat somewhere instead? Or go far, far away?”
I laugh. “Like where?”
“I don’t know. Pine Island? This coming weekend? It could be fun.”
“Sabine, Pine Island is full of Crofton kids,” I tell her, immediately realizing my mistake. I shouldn’t refer to undergrads like her as “kids,” even if there is a twelve-year difference between us. Besides, Pine Island is for partying and getting drunk, two things I’m not about anymore. “Anyway, I’m talking about tonight.”
She sighs, swinging her purse in small circles. “I know. I’m thinking…”
The comedy club was a good option, since it’s mostly dark and we could easily hide in the back undetected, but a restaurant is more risky. We can still go, though, if that’s what she wants. Suddenly, her honey eyes light up. “What about the fair?”
“The county fair?” That dusty thing on the outskirts of town? I haven’t been to one of those since I was a kid, but it could be fun. Leave it to Sabine to think of it. I would’ve never. “But you’ve got a dress and heels…”
“I have flip-flops in the car. I can change if we go there. Come on, please?”
“Fine, let’s do it.”
The Brigham County Fair is chock full of lights, screams, crying kids, and laughing, kissing teens. My first impression is that we’re overdressed and that I’m too old for this. Sabine, however, soaks it all in. She wants to do everything. Her face lights up when she sees the crushed peanut covered candy apples. “We have to get one!” She bounces on her toes and seems amazed when I buy it for her.
A voice inside me reminds me relentlessly. She’s a kid, she’s a kid, she’s a kid…
Shut the fuck up, I tell the voice.
When we enter the games alley, she drags me along and begs me to play that game where you shoot the water gun into the evil clown’s mouth, all so I can win a big stuffed Minion for her. This is when I actually start having fun. I don’t win the stupid toy the first time, so I try again, and I’ll be damned if I don’t start feeling competitive like I did when I was twelve. I lay down sixteen bucks and eight attempts for that son of a fucking bitch, but it pays off.
“You did it!” Sabine screams when I win the giant yellow and blue character. Throwing her arms around me, she kisses my cheek.
The crusty old game attendant winks at me.
Like he’s thinking: Good job nailing that one, dude.
Two rollercoasters, two candy apples, two ears of buttered corn, and a shared fried dough later, I feel like I’m going to be sick. I’ve had a great time, though. Sabine brings out the carefree spirit in me, not a bad thing. We pass some time on a bench, watching the lights of the midway. There’s something totally tranquil about it.
“Did you have fun?” I bump her with my shoulder. Until now, we haven’t held hands in public, but I did ask her on a date, didn’t I? I hold out my palm face up.
She glances down at it. Her eyes scan mine a moment, evaluating what’s on my mind. “You sure?” she asks. I nod, and her hand slips into mine. I clasp my fingers through hers. It feels nice. Warm, soft, fragile.
Mine—it feels mine.
“I had so much fun. Whenever I used to come to fairs, I never had enough money to buy half the things like you did.” She laughs. Her smile lights up the midway brighter than all the big, fat carnival bulbs. Makes me feel good to see her having a good time, like I was useful for something besides orgasms.
“So, you used me as your sugar daddy.” I pull her into a hug and run my knuckles on her head like I used to do with my brother years ago.
Pinching my side so I’ll stop giving her a noogie, she says, “My carnival daddy.”
“Yup. That’s me, spending millions at the state fair. I pull no frills for you, darlin’.”
Her smooth white doll face turns up to me, and she laughs—like, laughs—loudly and completely free. The evening has been worth it just to see that smile. I felt so terrible seeing her sad in the car. “I like having you for a daddy,” she says, turning my stomach into a tight knot of pure lust. “Makes me feel safe.”
Needless to say, we leave the fair soon after that, booking it back to my house for what ends up being the sweetest time we’ve had yet. There’s no hard fucking, no bedposts, no ass licking, though I still want to slide my cock into her ass any day now. It’s been a month since we’ve been seeing each other, and I find myself wishing she would just stay the week. Just stay every day—I’ll take her to school with me, we can have breakfast together, shower together, make love, and share this house together.
Like it used to be.
The guilt over Sabine being the first since Mariana to spend so much time at my house has abated. Screw Mariana—she didn’t want to work things out with me. Sabine—intelligent, beautiful, and yeah, I’ll say it, ripe for having fun with—is here and right in front of me. Mariana is not, so screw that guilt. And yeah, I’ll say this, too—Mariana would’ve never rocked the little black dress like Sabine can.
It’s the first time that Sabine reaches orgasm through “normal” means, through missionary style, with nothing forceful or overly dirty to make her come. It’s nice to look down at her, hold her knees apart and fuck her, spilling my seed into her, loving the way her hair splays all over the pillow like a dark, sinful halo. I imagine I’m claiming this beautiful, raven-haired maiden as my own, making a baby deep inside of her.
That precise thought hits me—making a baby.
Whether I’ve wanted to realize it or not, I’m falling in love with her.
A woman half Mariana’s age. A student. Friend. Lover.
She says yes and stays all week. And I have to admit I’m happy as fuck while she’s here.
But how long will it last, and can she fill the gaping void Mariana left behind?
On Friday, I get a call from my buddy, Brian, that he and his brother, Daryl, are driving through town on their way to Georgia. Brian, Daryl, my brother, Sean, and I used to be in the same undergrad Sociology program at Duke, and now they live in Atlanta. I leave Sabine home studying and take off toward Village Bar, excited to see them.
The moment I walk in, I hear them in the back, laughing it up. Those guys could always party, and apparently, nothing ever changes. “Dude!” They flank me with hugs and pats to the back, and right away, I feel at ease like I haven’t in a long time. There’s something to be said for seeing your fake brothers again. All that’s missing is Sean.
“Don’t you ever change, bro? You look exactly the same as when you were twenty-one.” Brian orders me a beer and takes his seat on the stool, examining me in wide-eyed awe.
“Nah, been doing the same workout, same ol’ routine, man.” They look the same, too, just a little older, and Daryl is definitely balder. I feel for him. I’m glad I haven’t had to deal with any physical changes these last years. If anything, I think I’ve gotten better with age, which is a blessing.
We talk for a while about what everyone’s doing. Daryl got his accounting degree and has his own practice in Atlanta, and Brian now works as a pilot for a small charter airline. I’m the only one using my Sociology degree for anything, but then again, I was the only one really interested in the program. Same as Sabine in our class.
We get around to talking about life, relationships, and both guys have ended long-term relationships in the last year, hence their road trip together. Me, I tell them about Mariana, but then I hesitate and wonder if I should mention Sabine. Eventually, I figure if I can’t talk to them about her, then I can’t talk to anyone, so I tell them.
“Dude. You’re fucking your student? Are you serious?” This is Daryl, the same guy who used to sleep with all his female professors, hence the reason he graduated.
“You’re not one to talk.” I give him snarky eyebrows behind the rim of my beer.
“I’m a guy. It’s different.”
“You needed a degree. This isn’t like that. I don’t
need anything from her. I just like being with her. She’s staying with me…” How do I admit I’m in love with an undergrad without sounding like an idiot who’s fallen for jailbait? Did I jump too blindly for her? ‘Cause now I feel stupid when I have to explain it.
“You love her.” Brian has that tipsy, narrow-eyed thing going on. He could always read right through me. “I can tell. Look at his mouth. See how it curves slightly?”
Both men study me, and part of me wishes I hadn’t said anything. I bury my face in my beer mug. “Forget you both.”
“Hey, look,” Brian sighs, watching the sports channel TV set to silent, a hat trick replay reflected in his brown eyes. “My dad’s fifteen years older than my mom. It’s not a big deal—now—but when she was eighteen, he was thirty-three. And still, some might say that’s not a big age difference. I say go for it. Fuck it.”
“Nah, man. Chicks are immature when they’re twenty.” Daryl shakes his head.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes on the bar top, and my screen lights up with a text. It’s Sabine sending hearts and something else, a question I can’t look at right now.
“See? That’s her texting, isn’t it?” Daryl laughs, swigging back his beer.
“It is, but she’s not like you say. I’ve been around girls this age for a while now. Trust me. I see them every day. She’s more focused than they are. In fact, the chicks in her class can’t stand her.”
“Because she’s smarter than they are,” Brian says with a knowing nod.
“Yes.”
“Just like my mom.”
I try to focus more on Brian than on Daryl, because he just doesn’t get it, and you know what they say about surrounding yourself with only the people who support you. I know the kind of girl he’s talking about, and maybe I’m just ignoring the signs, but I hold Sabine to a higher standard.
But Daryl isn’t convinced. He keeps on shaking his head all thin-lipped and shit. “I don’t know, bro. Girls her age are immature, manipulative creatures. Even if that doesn’t describe her now—watch. They get clingy. You leave them alone a few hours, and it’s ‘where’ve you been? Who’ve you been talking to? Why haven’t you answered my texts?’ Who needs that shit, bro?” Daryl scoffs and drowns his miserable attitude in his drink.
I have to remember that these guys have just come out of bad relationships. They’re not exactly ones whose opinions on romantic matters I should take to heart. Still, I can’t help it, especially when Sabine’s next texts ask what time I’m coming home, tell me she misses me, followed by heart and smiley face emojis.
Because I just don’t want anymore of the guys’ shit, I silence my phone and put it back in my pocket. The rest of the night goes great. We talk about good times, the old days, and who banged who. I manage to make it out of there with no more shit and an invitation to go with them to Miami for the summer. Something I won’t be doing. If I’m spending summer anywhere, it’s in bed with Sabine, teaching her the finer points of tea-bagging.
On the way home, I check voicemail. One is from Sabine asking if I had a pencil sharpener anywhere in the house. The next one is from Sabine again, saying “never mind,” she found it. And the third is from Dean Albert asking him to call him—it’s an urgent matter.
For a minute, my heart sinks. Like lead. Straight down into my stomach. Someone has told him about Sabine. It was only a matter of time. I see him calling again, but I let it go to voicemail—too nervous to answer while I’m driving. When the voicemail alert comes up, I stop at a red light and hit the play button on the recording.
“MacKenzie, I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but the staff nominations have come in, and your name is there. Several times, actually. Official announcement is in two weeks. Congrats, my friend. I’m rooting for you. You deserve it.”
I got the nomination. I can hardly believe it.
A smile plasters itself on my face.
If I win Professor of the Year in two weeks, it’s the accolade needed to get me into the Harvard Graduate Program, and if I get into the Harvard Graduate Program, my dreams come true. The pieces fall into place. I move to Cambridge to begin a new life. But what about Sabine then?
13
SABINE
What do I say when he comes home? Do I give him crap for staying out so long? Do I give him shit for not answering my texts? It’s hard knowing how to act when I’m not his girlfriend and yet—I am his girlfriend. For all intents and purposes, I see him every day, make love to him every day, eat meals with him, even sleep in his same bed. Have for a week now. Doesn’t that make me his girlfriend?
Am I not entitled to the same feelings a girlfriend would have?
Am I losing my mind and need a slap across my forehead?
The answer is yes.
Calm the fuck down, Sabine. Jesus.
Yeah, he said he was meeting friends for a beer, and yeah, that ended up being five hours long, and yeah, there’s photos of Liam with—I’m guessing an ex, one he never talks about—all over his house. But, so? That doesn’t mean he’s doing anything wrong.
I admit I texted him at one point just to see if he’d respond, but why did it take him that long? My mother’s voice and insecurities about my father’s infidelities have me imagining the worst.
He’s out talking up an older woman at the bar.
He’s at a school event preying on the next young woman.
He’s with Tanelle. Ha, ha, you stupid, sloppy side slut, the joke’s on you!
I know, I know. I’m wrong on all accounts, and I’m going crazy. He hasn’t given me any reason to believe that he would cheat on me, but maybe it’s time to know where we stand. The thought of having that talk scares me. What if he can’t handle it? What if he breaks up with me because it’s easier than explaining how he can’t commit to a real relationship? Wouldn’t I rather see how far we get without mentioning the word “relationship” at all?
I glance at the time. Five hours and thirty minutes he’s been gone.
I put down the fire poker. Wouldn’t be right for him to come home and see a stark mad woman holding that.
One good thing about being at his house alone is that it’s given me time to wander around. As tempted as I’ve been to search through his drawers and bag, I haven’t done anything like that. I’m too paranoid that he’ll have a hidden camera, naked photos of ex-girlfriends, or worse—someone else’s underwear. I’ve only browsed his books, looked through boxes containing files and papers, and found a few old greeting cards from “Mariana.”
I’m guessing this is the nameless woman in the pics. If it is, I see photos of her everywhere—older, brown mousy hair, weird face. Not the type of woman I’d think a man like Liam would be with. I wonder why he hasn’t mentioned her before. Was it serious?
Halfway through the last episode of Season 3 of Friends on Netflix, the front door opens and in walks Liam, taking off his coat and hanging it in the foyer closet. “Hey.” No eye contact for a few moments, just a quick wave from the front door. I’m probably overanalyzing, but I detect distance.
“Hi. How was your night?” I ask from the couch in movie-watching mode.
“Good. It was great to catch up with those guys.” He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, enters the living room, and sits on the couch opposite me. He’s got a dreamy smile on his face, the kind that would normally make my insides flip, but because he’s not looking at me, I wonder what put it there.
“You seem happy.” I force a smile.
“I am.” Taking a swig of water from the bottle, he leans back and lets out one of those cleansing breaths that people do right before they give you some big news.
I don’t know why I get a sinking feeling in my stomach, but I do. I’ve made him smile every day for the last four weeks, but this is different. This is the smile of someone who has broken through some kind of barrier, the smile of someone who’s been waiting to exhale.
“What’s up?” I close the laptop and prop my head into my hand. Whatever it is, sta
y mature about it, Sabine. Be happy for him.
“I got nominated for Professor of the Year at Crofton.”
Professor of the Year. Is that it? He didn’t suddenly run into an ex at the bar and then decide to get back together with her at my expense? Whew. “That’s amazing, Liam.”
“Thanks. You know I’ve been hoping for this nomination. If I get it, it can really push me upwards.”
“That’s…wonderful. Really.” So, wonderful, in fact, I think I’m going to go throw up in that garbage can right now, I’m so relieved. I feel like there’s more, judging from the sad tilt of his eyebrows. “Isn’t it?” I ask.
“Definitely. Problem is, if I get Professor of the Year, then I have a much higher chance of getting into the Harvard Graduate Program. And if I get into the Harvard Graduate Program…”
He trails off. I realize the problem. Oh. “Then, you move to Massachusetts.”
That never occurred to me before. I mean, I’ve heard him mention this award, and when he first mentioned possibly going to Harvard in the future, it felt so faraway. It didn’t register in my mind as The Imminent Future. I was too busy absorbing the fact that I was spending time with him at all that I never put two and two together. In my mind, we would never amount to anything past a quick thing fueled by passion.
“That’s great, isn’t it?” That’s what the understanding girlfriend he wishes I’d be would probably say.
“We’ll see what happens. I might not get it. Too many great colleagues.”
“You’ll get it. You’re the best professor there.” I give him an enthusiastic high five, but inside, I’m starting to come undone. I’m here another two years to work on my Elementary Education degree. I won’t be going to Harvard any time soon.
Then what?
Do we break up? Do we have a long-distance relationship? Do I come to terms with the fact that none of this was ever serious to begin with? But I wouldn’t be sleeping at his house if it wasn’t serious, would I? I wouldn’t be spending day in, day out with him, watching movies on his couch, sharing a bed with him, or coming close to barfing in his garbage can.
