by Jody Gehrman
He shakes his head, his face serious. “It doesn’t suck. You just set the bar so high with your first.”
“That’s generous.” I tell myself to say a polite goodbye and leave. It’s impossible. The vortex reaching out for me all night now has a firm hold, pinning me to the spot.
When I finally tear my eyes from his, I see he’s holding a wrapped gift. “I got something for you.”
“What’s this?”
“Something to say thank you.”
“For what?” I can hear my voice shaking slightly.
“Introducing me to Maxine.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Sam, I totally screwed that up.”
“No, you didn’t.” His brow furrows. “You recommended me. That’s huge. She’s not the right agent for me. It’s probably too soon for me to worry about that stuff, anyway. No big deal.”
“Really, I don’t feel—”
“You believe in me,” he says quietly. “That means a lot.”
I feel a pang of guilt about suspecting him earlier. Of course he didn’t hack my email. This guy is humble and generous. He’s forgiving and gracious. Years of working with the deeply spoiled have blinded me. He’s not like the others, with their Amex Black cards and their careless dreams of becoming writers even though they barely read. Sam does the work. He understands that art must be earned.
He nudges the package into my hands. It’s wrapped in plain, brown paper, bound with a white satin ribbon. There is something elegant yet homemade about it. I take it from him, turning it over and studying it.
“Looks book-shaped,” I observe.
“Very good, Holmes.”
Carefully, I tug at the ribbon. The silky pull of the satin resists, then releases. Though the bookstore employees are folding up the chairs, putting them away, the moment is strangely private, sensual. I slide my fingers under the edge of the brown paper, feel beneath. Sam watches my hands with the same focused fascination he trained on my face throughout the reading.
Pulling away the wrapping, I stare at the book in my hands. It’s old, with a simple, white cover announcing its title in bold, black letters: Lolita.
“My favorite.”
I open it and hold it close to my face, sniffing. It’s something I’ve always done with books, ever since I was a kid. This one smells of aging glue and musty attics. There’s something strangely familiar about it, like an old friend.
“It’s a first edition,” he says shyly.
“What?” I almost drop it in shock. “No.”
“It is. I got it here.”
I suddenly know where I’ve seen this book: in the glass case where Austin keeps his rare books. I’ve always loved that glass case, the way it’s buried in a quiet corner of the store, lit with a soft, gold light like he’s displaying the crown jewels.
“Sam, I can’t accept this,” I say, my voice low.
“Of course you can.”
I don’t say what’s racing through my mind—that he’s on scholarship, unlike the filthy rich, talentless hacks he goes to school with. This had to cost at least two hundred dollars, maybe more.
“I really can’t.” I try to hand it back to him, but my hands won’t obey. “It’s too much.”
He folds his fingers over mine and gently pushes the book toward me. “Consider it an advance.”
“An advance?” I repeat, confused.
“I will be able to afford it one day,” he says. “Thanks to your guidance. I’m just thinking ahead.”
I want to argue, but I stop myself. It’s undignified, quibbling over this here; the employees are starting to shoot us sideways glances. I’ll figure out a way to handle this later. For now, gracious acceptance is my only option.
“Thank you. It’s incredibly sweet of you.”
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his pea coat. “Did you walk here?”
“I did.”
“Okay if I walk you home? It’s on my way.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “You know where I live?”
For half a second he looks blank, a deer in headlights. Then his expression goes casual, insouciant. “Somewhere on the west side, right? I’ve seen you leave campus heading in that direction.”
It doesn’t quite work, this explanation. Then again, it’s not outlandish. Could be true. Not inconceivable. Uneasiness pools in my stomach. I try to ignore it.
“Let me just say my goodbyes.” I fold the brown paper carefully around Lolita and tuck her in my bag.
As I thank Austin, Sam goes outside to wait for me. I can’t help feeling grateful for his discretion.
Stepping out into the cold, seeing him loitering in the shadows of the awning, giddiness swirls through me. I’m dropping and rising at once, like riding an elevator drunk.
SAM
Passing under awnings, your face swims in and out of moonlight beside me. You’re wearing a black dress, very Katharine Hepburn. You’ve paired it with your sturdy black boots and a long velvet duster the color of merlot. You are exquisite. I want to walk you home forever, the cold night kissing our faces, our boots stepping in sync.
God, you’re beautiful.
It’s not so much that I love your body—though I do, of course. It’s more that I love the magic that inhabits your body. The way your skin shines like a pearl. The way your limbs move, loose and jaunty. The shape your mouth makes when you’re talking, laughing, sighing. The way your blond hair sweeps in front of one eye like Veronica Lake’s. There is something very Golden Age of Hollywood about you. You’re a classic.
“You read well.” I’m not kissing ass. It’s true. You do. Your voice is just husky enough, your rhythm hypnotic.
“I don’t. I rush it.”
I grin, nudging you with my elbow. “Why do you keep deflecting every compliment I offer?”
“Guess my self-esteem’s a bit low.” You laugh. “Anyway, thanks. I’m glad you liked it.”
“Do you always read from Pay Dirt?”
You stare at the sidewalk, which sparkles with frost. “Not always. Usually, though.”
“Why’s that?”
The sadness in your face makes you seem much older. “It’s the only thing worth reading.”
“You’re ashamed of Hidden Depths?”
“Absolutely.” You say it with conviction. “Wouldn’t you be?”
This is tricky. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. “You can’t get it perfect every time. That would be greedy.”
“Greedy?” You walk a little slower, looking amused. “Why greedy?”
“There’s a finite amount of creative genius in the world. Everyone knows that. If you claim it all for yourself, that means the rest of us have to make do with scraps.”
You giggle. The sound shivers up over the rooftops and spreads out into the stars. I’m good at making you laugh. Really good. I do it better than Raul. That evening when we shared a cigarette at the Lacys’ I had you laughing so hard your eyes glazed with tears. Now here I am, doing it again. You look so alive right now, so animated, with your head thrown back and your white throat exposed.
“I didn’t use any creative genius on Hidden Depths, so I guess that’s good news for you.”
The first snowflake falls. I watch it collide with your forehead. You blink, surprised. You stop, hold your hands out, palms up, and peer into the dark sky. It’s the “waiting for snow” stance. A flurry of glittery flakes obliges.
“First snow!” You sound like a child.
I reach out and brush a snowflake from your cheek. You start to walk again. It’s hard to tell in the moonlight, but I’m pretty sure you’re blushing.
“Do you ever feel like all your good ideas are behind you?” you ask.
When I hesitate, you shake your head, a rueful smile on your lips.
“No, of course not. You’re just starting out.”
“Everyone feels that way sometimes.” I’m careful not to sound patronizing. “Pretty much every time I finish something, I wo
rry it’s the last good idea I’ll have.”
“I just miss it,” you say, almost to yourself.
“Miss what?”
“Waking up dying to get back to the story only I can tell. Getting out of bed even if I have a hangover because I’ve got a paragraph inside my head that has to come out. That paragraph turns into a page, and that page turns into a scene, and before I’ve even made coffee I’m flying through the story, free-falling without a net.”
“Is Pay Dirt the last time you felt that way?”
You nod. “First and last. I peaked early.”
“No.”
“I did.”
I grab your elbow; you spin toward me like a dancer. “You can’t think like that. You’ve got so many great books inside you. Don’t be so impatient with yourself.”
“How is it you’re so smart about these things?” You look up into my face with an expression of mild wonder. There are snowflakes in your hair, tangled in your eyelashes.
This is the moment to kiss you. The pull between us is strong. The moon on your face silvers your edges. I lean in, your mouth so near I can feel your breath on my cheek. The seconds tick by, each one bringing us closer.
You pull away, blinking like someone waking. The snow thickens, swirling between us like static.
“I’ve never—” you begin, then stop.
“Never what?”
“Felt this way.” You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and start to walk again. “About a student.”
Yes! I feel like punching the air. I’m good at this, Kate. I know what you want, what you need—I know you. There’s nothing you can say or do that doesn’t fit somewhere in the bright, gorgeous mosaic of what I know about you. Some of it’s because I’ve read your books. Some of it’s from watching you. Most of what I know about you comes from instinct, though. Knowing you is like writing for me. It happens without effort. There’s a deep pool of knowledge in me that’s just there. I didn’t make it. I didn’t force it into being. It’s my birthright. It’s who I am.
I hurry to catch up with you, warning myself not to get cocky. “Does that freak you out?”
“Absolutely!” You widen your eyes like this should be obvious. I love it when you do that. It’s fucking adorable.
“Why?” I keep pace with you, though you’re walking faster. Snow is starting to stick to the sidewalks, the streets, the parked cars.
“I could lose my job, for starters.”
“Not if we don’t tell anyone.”
You shoot me a skeptical frown. “It’s a small town, in case you haven’t noticed. Small college.”
“Small minds?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” I argue. “I’m twenty-two. Almost your age.”
You laugh loudly, a bark of amusement. “There’s sixteen years between us.”
“So you’ve done the math.”
You look down. I nudge you with my shoulder.
I want this night to last forever.
KATE
There is nothing as distracting as the color of Sam’s eyes. In class, when I catch him staring, the blue haunts me, even when I look away. It’s like God took all the blue things in the universe—icy ponds, morning glories, twilight—and distilled them. The color changes, depending on the light and what he’s wearing. Some mornings in class they’re the luminous aqua of a crevasse. Tonight, in the moonlight, they’re almost violet.
He’s brushing snowflakes from my hair. I feel like a girl. It’s the most indulgent moment I’ve let myself have in forever. For two seconds, I stop telling myself how hopeless this crush is. I close my eyes and concentrate on the details—the sweet cold on my face, the smell of his damp pea coat, his fingers touching my hair. He finishes sweeping the snow away. When his hand retreats, I want to push my head against it like a cat. We could run away! I think wildly. We could flee to some seaside town with a boardwalk and an arcade! We could get jobs in coffee shops and write novels and live in a one-room studio with a claw-foot tub!
“What are you thinking?” he asks, tilting his head sideways to catch my eye.
“Crazy thoughts,” I say, “with exclamation points.”
He chuckles. “You always punctuate your thoughts?”
“Only the crazy ones.”
He watches me, waiting for more. There’s something deeply erotic about someone who really watches you. Someone who takes you in. The older I get, the more invisible I become. Used to be I had men’s eyes on me all the time. Young and old, married or single, they couldn’t resist checking me out. I’d walk across a restaurant, and their gazes would turn to me like flowers pivoting toward the sun. Lately, though, I feel their eyes on me less and less often. It should be a relief. Who cares if I’ve washed my hair, shaved my legs? Nobody’s looking. It isn’t a relief, though. It’s lonely. My life before thirty had a bouncy, upbeat soundtrack, a sinewy bass line with sex at its core. Now I’m in a silent movie.
Sam’s eyes search me. He has a writer’s way of looking, a greedy hunger to memorize every detail, stash it away for later. Does he see the same gleam in my eye? Maybe I’ve lost that lean, hungry look. Maybe that’s only for the young.
“What kind of crazy thoughts?” he finally asks.
I sigh. We’re standing in front of my door. He wants me to ask him in; everything about his body telegraphs this point. He glances at the doorknob, hugs himself against the cold. I want to believe I’m the sort of woman who can let this nice, young man into her home and serve him tea and chat about books, ask about his plans, sprinkle wry bon mots into the conversation like an old lady in an Oscar Wilde play. Someone who will gently push his hands away if they should stray to my knee, my waist, the sensitive skin at the base of my neck. A responsible, sober educator.
I’m not that woman. If I open that door and he follows me in, I’m going to fuck him. It’s that simple.
God, I ache to open that door.
“You okay?” He does that thing again, putting his face in my line of sight so I can’t avoid him.
“Just tired.” I run a hand through my hair, trying not to think about how good his fingers felt there. Why is it never the same when you touch yourself? “Readings exhaust me.”
“Do you get nervous?”
“A little. Mostly because I’m afraid nobody will show.”
“Where’s Zoe tonight?”
“She’s at home.” I stare at him. “How do you know Zoe?”
“I met her that day at the mall, remember? And then again at that weird party.” He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.
Goose bumps prickle to life up and down my arms. “So you just figured she’d come to my reading?”
He looks cornered. Quickly, he covers the startled look with one of confusion. “You’re not best friends? Guess I just got that vibe. It seems like best friends would show up for a reading. Maybe I got her all wrong, though. Are you frenemies?”
That makes me laugh. “No, you’re right. We’re tight.”
“Did she have her baby?”
“Yeah. She did. Drew.”
“Did she buy him the denim overalls?”
I smile. “Yep, she took your advice. You’re right. They’re very manly.”
“I know you want to ask me in,” he teases, catching me off guard.
I glance behind me at the front door. It’s become a portal to another world. A world where I have sex with Sam. Whatever I do, I can’t open that door.
“You know I can’t do that.” It’s meant to sound stern, but I lack conviction.
“You can do whatever you want.”
I shake my head. The snow thickens around us, swirling gently. “It’s not that simple.”
“If you were married, I can see that, but—”
“I’m serious about losing my job.” I take a step backward, inching toward the door. The trick is to get him to walk away before I put the key in the lock. “I’m up for tenure this semester. If I fuck that up, I’m out of op
tions. Obviously I can’t live off book sales.”
“What if you got inspired again?”
The lump in my throat won’t let me swallow. I don’t even try to speak. His eyes hold mine. The moment stretches on. We’re hanging suspended, tiny figures frozen inside a snow globe. When he reaches for me, I don’t resist.
His mouth closes over mine with breathtaking confidence. Most early kisses are question marks. This one isn’t. There’s no comma, no ellipses; it’s all exclamation points.
We devour each other, the heat of our mouths a tingly contrast with the tiny, cold touch of each snowflake. God, what a kiss.
When I pull away, my brain finally catching up, he reaches for me with such longing I almost give in. Instead, I lunge for my front door and stab clumsily at the knob with my key. I throw a glance over my shoulder at him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m the enemy.” His expression is so injured I want to rush back to him, but I force myself to step inside the threshold.
I shake my head. “I told you, Sam, this is career suicide for me. I really can’t.”
“What are you so afraid of?”
The enormity of this question weighs me down like a mastiff sitting on my chest. It’s ponderous. I can’t even begin to list the number of alarm bells he sets off in me. The problem is, I can’t seem to listen to any of them.
“Let me in, Kate. Please.” It’s not whiny or manipulative. It’s simple, brave.
I reach out a hand and lace my fingers with his. One tug and he’s on me, inside my house, shutting the front door and pinning me to it in a single deft movement. His heat presses into me, his mouth on mine. His hands encircle my waist. Slowly, his mouth never leaving mine, he runs his fingers under my dress, up the length of my rib cage. His palms spread against my flesh.
I’ve never felt so alive.
His hands are exquisite. He touches me like a blind man trying to memorize every curve. There is something savage and also tender about the way he explores my body. I close my eyes and barely contain a moan.
It couldn’t be more different from my encounter with Raul. With him, it felt like touching a plane of glass. I could see him, could see my body touching his, but there was an invisible barrier between us the whole time.
