Plain Jayne (25 page)

But I’m crushed.

I skulk to the gazebo steps. On the top one, I pause and say
with my back to him, “I’ll work tonight to get a draft to you first thing in
the morning.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes. I do. You’re right; it’s taken me too long. I’ve
abused your patience.”

“I don’t have any to abuse. You know that. Jayne, please
don’t be upset.”

I laugh bitterly. “You can’t scrawl your directives in the
margins of my life. ‘Don’t take it personally.’ ‘Be more disciplined.’ ‘Don’t
be upset.’ I’m not a fucking manuscript.”

“I didn’t say you were!”

“And for the record,” I toss over my shoulder with the last
lucid sentence I can muster before I dissolve, “
I
was going to tell
you
that we can’t repeat what happened this morning.” I stomp across the lawn and don’t
even pause when I stub my toe on the edge of the flagstone patio on my way into
the kitchen, where Paulette, having returned from her weekend, is standing in
front of her electric kettle.

“Jayne! Hell—Oh… What’s the matter, dear?” she addresses to
the moving target that is me.

“Nothing. I’m fine,” I sob as I stalk through the kitchen.
“I’m going to work all night upstairs in my room. I’m not hungry. And could you
please arrange for Tom to come pick me up first thing in the morning?”

I don’t even wait for her to respond or verify that she’ll
honor my request. I know she will. Tom will be here to take me back to Boston
right after breakfast. And from there, it’s a three-hour flight back to my old,
plain Jayne life.

*****

Both Paulette and Luke honored my wishes to be left alone, so
I worked nearly non-stop until three in the morning, when I ceased to be able
to think straight. Then I emailed the file to Luke and packed before setting the
alarm on my phone for seven, when I dragged myself out of bed, got dressed, and
sat at the bedroom window, watching for Tom in the black Towncar.

I trudged down the stairs and set my bags by the front door
so Tom could load them while I said goodbye to Paulette, who was friendly but
not overly emotional about my departure, thank goodness. I was also relieved
Luke was nowhere around.

I should have known it was all going too smoothly.

Before I even have a chance to take my first complete
lungful of air since waking up this morning, I realize with a start I’m not
alone in the backseat.

“Leaving without saying goodbye?” Luke asks as Tom starts
the car. “Put your seatbelt on.”

I automatically comply with his order while asking
incredulously, “What are you doing here? I thought you’d already gone to work.”

Drolly, he replies, “When Paulette informed me that a car
would be here so early to get you, I figured it would be more beneficial to my
carbon footprint if we carpooled into the city.”

“I’d rather we didn’t.”

The car lurches forward. “Too late. We’re on our way.” He
pats my knee condescendingly. “It’s only forty minutes. But I thought it would
behoove both of us to have a chat about the state of… things… before we get
back to civilization.”

I coldly inform him, “Don’t worry; I won’t be raising a
stink about my damaged eye.”

He suddenly leans forward and looks into my eyes. He seems
relieved when he sees nothing. “For a minute there, you had me worried your eye
was still hurt.”

“No. It’s back to normal. Like nothing ever happened.
Because nothing ever did. I won’t tell a soul anything about this weekend.”

After a sigh, he sits back. “This is exactly what I was
worried about.”

“What?” I prod, pretending to be bored with the entire
conversation.

“I was worried you’d hate me.”

I wish I did. Then I wouldn’t be in this total agony.
Instead of telling him that, I say after a pause, “I don’t hate you.”

I hate myself. With a passion I used to reserve for
difficult, irritable editors.

“As convincing as that is,” he says, “it doesn’t make me
feel any better.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not responsible for your feelings.”

He laughs bitterly. “My God! You’re ruthless.”

I turn my head away from him and blink rapidly as I gaze
unseeingly out the window. When I’m sure my voice won’t be choked when I speak,
I say, “I’d rather not talk. I was up all night—a copy of my manuscript is waiting
in your email inbox—so I’m very tired.”

“Jayne—”

“Please, Luke!” I hate that I can’t keep the begging tone
from edging in.

“No,
you
please. I’ve already received your
icicle-laden email. And I’d like to remind you that I’m your
friend
in
all this. I’m here for you. Maybe not in all the capacities that we—at least,
I
—would
like, but I’m here nonetheless.” He lays a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug,
and when he doesn’t remove it, I purposefully do it myself with my own hand.

“Please, don’t touch me.” I glance nervously toward the
front seat.

When he notices, he says, “Oh, don’t worry about Tom; he’s
used to hearing women tell me that.”

I will not laugh. I will not smile. I will focus on getting
through this torturous car ride without any histrionics.

Tom drily replies, “What women, sir?”

“Touché, Tom. Touché.” Addressing me again, Luke says
lightly, “Alright then. I respect your wishes, as much as they pain me. But if
you need me… for anything… I hope you won’t hesitate to call me.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The nightmarish vision of me in my Indianapolis apartment,
sniffling into my blankie, never comes to fruition. Almost immediately upon
returning to the Hoosier State, I received an offer to serve as guest lecturer for
a semester at Fairfax College in Annapolis, with the possibility of it becoming
a more permanent arrangement. I gave up my apartment, put my things in storage,
and moved to a furnished bed-sit near campus, right outside our nation’s
capital.

Yes, this is the type of relationship I can handle. An
intellectual relationship. A high-maintenance intellectual relationship, at
that. I haven’t had time to think or brood or mope about Luke. Not that I
would. Obviously, that was a silly crush my inexperience blew out of proportion
and had me convinced was a full-fledged love affair-in-the-making. When I think
about it now, I blush and cringe.

Luke and I have exchanged emails regarding drafts of my
book, but now that I’ve made all the changes he wanted, it’s in the hands of
the other publishing folks. Occasionally, I get things from people whose names
I haven’t bothered remembering. I’ve chosen a cover design, but it brought me
no pleasure. None of them were that great, to be honest. They were better than
the ones Luke showed me the day we met, but that’s not saying much. This
process’s novelty has definitely worn off. If I weren’t contractually obligated
to write two more books for them (and don’t even ask me how I’m going to do
that), I’d get through this, check it off my list, and move on. That’s what’s
left of my dream. The joy’s been sucked from it.

Oh, there’s one other thing:  Luke’s been trying to get in
touch with me—nearly relentlessly—for the past couple of days, but I’m dodging
his calls. I have some legitimate reasons for not calling him back (my syllabus
is due to the head of the English department tomorrow; I need to wash my hair;
I’m sure there are other things), but mostly I simply don’t feel like talking
to him. I don’t want to hear his voice. I don’t want to imagine how he looks or
what he’s wearing or how he smells.

I informed him of my change of address in a mass email to
the entire publishing “team,” so I can’t think of anything else to discuss.
He’s not even part of the equation anymore. He needs to know when to let it go.
Maybe I should have Tullah call him and ask if there’s anything she can help
him with. Then I can have her request a new editor for me for my next book.

My next book. The mere thought gives me chills up and down
the backs of my thighs. I don’t know if I have another one in me. I
know
I
don’t. Not right now, anyway. I’m desperately looking for inspiration, though.
It won’t be long after
The Devil I Know
hits shelves (maybe even before)
that they’ll be asking me about my next project. Luke hinted at it weeks ago,
on one of our “break” walks. When he asked me if I had any new ideas marinating,
I’d coyly said, “A few,” but it was a bold-faced lie. I have zip. Which is a
potential problem. I’m not panicking yet, though.

For one thing, I have a class to teach to bright, young
minds who still believe in the fairytale that is the publishing world. I still
haven’t decided if I’m going to crush their dreams (which would be the most
humane thing to do) or do them the disservice of allowing them to continue to
think that a publishing contract will make all their problems disappear. I
think I’m going to go with the latter, but only because I don’t want to be that
bitter bitch who makes them roll their eyes. They won’t believe me, anyway. They’ll
say, “It won’t be like that for me.”

And maybe it won’t be. Maybe they won’t fall in lust with
their editors. It’s statistically likely that they
won’t
. And maybe they
won’t screw themselves over by promising to deliver something that they’re
incapable of delivering (two books more than the only one residing in their
heads). So, who am I to tell them that the experience is a major let-down? I’ll
let them find out for themselves or do what I couldn’t manage to do:  enjoy the
process.

Speaking of processes, I may not have a very firm grasp on
the creative process, but I do know all about language and the mechanics of
writing. I know the rules and when to bend them—or when to break them. And I
think I’ll be good at passing along that information to the next generation of
writers. As long as they don’t ask me about
my
experience or
my
process
or any of those other questions that aspiring writers love to ask published
writers, everything will be fine.

My experience:  I wrote a book based on the most horrific
tragedy of my life, concealed that fact from everyone, made out with my editor,
and crawled back to my boring life after being rejected by him afterwards.

My process:  Write eight to thirteen hours a day (depending
on whether you have to hold down another job to pay the bills). Period. Oh, a
blankie helps. And a nice-smelling man. I mean, candle! Candle. A man has
nothing to do with it. Which will be a relief to the heterosexual men in my
class.

I can’t tell anyone either of those things, obviously. I’ll
have to stick to the vague answers:  “everyone needs to find their own system”
and “expect to be rejected… a lot.” And “don’t take it personally.” Don’t ever
take anything personally. Nothing. No matter how personal it feels.

Yeah, not sounding bitter is going to be the biggest
challenge in this new position, after I get this syllabus written, that is.

*****

“Jayne Greer! Exactly who I was coming to see!” Dr. Miles
Brooks, the Head of the English Department, says when he sees me approaching
him in the hallway. “Wanted to see if you’re settling in okay. Sorry about the
small office… we’re a little tight on space around here lately. I guess that’s
a good problem to have, though. Means we’re thriving!”

I hold out my syllabus to him. “The office is fine, thanks.”
It’s not like I plan to spend much time there, but I don’t tell him that.
“Here’s my syllabus. Just before deadline.”

He smiles encouragingly as he takes the paper from me and
tucks it under his arm. “Only a formality. And you’re far from the last person
to turn in her syllabus,” he says cheerfully. “We’re absolutely thrilled to
have you here this semester!”

Blushing at his effusiveness, I scuff at the floor with the
toe of my shoe. “Thanks. I mean… this is going to be good for me, too, I think.
Something to keep me busy.”

He laughs at what he must perceive to be modesty. “Yes. I’m
sure,” he replies drolly. “Speaking of…” He produces a pile of pink message slips
from his pocket. “Liz was collecting these for you this morning in the main
office. I told her I’d deliver them to you when I saw you.”

Glancing down, as the pink papers pass from his hand to
mine, I see they’re all from Luke. I quickly look up at Miles again as I shove
the messages haphazardly into my jeans pockets.

His brown eyes crinkle at the corners. “I let my cell phone
battery die all the time, too. Nothing to be embarrassed about. That’s what Liz
is here for. Check in with her regularly, and she’ll give you your messages. Or
she’ll email them to you at the end of the day, if you haven’t checked in.
She’s amazing.”

I smile weakly. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Dr. Brooks.” I back
away from him, in the direction of my closet-sized office.

He holds up my syllabus and runs a hand through his rusty
hair. “I’ll… uh… take a look at this and shoot you an email later. I’m sure
it’s fine, of course. I don’t expect to have any suggestions or changes…”

“I can take constructive criticism,” I assure him while I
continue to edge down hall. “You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings.
I followed the example you sent me, so your biggest criticism may be that I’m
not very original. But since it’s my first time, and all…”

With a general wave at me, he says, “Don’t worry about it.
It’s only an outline, anyway. You’ll have plenty of creative license once the
semester gets underway and you get to know your students and how they work
best. Please, call me or stop by my office if you have any questions… or if you
want to talk. I have an open-door policy.”

Whatever that means. But I smile and say, “Thanks,” before
turning around and speed-walking to my office, the messages in my pocket
crackling and practically calling out to me to be read.

What on earth could possibly be so important that Luke would
resort to calling Fairfax’s English office to get in touch with me? I have a
cell phone (fully charged, thank you very much) and email. I also have an
agent. So, I may not be returning his messages, which are all very vague and
curt, but that’s my prerogative. His calling the office makes me seem like such
a self-important prima donna. Like I told people to contact me there, so I
could show off to the faculty that I’m a big deal. Arrrgggh! Damn him!