Plain Jayne (29 page)

While everyone else shares their editor horror stories, I
push the remaining food around on my plate. It’s not that I don’t have anything
to add to this topic (I probably have more material than I’d prefer), but I
don’t feel like trashing Luke to these people. To anyone. He’s off-limits. And
I guess that’s pretty telling.

Anyway, I’ve done what needed to be done:  I’ve changed the
subject and gotten Paige off the hot seat (although I’m dying to know what she
blogs about that she’d rather not discuss). I’m covertly studying her profile
while she listens to someone whose name I can’t remember tell a funny story
about a news director he used to work for when he was a television news
producer when I get the sense that I’m being watched. Sure enough, when I
glance at Miles, I see he’s the culprit. I smile shyly. He grins back and
doesn’t look away. I have no idea how to interpret the gleam in his eyes.

*****

The weekends are the worst. I’m not a museum person, but
I’ve already resorted to riding the train into D.C. to visit all the museums
and tourist attractions in my efforts to not sit at home alone on the weekends.
Strangely, seeing all those things by myself made me feel even lonelier. So,
it’s not something I’m proud of, but I’ve taken to spending time at Fairfax on
the weekends, sometimes even in my tiny office. It’s pathetic, but at least I’m
sort of surrounded by people on campus. I know all I have to do is walk a few
steps to the door that will take me outside, where I can come in contact with
other humans. Knowing I’m part of a community—however peripherally I’m
involved—keeps at bay the yawning blackness of depression that threatens
regularly.

It doesn’t even matter (much) to me that the students with
whom I come in contact are in their late teens and early twenties, and I’m
usually lost when listening in on their conversations. How is it that only a
few years can make such a big difference? Are my contemporaries as mystified by
the generation immediately following us, or am I simply out of touch?

The English building has always been deserted on weekends,
so it’s not like there have been any witnesses to my loserdom. As far as anyone
at our Thursday night get-togethers knows, my social calendar is hopping on the
weekends. They probably assume I divide my time between cranking out my next
book and hobnobbing with interesting people. If they knew the truth, they’d
pity me. And suggest I blog about it. Or get a cat.

So today when I hear squeaking sneakers on the asbestos
tiles in the hallway outside my office, I brace myself to be caught reading
students’ papers on a Sunday, and I prepare myself for the inevitable
outpouring of sympathy and hobby suggestions. Of course, I guess I can console
myself with the fact that this person is also at work on a Sunday. Or maybe
it’s a student (although that would be even sadder, so I hope it’s not). I’d
close my door to discourage any social interaction, but I get breathless and faint
in the four-by-six room when the door’s closed for longer than thirty seconds,
so I’ve resigned myself to facing the consequences of being lame and friendless
when Miles stops in the doorway.

“Jayne Greer. What the heck are you doing here?”

I figure the truth is probably the easiest answer, so I give
it to him, unvarnished. “I have nothing better to do.”

He laughs. “I’m sure. Let me guess:  you promised you’d
return those papers tomorrow, but you procrastinated, so now you’re frantically
working to get them done.”

I know I should take his out, especially since it’s obvious
he doesn’t believe the truth, but the only person I lie to on a regular basis
these days is me. Sheepishly, I insist, “No, really. I am
that
sad.” I
say it with a smile, though, so he doesn’t know how sorry I feel for myself.

“It’s a nice day out,” he states. “Cold, but sunny. Do you
like the outdoors?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Not much. I like the beach.” I could
kick myself for saying it, but there it is. Damn my need to fill the silence when
he’s around!

He grasps onto that detail. “Oh? Being a Midwesterner, I
wouldn’t think you’d have much experience with beaches.”

Pretending something on my laptop has grabbed my attention,
I look at the monitor and say distractedly, “Only from travel.”

“I see.” He looks down at his shoes. “Well. Far be it from
me to discourage your admirable work ethic, but… would you be interested in
doing something a bit more… recreational?”

“Such as…?” I’m not down with ’shrooms or other
mind-altering substances, which the word “recreational” always brings to mind.

His head snaps up at my wary tone, and he laughs at what
must be the equally-leery expression on my face. “Nothing scary.”

“Is it legal?”

“Uh… yes. I think it’s safe to say that it is. I’m no
lawbreaker.”

I blush at what he must perceive to be my ridiculous mistrust
of him. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t mean to be socially awkward; it comes
naturally.”

Shaking his head, he replies, “Don’t worry about it. I stopped
by here to grab a movie coupon I left on the printer Friday, and then I was
going to go see said movie… alone. But it would be much better if I had some
company. Would you like to join me? You can even have my coupon.”

Although it doesn’t matter, I ask, “What’s the movie?”

He lifts his chin. “I’m not ashamed to tell you that I’d
planned to see the new period piece starring all the usual English actors who
are in every period piece. But we can see something else, if you’d rather.”

“You had me at ‘period piece,’” I say, closing my laptop,
grabbing my purse and coat, and digging my keys from my coat pocket.

Jogging toward the main office, he says, “Great! I’ll meet
you back here in a second with that coupon I promised.”

No coupon required.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Miles has saved me from the interminable weekends from Hell.
Since it’s so cold and often snowing, we tend to see movies together a lot.
That’s fine with me. It’s casual and on neutral turf, and it doesn’t make me
feel (too much) like we’re doing something the college may frown upon. Because
nothing
like that is going on. Nothing. We’re truly just friends. As much as Gus
and I are friends. Except I don’t point out hot guys to Miles, because I don’t
think he’d be interested, judging on some things he’s said about past
relationships with women.

Not that I’d be against dating Miles, if he asked me. He’s
an attractive, funny, positive, intelligent guy. If nothing else, it’d be
interesting to try it out. Maybe it would take my mind off a certain
married
man who continues to plague my thoughts and dreams when I’m not careful to keep
myself too busy to think.

But if Miles is waiting for me to make the first move, he’ll
be waiting a long time. I don’t do that, especially to satisfy mere curiosity. I
mean, if I had a burning passion for the guy, I might consider it worth the
risk of rejection. But I won’t put my pride or our friendship in jeopardy simply
to see if I feel the same attraction—or stronger—when kissing him as I did when
I kissed that other guy in Marblehead.

That
other
guy.

“Hey.” I interrupt Miles’s analysis of the differences
between the movie we just saw and the book upon which it was based.

He stops mid-sentence, holding his mouth open for a few
seconds, and then he closes it before asking, “What? Am I being obsessive again?
I hate it when they change major plot points. After all, it was written that
way for a reason. I understand filmmakers sometimes have to cut things out for
time’s sake, but in this instance, the changes were gratuitous and offensive.”

Even though I didn’t read the book in this particular case,
I still say, “I totally agree. As an author, I say the screenwriter and the
director need to respect the original telling as much as possible. But that’s
not why I interrupted you.”

“Do I have food on my face?” He swipes at his mouth with his
napkin.

“No. It, uh, occurred to me, though, that… maybe you didn’t
know something kind of important. Or maybe you do.” I swipe the salt shaker
from the table and start playing with it.

“Jayne Greer. You’re being quite enigmatic!” he says
proudly, as if it’s a rare skill that I’ve only now mastered after months of
training.

I do my best impersonation of the Mona Lisa. “Well, I’m sure
you do know what I’m about to tell you. As the English Department Head, you’d
have to know. Maybe you’re responsible, now that I think of it.” I tap my
fingernail against the metal top of the shaker. “Fairfax has offered me a
two-year contract to continue teaching creative writing.”

He grins indulgently. “As a matter of fact, I did know that.
I was wondering if
you
knew, since you haven’t brought it up. I didn’t
want to step on any toes and speak out of turn by telling you, if you hadn’t
gotten the offer letter yet.”

“How much did you have to vouch for me to make that happen?”
I ask him.

Widening his eyes innocently, he says, “Not at all!
Obviously, I was consulted. But your work speaks for itself. Your students love
you. You’re accessible. You get along well with the other faculty members.
You’re published. What’s not to love?”

I smile modestly. “Aw, you’re embarrassing me.”

“I’m serious!”

“Okay. Enough of that.” His effusive praise is only making
what I’m going to say harder to say. “The thing is… I can’t accept it.”

He sits back in his chair and makes a sound like he’s been
punched in the gut. “W-what do you mean? Why not?”

I avoid eye contact while moving my attention from the salt
shaker to my water glass. I wipe the sweat from it. “Well, I have a book tour
coming up. And sometime after that, they’re going to start filming the movie
based on my book. And sometime during all that, I have to figure out how to
write two more books, which I haven’t even begun to write. I don’t even have
any ideas.” He’s the first person to whom I’ve dared divulge that information.

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.