Plain Jayne (30 page)

His shoulders relax, and he rubs the top of my (scaly) hand
with his thumb. “That’s excellent news, Jayne Greer.” Signaling for the check,
he asks uncertainly, “Can I take you home? I mean… with me? Or… you don’t have
to. Never mind. That’s crass. I’m getting carried away, and—”

“Miles Brooks. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were
nervous!” He laughs at my impersonation of him. “I’d love to go home with you.
Unless you’ve taken back your invitation for real.”

He shakes his head. “No, the invitation is still very much
out there, exposed and unsophisticated though it may be.”

“Then let’s go, Professor.”

*****

I’m a big talker. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do
it.
Which I guess isn’t all that bad. Maybe it’s good. Maybe it would suggest a
flaw in my character if I could hop in bed with a guy at a second’s notice. Of
course, it wasn’t a second’s notice. We’ve been friends for months. I’ve wanted
to be more than friends—and so has he, obviously—for at least half of those
months, or maybe more. Or maybe less. I don’t know. I’m so confused!

The truth is, it felt weird. I barely had my coat off and
had looked around his nice, modest house—which, however clean and tidy it was,
had very apparently never benefitted from a woman’s influence—when he was
kissing the back of my neck and steering me toward the sofa, a very large, very
leather thing in the middle of the living room. I was tense and robotic as he
turned me around so that he could kiss my lips. And when we sank to the couch,
I was determined to remain sitting, even though he attempted to push me onto my
back every thirty seconds or so, like he was saying,
Now? No? Okay, how
about now? No? What about now?

I finally stopped kissing back and pushed away from him.
Smiling gently, I said, “Let’s stay vertical for a while, huh?”

Looking sheepish, he replied, “Okay. Sorry.”

“No apologies necessary. But it’s… been a long time for me.”
It was the truth, so I didn’t feel horribly guilty about it being less than the
half the reason I couldn’t get into our little makeout session.

“For me, too,” he admitted. “That’s probably why I’m
anxious. Do you want to stop?”

That seemed extreme. I worried it’d never feel right if we gave
up and stopped. I just had to get used to it, right? That’s what I told myself,
anyway.

“No. But I don’t want to lie down.”

He studied my face and then smiled crookedly. “I love that
you use correct grammar, no matter the situation.” Before I could reply, he
kissed me again. I closed my eyes, hoping I could relax, knowing he wasn’t
going to try to force me to do something I didn’t want to do.

No dice. I was as stiff as a wax figure. Eventually, he gave
up. He was a good sport about it, because that’s his nature, but I felt like a
horrible, frigid tease. Before I had a chance to apologize or explain myself
more than I already had, he stood and said, “Let me show you around the place.
It’s not much, but it’s home.” His upbeat tone made it clear he didn’t want to
dwell on what had just happened… or not happened.

Now I lie in bed in my own tiny apartment and wonder what’s
wrong with me. Or, more accurately, what’s wrong with Miles? He meets all the
requirements—and then some—of an ideal guy for me. He’s even a good kisser. I
guess. But when I think about being with Miles (as in,
being
with him),
the strongest reaction I can summon is, “Meh. Okay.” And that’s not right. I
should experience that loin-jerking, stomach-fluttering feeling that someone as
horny as I am right now should have no problem feeling for the right—or even
currently available—person.

It wasn’t that long ago that I felt it. But like the cold
Maryland winter has dulled the memory of the hot summer temperatures on the
Massachusetts coast, months of separation and sadness have made it equally
difficult to remember exactly how it felt to want someone so much that it was
like another sense. Taste, smell, hear, feel, see, desire. Right now, it’s
merely a vague recollection. I know I felt it. I remember how it felt. But I
can’t quite conjure the same feeling for anyone else.

Ambivalence is killing me. I want to stop feeling sad and
lonely, and I want to stop missing the man who shall not be named, but when
someone hands me what appears to be the solution, I stare at it, like, “Hmm… On
second thought… Maybe I don’t want that.”

But I do!

Unfortunately, any man won’t do.

It was a mistake to try to turn Miles into something he’s
not. We’re friends. That’s it. That’s all we’ll ever be. I’m too hung up on…
that other guy, and Miles is too hung up on someone he thinks he knows but who doesn’t
exist. I’m not a mysterious and enigmatic and complicated author. I’m just
Jayne, posing as the author part and somehow unintentionally giving the
impression that I’m those other things. I think the truth is simply too boring for
him to believe.

I’m so boring that I can’t even muster the interestingness
to have sex with someone for the fun of it.

*****

I knock on Miles’s open office door. To my relief, he seems
glad to see me when he looks up from his computer monitor.

“Jayne Greer! It seems like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

It’s only been three days, but I don’t point that out to
him. Instead, I say, “End of semester insanity, you know. Nobody warned me
about that.”

He cocks his head. “You mean, how you have to give an exam
or collect on an assignment weighty enough to judge that someone’s learned
something in your class, but you only have twenty-four hours to grade or assess
that work?”

I grin. “Exactly. I never even considered that side of
things when I was a student.”

“Students generally don’t consider anything from their
instructors’ points of view, I’ve found.”

I edge further into the room and point with my thumb to the
door. “Do you mind if I…?”

His smile fades, but he answers, “Not at all!” so I close
the door and sit in the chair across the desk from him.

“I know you’re going to tell me not to worry about it, but I
want to apologize for last weekend.” To my surprise, he says nothing but looks
at an invisible speck on his desk that must be uber-interesting, so I continue,
“I thought I was ready, but… I guess not. Well, I
know
not. Obviously.”
I sigh. “I’m fucked up right now.”

This statement gets his attention, including full eye
contact, in a hurry. Brow furrowed, he asks, “Is everything okay? Do you need
help?”

I laugh so he’ll relax a bit. “Probably. The professional
kind. But not for anything serious. Just run-of-the-mill angst typically reserved
for people half my age or slightly older.”

“There’s someone else,” he states.

I hate admitting it, but I do with a curt nod.

“Anyone I know? Because, you know, I could… uh… beat him up…
or something.”

We both laugh at the image, but then I shake my head. “No
one you know. I assume you don’t know him, anyway. He’s not someone here.”
After an awkward silence, I repeat, “I’m sorry.”

“I am, too.”

His quiet intensity makes me gulp. “I mean, I could fake it.
I considered it. But that wouldn’t be fair to you. You deserve better than
that. You deserve more than being someone’s second choice.” I choke on the last
two words.

He rubs his thumbnail. “Bitterness isn’t in my nature, but I
do have to tell you, being a second choice does get old. I’ve been there a few
too many times, unfortunately.”

“It won’t always be that way, though,” I confidently assure
him. Sniffing, I blink rapidly and say, “One of these semesters, your guest
lecturer is going to be a stunning model-slash-writer-slash-film-critic with a
sharp wit and a shared love of Andrew Davies movies, and you two will fall
madly in love and have tons of highly-literate babies, who can read before they
hit their third birthdays.”

My joke gets a soft chuckle and a, “Yeah. I thought I’d
already met that woman, but… I guess not.”

“Not yet, Miles Brooks. But you will.”

He humors me with a nod. “And what about you, Jayne Greer?
Are you saving yourself for someone worthy? Or just another asshole who makes
life difficult for us nice guys?”

For someone whose personality doesn’t allow for bitterness,
he has it down. I guess it’s only fair to let him have his moment, so I don’t
call him on it but say lightly, “Oh… this is unrequited love of the highest
order.”

“A celebrity asshole, then?”

I laugh. “No! I’m not
that
delusional.”

“Married?”

Squirming in my chair gives him all the answer he needs.
“Ah,” he says knowingly, his face tightening. He closes his eyes for a fraction
of a second longer than a blink and then turns back to his computer. “Well,
good luck with that,” he snipes. “I, uh, have a lot to do, so… I’ll catch up
with you later?”

His judgment hurts. And I can’t resist defending myself
against it.

“It’s not like that,” I say quietly.

At first, it seems like he’s not going to engage, but then
he swivels in his chair to face me once more. “Not like what?”

“I didn’t have an affair with a married man. It’s not all…
sordid… and other-woman-ish.”

He pulls his head back. “What is it like, then? One woman’s
not good enough for this guy? Let me guess:  he doesn’t love his wife, but he
can’t leave her for whatever reason—kids, religion, money, all of the above—and
he’s so miserable, but you understand him, and you can be for him what she
can’t be. Is that it? Wake up, Jayne!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Unfortunately, I do. Because I’m surrounded by these
scumbags. They’re all the same. And they all seem to be irresistible to
otherwise-intelligent women like you, who don’t have enough self-respect or
good sense to be with a man who loves you and nobody else.” He runs his hand
through his hair. “So guys like me are forced to step aside and watch… Anyway.
Whatever.” He clears his throat. “I can’t compete with that. I’m too damn
attainable.”

I stare down at my hands in my lap. “I can’t help how I
feel.”

He clicks his tongue, pauses, and says, “You’re right.
Something or someone a long time ago taught you that this is the best you can
ever expect, that this is all you deserve, being someone else’s second
priority—if that—while you make him your top priority and get nowhere.”

When I stand to leave without defending myself, he turns
back to his computer and says, “Don’t forget your final grades are due in the
system by the end of the day today.”

I yank the door open. “You got it, Dr. Brooks.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

It’s Week Two of the book tour, and I’ve made it to the East
Coast, a destination I’ve been both dreading and anticipating. I’ve been
especially wishy-washy in regards to my feelings about the party Thornfield
Publishing is throwing for me tonight at a fancy Boston venue, but as I prepare
in my hotel room, I realize I’ve been looking forward to it more than dreading
it. I want to see him. That’s all. See that he’s okay, show him that I’m okay,
do that nod thing across the crowded room, and get on with my life.

Gus is going with me as my date to the party. I considered
not going at all, considering the way they’ve treated me lately, but then I
thought,
Why should everyone else get to drink the booze and eat the food,
when I’m the one who did all the work?
Actually, that’s what Gus pointed
out to me when he informed me we were going. He has a good point. Plus, how
else am I going to see Luke?

A knock on the door informs me my date has arrived. I let
him in and go right back into the bathroom, where I put the finishing touches
on my makeup.

“If I were a straight man, I’d be all over you, Babushka!”
Gus gushes. “Look at you! You’re gorgeous!”

“Thanks!” I trill back, nervous energy making my voice
higher than usual.

“No, I’m serious! If I had bumped into you on the street, I
wouldn’t have recognized you. Put your shoes on and let me get the full
effect.” He thrusts the Jimmy Choo pumps at me and won’t stop nudging me with
them until I set down my mascara wand and take them from him.

After sliding my feet into them, I stand tall and strike a
one-hand-on-the-hip pose.

He whistles. “Lawd have mercy! I think I almost felt the
first twinges of a stiffie when you did that.” He fans himself while I laugh.
“Luke-Ass better do all his eating and drinking before you get there, because
once he gets a load of you, his jaw will be permanently on the floor. He’ll
have to drag it around the rest of the night.”

“That’s quite the mental image.”

“My half-stiffie or Luke-Ass’s dragging jaw?”

“Both.” I cap the mascara, give myself one final look in the
mirror and one final shot of hairspray, and say, “Well. I guess I’m as ready as
I’ll ever be.”

When Gus doesn’t move and continues to stare at me, I say,
“What?”

He blinks and shakes his head. “Nothing, but… Well, I don’t
want to hurt your feelings—”

“What? Is something wrong? Do I not fill out the top of this
dress enough?” I yank at the bustline and look down into my cleavage, which
seems impressive from up here, but maybe that’s an optical illusion from this
angle…

“No! I already told you that you look amazing!” he snaps.
“Stop fussing with your dress! Stop!”

I freeze.

“I’ve never seen you look like this. Ever. It’s
unbelievable.”

I blush. “It’s amazing what a lot of makeup and hairspray
can do for someone.”

“That’s just it. I’ve never seen you wear makeup. Or do…
whatever miracle it is you did to your hair.” He walks in a circle around me.
“I had a feeling that all you needed was a decent makeover to bring out your
inner swan, but girl, you’re a whole ’nother species of bird altogether!”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I know I’m naturally plain. I’ve
never had a reason to make an effort at my appearance, that’s all.”