Plain Jayne (36 page)

“You
are
a jerk,” I proclaim, joining him on his walk
into the kitchen. I open the fridge and start taking out sandwich fixings and
placing them on the counter.

He pulls the sandwich bread from the breadbox and works at
the twist tie. “Okay, so I wasn’t very diplomatic about it, but she knows
that’s not my strong suit. I was being honest! How would you have told her?”
Without waiting for me to answer, he accuses, “You probably wouldn’t have said
anything, and then she would have kept making it for us, thinking we liked it.
At least with my method, we know we’ll never have to eat it again. You should
be
thanking
me for saving you from the horror.”

I wrap my arms around his upper arm and watch around his
shoulder as he slaps meat and cheese onto two pieces of bread in front of him.
“No mayo for me,” I tell him and then say, “I’ll tell you what. You be
Paulette, and I’ll be you.”

“What…?” He sounds skeptical but intrigued.

“We’ll role play, and I’ll show you how to be nice.”

“Mmm… role playing. Kinky.”

“Be serious!” I implore him while not doing a very good job
of it myself. “So… how did this topic come up? Who started the conversation?”

He thinks about it while pressing the top slices of bread on
our sandwiches. “She did. She—”

“No! Show, don’t tell.”

Shooting me a dirty look for throwing in his face one of the
most worn-out editor’s commands, he nevertheless says in a high quasi-English
accent, “There’s chicken soup simmering on the stove, Lyook. I’ll pop round to
the shops in the morning to get something a bit heartier for tomorrow night.
The weather’s turning cooler.”

“Your English accent sucks.”

“I would never say that to her!”

“Shut up. I’m saying it to you!”

“This was your idea, so stop breaking character.” He slaps
my sandwich onto a plate and holds it out to me.

I take it and say in a deep voice, “This looks great,
Paulette. Thanks.”

“You make me sound like a doofus.”

“Shh!” I slap his arm and continue, “Speaking of food, the
dish you made last night…”

“Yes?” he replies, slipping back into character. “The Alpo
Surprise? Did you enjoy it, Lyook?”

I rub the back of my neck and then bring my hand around to
cover my mouth and hide the grin I can’t suppress.

He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “If you liked it, I can
make that once a week for you and Jayne. I’m sure she’d love it!”

Recovered somewhat, I clear my throat and intone, “Actually,
Paulette, it wasn’t my favorite.”

He makes his bottom lip and chin wobble. “Oh?”

“No. And Jayne’s pickier than I am, so I’m not sure it would
be to her liking, either. Where’d you get the recipe?”

Tearfully, he answers, “’Twas an old war-time favorite. We
served it all the time at the inn. But if you don’t like it…” He breaks down “sobbing”
in earnest now, covering his face and making his shoulders shake.

“She would
not
be crying at this point.”

He stops suddenly, uncovers his face, and looks up at me,
blinking. “Oh, she’s very sensitive.”

“Then she must have been rending her clothing after what you
said to her.”

“This is styoopid,” “Paulette” says, grabbing her sandwich
and taking it to the breakfast bar.

“My point is, you don’t have to be so blunt all the time.
You’d have more friends if you’d learn to use some tact.”

“I have plenty of friends.”

“Name two, and I don’t count.”

Shooting me a sympathetic look, he chews, swallows, and
says, “Ah, Jayne. You count! Don’t sell yourself short.”

I plop down next to him and reply. “You know what I mean.
You can’t count me as one of your friends.”

“But you’re my BFF,” he claims, examining his sandwich at
close range.

“Name two others,” I demand, taking a big bite and watching
him while I chew.

Smugly, he answers, “Blanche and Gus.”

“Gus is
my
friend!” I object before I’ve quite
finished chewing and swallowing.

“So? He’s my friend, too, now.”

“He calls you Luke-Ass!”

“You started that, though, so it’s not his fault. He’s
obsessed with asses, anyway, so I’m sure that’s why the name stuck.”

“The name stuck because of stunts like the one you pulled
with Paulette.”

He considers this while eating his sandwich in silence.
After his last bite, he says, “Anyway, I don’t need a lot of friends. Friends
are work.”

“Spoken like a true sociopath.”

“Hey!”

“Okay, maybe that’s a bit harsh,” I concede, “but you do
tend to get all dictatorial and insensitive and then hide behind honesty and
efficient communication. As if, as long as something is honest or efficient,
it’s okay.”

He pushes his plate away and crosses his arms over his bare
chest. “Are we still talking about Paulette, here, or is this about something
else?”

I avoid his eyes when I reply, “Still applies to what you
said to Paulette, but it’s also something that applies to your social skills in
general.”

His voice is rock-hard when he says, “And my social skills
when dealing with you. Right?”

Pretending not to get what he’s driving at, I nod and say
lightly, “Yeah. Of course. With everyone, including me.”

“Is this about the note on your laptop this morning?” He
snatches my plate from me and stacks it on top of his before walking around the
counter and taking them to the dishwasher. Nodding to the computer, which is
still sitting on the counter in front of the same barstool as this morning, he
snaps, “Excuse the fuck out of me for trying to help.”

My plan to deny this has anything to do with the note or the
files collapses as I plead to be understood. “But you’re not helping. Can’t you
see that? You’re bullying me. You’re making me feel lazy and defeatist and…
and… ridiculous for not looking at those files. And guilty! Because you could
have died trying to save that fucking flash drive. I wish you would have let it
burn!”

“I don’t! There’s good stuff on there. It was worth the
burns and the lung damage and the broken leg and the itchy cast and the
agonizing physical therapy.”

“You’re crazy!”

“I’m not, Jayne! Your next book—
books—
are in that
folder. Why don’t you trust me?”

I stand up so quickly that I knock over my barstool. “It’s
not about trusting you, okay? It’s not about you at all!” When he simply glares
at me across the counter, I choke, “Why don’t
you
trust
me
when I
say that I’m fucked? I’ve lost it. I know. I know what it feels like to have
it, and I don’t. I don’t have it anymore. It’s gone. So stop pressuring me to
keep looking for it!” I adopt the very pose he struck when he was pretending to
be the heartbroken Paulette, only I’m not acting. I weep into my hands, my
hunched shoulders shaking violently.

I hear the dishwasher door slide open and the soft clank of
china against the rubber-coated racks, followed by the soft whoosh and click of
the appliance closing. Then the air around me shifts, and Luke’s warm arms wrap
around my shoulders.

He rests his chin on top of my head and says quietly,
“Jayne, Jayne, Jayne. I’ve never seen someone take writer’s block so
personally.”

“What am I going to do?” I despair into his chest.

“I thought you didn’t want me to tell you what to do.”

“I don’t!”

He sighs. “Okay. Uh… I don’t know. I guess you’ll either get
past it or… not. We’ll figure out a way to appease Thornfield, though. Don’t
worry about—”

“I’m not worried about my stupid contract!” I cry,
frustrated that he’s not getting what the real problem is. “Fuck Thornfield.
I’ve already made them fifty times what they paid me.”

“I don’t know about that…” he chuckles indulgently.

“Then I’ll use the money my dead parents left me. Whatever. I’m
not being exact, okay?” I push away from him and wipe my face on the inside of
my t-shirt collar. Dejectedly, I ask, “What am I going to
do
, Luke? If I
can’t write… what can I do? My life is… yawning… in front of me, this huge,
black space with endless empty hours and nothing to do to fill them. Since I
finished my book and the tour, I… I’ve been lost. The movie is a slight
diversion, but it’s not mine. It’s someone else’s project, and I stand on the
sidelines and say, ‘Good job’ about every ten days or so. They don’t care what
I want or what I think, but they have to pretend they do. And I don’t care what
they do, but I’m expected to care. I’m supposed to play the part of the
temperamental author who insists that not a single word of dialogue change, who
throws a fit when a scene is cut or added or altered. But… I don’t care. It’s a
completely separate animal to me. And I keep having to remind myself why I’m
involved at all.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“I’m impotent.”

“Potato, potahto.”

“The point is…” I clench my fists at my sides, bordering on
enraged that I have to continue to spell it out for him. “The point is… I don’t
know how to do anything else but write. It’s been my answer to everything from
PMS to boredom to insomnia to…
everything…
since I could hold a pencil
and form the letters of the alphabet. It sounds stupid and dramatic, but I
don’t feel like a person if I can’t write. And I can’t write.”

“Right now.”

I laugh bitterly. “What’s going to change, Luke? What’s going
to make ten years from now different from right now?”

“Sleep, maturity, experiences, love, hate, marriage,
children, grief, joy,
life
! I don’t know! Anything can happen. You’re no
stranger to the creative process. It’s not logical. It’s not methodical, and it
certainly doesn’t follow any rules or laws of a scientific nature.” He pulls me
against him again. “Cut yourself some damn slack!” He kisses the top of my
head. “I don’t mean that in a dictatorial way, either. It’s merely a
suggestion.”

I give him a watery smile.

“There,” he practically croons. “Deep breath.”

I obey.

“We need a vacation,” he declares. “You and me, alone.
Somewhere that neither of us associates with any form of work.” He kisses my
nose. “A honeymoon.”

My eyes widen.

He’s too busy brainstorming to notice my reaction to that
word, though. “I can probably get away from work in a week or two. We’ll go
away for two weeks, and by the time we get back, the house on Marblehead will
be ready for us to move in. We’ll get reacquainted with it, take long walks on
the beach, swim, play, relax, make love, and not worry about a damn thing. Then
life won’t seem so daunting. You’ll see.” He looks down into my face. “What say
you?”

His solution doesn’t solve anything, but it stops me from
trying to solve everything, even if only temporarily.

“A honeymoon?” I ask, repeating the last word I truly heard
and comprehended.

He smiles crookedly. “Yeah. Unless you think that’s too
corny. Or too soon. I don’t want to rush you or—”

“Rush
me
? I thought you never wanted to get married
again. And trust me, I don’t blame you. I understand.”

I’ve even told myself a few hundred thousand times that I’m
okay with it. Lord knows I don’t want to be the
next
crazy Mrs. Edwards.

“You’ve made me eat my words on so many occasions, Jayne,
that I don’t even keep track anymore. How about we forget everything I ever
said before you woke up in my arms the morning after you fell asleep watching
what you call ‘the blue people movie’?” He shakes his head ruefully. “Because I
didn’t know anything before then. And I said some really stupid things.”

“You’ve said some really stupid things since then, too,” I
point out, making a face and poking at his lower lip with my index finger. “But
I don’t want to forget anything.”

“That’s your choice.”

“And I would love to be your wife.”

“Do you have good health insurance? Because you’re going to
need it, if you’re shackled to me as I stumble through life.”

“I’ll take my chances. Now, take me to bed… after we check
the detectors.”

He lets me go, bends down to right the barstool I upended,
and says, “I’d like nothing better.”

Chapter Thirty

Three weeks away from everything—first in Key West and then
in Marblehead—helped put things into perspective for me. I didn’t even take my
laptop with me on our honeymoon; yet, I survived. It was liberating. I had no
access to email or social networking sites, and I would have left my cell phone
in the apartment if I thought I could get away with it, but Tullah and Jules
would have had my head. They were nice about leaving me alone the first week,
but there was no dodging our daily status calls longer than that. After all,
it’s so important for me to know that
nothing
new is happening, which I
already know, because I’d have to be writing something new for new stuff to be
happening.

In spite of that, though, I feel more serene (a.k.a.,
“resigned”) about things than I did before we took a break. Before my daily
walk on the beach this morning, I even sent an email to Miles, asking him how
he’s doing and getting caught up. I hope there’s an answer waiting for me when
I get back. I want us to be friends. I want him to see that I’m happy now, but
I’d be happier if we were on good terms. I’d be even happier still if I knew I
was welcome back at Fairfax or he’d be willing to give me a reference to
another school when I decide sitting around the house all day while Luke goes
to work isn’t my thing.

I’ve already decided that, actually. I’ve made up my mind
that teaching at the university level (maybe even furthering my own education;
after all, it’s not fair that Luke gets to be the only Ph.D. in the house) is
where my future lies; I simply haven’t informed anyone else yet. Putting out
feelers to Miles is my first step. It’s a baby step. But it’s a step, at least.
I guess I could do charitable work or pop out some kids, but… that doesn’t
appeal, either. I want to
work.
I want to use my brain and challenge
myself. I want to challenge others. I want to help someone else learn the best
way—for them—to express to readers what they’re thinking and feeling.