Plain Jayne (38 page)

And I didn’t, in this case. I thought Luke had already
changed by himself. I thought his experiences with Caroline had changed him. I
thought falling in love with me had changed him. But every once in a while, the
old angry, mean editor I loathed reemerges and makes me want to scream. This
instance is particularly disheartening, because I haven’t seen that douchebag
in such a long time that I thought he was gone for good. Foolishly, I thought
marriage had changed him.

Even though there’s no possible way it could be true, I
pretend to be asleep when I hear him enter the room a few short minutes later.
If nothing else, maybe he’ll get the hint that I don’t want to continue our
conversation. The sound of fabric gliding against skin and the bounce of the
mattress tell me he’s sitting on the bed and changing out of his work
clothes—mercifully in silence. I hear the click of the closet light and the
sound of hangers sliding on the metal rack. Something falls from the shelf, eliciting
a muted “Ouch” before landing with a clunk on the wooden floor.

My closed eyes are like bouncers at an exclusive club. And
Luke’s not on the list. As I’m thinking he doesn’t have the guts to even approach
and ask for admittance, his side of the mattress sags again, and he says, “I’m
glad you remember that story.”

This statement is confounding enough that it makes me open
my eyes and wonder aloud, “Why? I’d think it would be a major complication.”

He mistakes my verbal response as permission to touch me.
Sliding across the bed, he rests his chin against my hip and says, “It’s not a
complication; it’s a blessing.”

“Then why are you being such a dickhead about it?”

He doesn’t have a quick answer for that one. I don’t rush
him. Finally, he answers, “I didn’t realize I was being one. Your preoccupation
with the name of the writer seemed irrelevant and a waste of time.”

I bristle anew. “‘Preoccupation’? I asked one time. I’d
hardly call that preoccupied. But you bit my head off.”

“Sorry.” He sounds anything but. “I’m also glad you like the
story and had a lot of ideas about the direction in which to take it.”

Sullenly, I mutter, “So glad you approve.”

He chuckles at my sarcasm.

“It’s not funny.” I flop onto my back. He braces himself on
his elbow and looks down at me while I continue, “I know it seems like I’m an
idle waste of space and that since I don’t have any ideas of my own, I should
be grateful to you for allowing me to help other people with
their
ideas—”

“Now, wait a minute—”

“—but I’m not an editing robot. I should be allowed to ask
questions and give feedback without worrying about being shouted at or treated
like a nuisance. You asked for
my
help. If you don’t want me to bother
you with the things I have questions about, then don’t ask for my help.
Frankly, I’d rather watch British cartoons and eat Magnum bars all day.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Yes, I would.” I’m gathering steam now. Looking straight
into his green eyes, I say, “Anyway, Miles Brooks emailed me back today—”

“Why’d you email
him
?”

“—about my interest in getting back into teaching at the
collegiate level, and he seemed pleased to hear from me—”

“I’m sure he was…”

“—and said he’d be glad to give me a reference
or
even
find a place for me on the faculty at Fairfax, so—”

“Hang on a minute!” He doesn’t look the least bit amused
anymore. Nor does he seem to be willing to let me talk over him. “Hang on!
Teaching? I don’t think so.”

“Excuse me? It’s not your call.”

“Well… I mean… Of course, it’s not, but… What I mean is…
Well, for one thing, Fairfax is in Maryland! In case you didn’t know, we live
in a completely different state.”

“We can move.”

He doesn’t even dignify that with a response.

“And I know you’re fond of pretending it’s not true, but you
still have contractual obligations with Thornfield. I’d suggest you focus on
those before you commit yourself to a mind-numbing life in academia!” His jaw
hardens and his nostrils flare.

“My contract with your employer is the least of my worries,
in the grand scheme of—”

“I beg to differ!”

“Beg all you want, but it’s true. All I have to do is write
a check and—”

“All you have to do is give up, you mean? Writing becomes a
little bit of work for you, and suddenly, it’s not worth it? Is that how you
want to approach life? What about when marriage gets difficult, Jayne? You
gonna throw in the towel and write me a fucking check? Is that what I have to
look forward to?”

I push him away from me and cross to the window. Looking
down on the gray, wet beach, I say, “Stop being so self-righteous and dramatic.
They’re totally different things.”

When he doesn’t argue—for once—I take advantage of his
silence and continue, “Listen. It’s my career, and I know you work for
Thornfield, so that puts you in an awkward position when it comes to my
decision to break my contract with them, but—”

Sitting up on the bed, he explodes, “I don’t give a damn
about them or what any of them thinks of me or you!”

“Then why are you so intent on my fulfilling my contract?”

“You owe it to yourself not to give up on something you love
to do, Jayne! You love writing. You’re good at it. Just because it’s not coming
easy right now doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.” He stands and, despite my
protests, joins me at the window, pressing his chest against my back and
cupping my shoulders in his hands. “Didn’t it feel good to read through that
manuscript and have it reawaken your imagination? Don’t you remember the thrill
of getting a sentence exactly right?”

I blink at my tears. “Yeah. It felt great to read someone
else’s work and say, ‘I used to be able to do this,’ and ‘If this were me, I’d
say it this way.’ It felt awful, actually. It felt like looking through an old
photo album full of dead people I dearly loved and miss so much that it
physically hurts. It made me feel nostalgic and jealous and… and… horrible!”

He kisses my ear. I bring my shoulder up to nudge him away,
but he’s not deterred. Goosebumps raise my hair follicles as he murmurs next to
my ear, “Jayne, don’t be a dumbass.
You
are the author of that
manuscript. Or a younger facsimile of you.
You
wrote that your freshman
year in college.”

“
You’re
the dumbass, thank you very much. I think I
would have remembered that.”

“That manuscript was an assignment for a class. A class taught
by a Dr. Wallace Nichols. Creative Writing 101. The assignment was to write a
5,000-word novel start. You wrote 30,000 before you ran out of time and had to
turn it in. You always turned in your assignments, after all, no matter what
was going on or how you were feeling. You got things done. Gus told me that
much.”

I spin around to face him. “Gus gave it to you?” I can’t
imagine how he got hold of it, but it at least lends some credibility to the
claim that it’s truly my writing. I want so much to believe it is.

Luke shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “No. It’s one of
the files you refuse to look at on the flash drive . But Gus gave me the
background on the assignment. You two met in that class.”

I suddenly get a very vivid picture of Dr. Nichols. He
looked like a goat, with his sculpted beard and his jutting chin. I remember
how Gus used to swear the professor’s pupils were vertical obelisks, if you
could ever get close enough to see them.

“He was annoyed that I didn’t follow the assignment
parameters,” I say spacily. “Dr. Nichols. I got a C on this assignment, mostly
because I overachieved.”

“Sounds right.”

“Why don’t I remember writing it? Why does it feel like the
work of a stranger?

Luke smiles down at me. “You do remember it. A little. You
said it’s familiar to you. Your logical brain is trying so hard to make you recognize
it, but your emotional brain won’t allow it. You wrote it at a time when life
was too hard to experience, too hard to undertake, when it was easier to walk
through life on auto-pilot.”

I relax at the truth of that assessment and choke, “How do
you know that?”

“I know
you
, Jayne. And…” His smile has a guilty tint
to it. “…you told me that yourself once. Something you said in Key West
reminded me of it and gave me the idea to test the theory by showing you one of
your old files and seeing if you recognized it.”

“By tricking me, in other words?”

He closes one eye and thinks about it. “Not really. I didn’t
lie. And I didn’t say it
wasn’t
your writing.”

“‘A favor for Arthur’? How do you explain that red herring?”

Ultra-seriously, he insists, “Arthur
has
been on my
case for months about getting you to produce something. I wasn’t exaggerating
about my chestnuts being held firmly in the fire. They’re roasting.”

I smile sadly. “We can’t have that. I’ll march into his
office and kick his old, wrinkly ass.”

“It’d probably be better if you just finish that manuscript.”

“Not as exciting, but… okay. I might be able to do that.”

“I
know
you can.”

I gulp and try to temper the hope in my chest when I say, “I
believe I can, too.”

*****

“I respect your space and your ‘process,’ but I haven’t seen
you—or been invited to the house on Marblehead—in months, and I’m starting to
feel neglected and unloved. Not that I don’t have other friends, Babushka; I
do. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea there. But they’re not
you
,
and they don’t have houses on Marblehead, if you get my drift. Especially with
summer getting into full swing, I want to sit on the beach and drink Mai Tai’s
and hang out in town, checking out all the gay married men who are trying so
valiantly to be straight with their blue blood wives and their broods of bratty
kids. All the openly-gay men anymore are in committed relationships—or worse,
married to other openly-gay men!—so I’ve resigned myself to being someone’s
mistress. I think I can handle it.”

I un-mute my phone long enough to say, “I wouldn’t recommend
that.”

“You never were, so what would you know? Anyway, what do you
say? How much longer am I going to have to wait for an invitation? I know I’m
not a low-key houseguest, so I understand why you want to be finished with your
work before I come out there for a visit, but seriously! How much longer is it
going to take you? Glaciers move faster, honey!”

“Soon,” I answer vaguely. “Hey, it was great catching up,
but I have to get back to it.”

“Wait! Before you do, has Nick said anything about me since,
you know, we met on the
Devil
set? I felt a connection. I know you
weren’t there, but trust me…”

I sigh inwardly and lie, “Ah, yes! As a matter of fact, he
said you were… ‘fascinating.’ But… I think he’s straight,” I inform him
regretfully.

“He probably thinks he is, too,” Gus says. “That doesn’t
mean anything. Alright, then, Babushka. Au revoir!”

And like that, he’s gone.

Luke marks his place and closes his Blake Redmond-Womack
book. “After listening to that, I’m thoroughly exhausted and am going up to
bed.” He stands and stretches. “You coming?”

I barely glance up at him while shaking my head. “Nope.
Gotta keep at it.”

I was on a roll before Gus called. He has “writing groove
radar” like that. But I’ve screened his calls for weeks, so I felt an
obligation to answer this time.

After bending down to kiss the top of my head, Luke leaves
the room and shuffles up the stairs.

Now, where was I?

*****

The last piece of paper rasps from the printer and lands,
warm and facedown, on the two-inch stack already in the output tray. I
straighten the edges and hug the ream to my chest while tiptoeing up the stairs
to our room, where Luke lies, warm and facedown, in our bed.

I poke him with my foot.

“Grrrrrrr,” he growls into his pillow.

“Luke!” I hiss. “Wake up!”

Turning his head toward me but keeping his eyes closed and
remaining still, he says, “If the house is on fire, just leave me. God’s trying
to tell me something, obviously.”

I kick him harder. “That’s not funny. Wake up.”

He cracks an eye but then quickly squeezes it shut again
when I turn on his bedside lamp. “What the fuck…? Jayne! What time is it?”

“Never mind,” I say, not wanting to admit it’s nearly 4 a.m.
“I need you.”

“Then turn off the light and get in bed,” he replies. “Since
when do we have to have the lights on? And do we have to do this right now? We
can have sex when the alarm goes off.”

Laughing, I say, “I don’t need you for sex. I finished the
book!”

This gets his attention much faster than a middle-of-the-night
delight ever would. He pushes up to a sitting position and wiggles his fingers
at the fresh, clean manuscript in my arms.

“That’s what I thought,” I mutter, handing it over and then
going into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

When I slide between the covers a few minutes later and
nuzzle down into my pillow and up against his side, he’s nearly finished
reading the two chapters I’ve most recently completed. My eyes are burning and
blurry from the strain of staring at my laptop monitor for fourteen hours, so I
close them. It’s pointless to watch his face for a reaction, anyway. He never
gives away anything while he’s reading.

Soon enough, he’s setting the manuscript on his bedside
table, turning out the light, and scooting down under the covers again.

“Well?” I ask eagerly when he doesn’t volunteer any
feedback.

“It’s good,” he says in the same tone one would probably use
at receiving a crayon drawing from a young child.

My heart sinks. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with it?”

He sighs. “I mean, ‘it’s good.’ And there’s nothing wrong
with it. Well… I saw a couple of things that you’ll need to change, but nothing
major. The usual. You really don’t know how to use semi-colons, do you?”