That afternoon after school, I am reading over some lecture notes about Frankenstein when there’s a knock on my door, and I look up to see Marisa in the doorway. “Hi,” she says. She is holding what looks like a gift bag tied with a green ribbon.
“Hi,” I say.
We stay like that in awkward silence for a moment.
She holds out the gift bag. “I wanted to apologize. For how I left.”
I stand. “Hey, if I did anything this weekend—”
“You didn’t do anything,” she says. “Take this, please.”
I take the bag. “You didn’t need to get me anything,” I say.
She smiles. “I know.”
I open the bag and laugh. Inside is an Archer coffee mug from the school gift shop, along with a Starbucks gift card.
“I know you like coffee,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. “But I’ll only accept this if you let me buy you a cup.”
She wrinkles her nose, which is almost adorable. “I don’t like coffee.”
“You don’t like coffee? Seriously?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”
“Total deal breaker. I cannot possibly date anyone who doesn’t like coffee.”
Now both eyebrows are raised. “Why, Mr. Faulkner, are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”
“Maybe,” I say, grinning.
She looks over her shoulder, as if checking, and then walks forward, her hands on my chest and pushing me back across my office. I have a storage closet at the far end of my office, the door now open, and Marisa directs me into the closet until I bump up against the stacked shelves. My hands find her waist, and she raises her arms so her hands rest on my shoulders. “Maybe I can do something to help you overlook my coffee problem,” she says, her face lifted up to mine, and then we are kissing, long and lush and deep.
I break away first. “Marisa,” I say, looking over her shoulder. No one is there.
She chuckles, then starts kissing my ear.
“Wait,” I say. I don’t want to wait, not at all, but both my office and supply closet are wide open. “What if someone comes by?”
Marisa slides away, my hands falling from her hips, and walks to the office door, closing it and pressing the push-button lock. Then she walks back to me, pulling the closet door shut partially shut behind her so we are in shadow rather than total darkness, sunlight from the classroom windows barely filtering through. She steps right up to me, placing her wrists on my shoulders so her fingertips are in my hair, her scent surrounding me. My hands find their way to her hips again. “Paulie doesn’t come through here until four thirty,” she says. Paulie is the custodian on our hallway. Marisa lowers her head slightly, her eyes still on mine. “Want to stop?”
A minute later, Marisa has her legs wrapped around me, her arms up and holding onto the shelves, which groan and shake as we ravish each other.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What’s wrong?” Susannah asks.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to shift into park. “Gearshift just gets stuck sometimes.”
“Gear selector,” Susannah says.
“What?”
“It’s called a gear selector if you’ve got an automatic transmission,” she says. “Which you do.”
“Good to know,” I say, struggling to shove the lever—gear selector—up. It doesn’t want to budge. Then, with a thunk and a plastic crunch, it slides up to park. “See?” I say. “Right as rain.”
“That’s a stupid saying,” Susannah says. “I hate rain.”
“Rain is necessary for life,” I say. “Plants need it, they make oxygen and feed herbivores, et cetera.”
“Rain sucks when you’re out standing in it. And there is nothing right about your car.”
“What’s wrong with my car? You don’t like Japanese cars?”
“It could be a Tahitian car and your gear selector would still be fucked up. Take it to the garage.”
I gesture out the windshield at the Petco store I’ve parked in front of. “We have to get food for Wilson.”
“Which I’m sure he’ll appreciate after we die in a car accident because your Tahitian automatic transmission seized up.” Susannah starts tapping at her phone.
“I’ve got Pilates in two hours.”
“Which you can Uber to from the Toyota garage. And the nearest one is like a mile up the road.”
“I know. That’s my regular garage.”
“So let’s go.” She looks up from her phone. “You don’t fuck around with stuff like this, Ethan. Trust me.”
I open my mouth to say something snarky, but there’s something in her voice, in the way she levels her gaze at me, that makes me stop. “Fine,” I say. I put my key back into the ignition and start the engine. “Let Wilson starve.”
“I left him half a sleeve of Ritz crackers,” Susannah says. “He’ll be fine.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“What? They’re Ritz crackers. How bad could they be?”
“Imagine a dog having violent diarrhea all over your living room.”
She pauses, then starts tapping on her phone again.
“Don’t look for a vet,” I say. “I’ve already got one. You can pay that bill.” I shift the car into drive, and the gear selector makes another ominous thunk.
“Think I’d rather get the vet bill than your car repair bill,” Susannah says. She gestures lazily. “Onward, Jeeves.”
BY THE TIME I get to the garage and explain the problem to Curtis the mechanic, I’ve already texted my Pilates instructor to tell her I’m not coming. Curtis rubs his beard and makes all sorts of dire predictions about the gearbox. I tell Susannah to get an Uber herself if she needs to go anywhere,
