The girl on the left lets out a sound between a choke and a gag. The one on the right begins to smile. Her gaping mouth turning up slightly at the sides. She turns to the boys and even I can read her features.
Are you seeing this?
“How- How are you doing?” Not-Jeff stammers.
“I’m good,” Jane says, back ramrod straight against me. Her breath catches slightly. “I didn’t realize students were coming back to campus so soon. Classes don’t start for another few weeks.”
“Teaching training camp,” smiling girl says, mouth in a grin, a look of pure ecstasy across her features. “We’re back early, um…” she looks to Jeff, who continues to gawk in silence.
“We have an exam tomorrow,” choking girl sputters. “We’ve been studying all day.”
“Oh, well, I hope it goes well, Claire.” Jane makes another, futile attempt to pull away from me. I wrap my arms tighter around her, and press a kiss to her hair.
“Uh,” grinning girl reaches inside her bag, “do you mind if I-”
“You know what?” I straighten up, diplomat’s face firmly in check. “We’d just like to enjoy a quiet evening. I’d prefer no photos.”
“Sure,” choking girl nods, knocking grinning girl’s phone out of her hand without looking. “Of course.”
“Thank you, Claire.” I smile again. Grinning girl’s mouth drops open again.
The two boys make a noise in the back of their throats.
“Good luck on your exam.” I unwind my arms from Jane. Looking around the restaurant, no one else is staring. A few curious glances. Brief flickers of recognition. Mohammed offers us an apologetic smile. The elderly couple have moved to the side. The old man gestures for us to pass. I thank him as I open the door, my hand on Jane’s lower back as we exit.
26
Jane
“What the hell was that?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, waiting just long enough to make sure we are out of earshot of the restaurant. Sharp and short and hurried, just low enough not to be heard across the street.
The son of a bitch is grinning, those long legs keeping pace with my stride without so much as a hint of effort.
Goddamn him.
I stop short. The sun has gone down and the stores have closed. The only lights are the street lamps, traditional black iron with electric bulbs inside their glass cases.
“Why did you do that?” I practically shout, glad we are far enough up the street towards his car that no one else is around.
I am so irritated. Flustered. Mad that my students saw me. Mad that my students aren’t back home in their parents’ houses.
I’m angry. I’m confused. I’m…
Horny.
Jesus.
Those arms around me, the size of tree trunks. I force myself to keep my eyes open, staring him in the eye as I catch my breath. My heart is racing so loudly I’m convinced he’ll hear it. The last time my heart was racing like this was…also with his arms around me.
At night.
In the woods.
When I was soaking wet, pressed against him. Underwear stuffed in my pocket, thighs wrapped around his legs. Him whispering in my ear.
Or afterwards, in his bed. In my bed. On the blanket next to the pond. On the pillows in that giant, empty room of his.
Pretty much whenever he’s around, my heart pounds like a Kentucky show horse crossing the finishing line.
I give in and close my eyes, just for a second, but jerk them open again when the thought of him, naked and hard and on top of me flashes across my mind.
I reach blindly for the car door, tugging on the handle and furious that it’s locked.
“What’s wrong?” I hear his voice, laughter underlining the question.
He’s laughing.
He thinks this is funny.
And it is funny.
It’s hilarious.
I could see the joke on my students’ faces.
Professor Air is fucking David Jacobs.
See?
Hilarious.
That’s why we don’t go out in public. That’s why we stay home together.
Because we don’t make any sense together. Not really. We only make sense alone, in the dark, where our ridiculous, illogical chemistry dictates our actions.
Plain Jane and the Beautiful Man.
What a joke. It practically writes itself.
Tired of Hollywood beauties and international models, world’s most eligible bachelor, David Jacobs, decides to slum it with an awkward academic during his retreat in Maine.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he will say in his next interview, once the photos surface. “I guess I was bored.”
Jesus.
That’s what they’ll say, I’m sure. The students will text, probably sneak a few photos for evidence. My colleagues will hear. There’ll be evidence. Christ, maybe it will even go on the internet.
And my photo. Everywhere.
And I can go down in history as the greatest mystery of his dating history.
And for the rest of my life, everyone will ask me about him. Everyone will want to know about that time I dated that famous guy.
“What is it?” He reaches me, arm over mine as I continue to jerk his stupid, expensive, European bullshit car that only opens when it’s unlocked.
Asshole.
Just like its driver.
“Jane. Wait. It was just a joke.” He’s not laughing now.
“You know,” I spin around. It’s pitch black on this end of the street, the lamps stopping several hundred feet behind us. The distant sounds of laughter and conversation trickle up towards us but there’s no one around. “People know me in this town.”
He steps back, surprised by my words. “So? People know me in this town.”
“No,” I put my finger up, in full angry professor mode, “people know of you. No one knows you. But me? People know me.”
“So?”
“So?” I throw my hands in air. “So, I can’t have people talking about me like that.”
“Talking like what?”
“About me.”
“What about you?”
I open my mouth but the words won’t come out.
“So we flirted a little bit, so what? You said your students would never believe you would date me. And now they do. It’s funny.
