“I busted my ass,” I mutter, eyes downcast.
“Right. And now you’re facing something else, a romantic relationship which,” Penelope holds up a finger, stopping me before I can interrupt her “is something I don’t think you’ve done very often before. I think this is all a bit new to you.”
“I mean, I’m assuming you’ve fucked some dudes,” Kate leans forward with her usual romantic sensibilities.
“Yes, thank you Kate. I have, yes,” I nod at her.
“Well,” she looks to Penelope, “even I know that fucking is not the same thing as really getting to know someone, really trying to be with someone. Maybe the only experience you have is plowing through bros, and now you have to learn to rein it in.”
Penelope licks her lips and glances at me. “I think we’re a little off track.”
“I don’t plow through bros, Kate,” I say, laughing. The image alone is worth a giggle. “I just…have never pursued romance.”
“Yeah, we’re off track,” Penelope pats my leg again. “So, you haven’t had much experience with romantic love, with being in a relationship. Well, it seems that you’re in one now. So, it’s time to learn. And you love to learn, so what’s the problem?”
“We’re not really in a relationship.”
Both Kate and Penelope pull back at that, glancing at each other.
“How often do you see each other?”
“Most days.”
“Sleeping together?”
I nod.
Kate leans forward, “I don’t mean sex. I mean sleeping together. All night.”
I nod.
“You care for him?”
I nod.
“How is this not a relationship?” Penelope asks.
“We haven’t labeled anything.”
“So?” Penelope sits back, long legs stretched out beneath her hippy layers. “Wasn’t your last paper all about deconstructing labels and addressing the implicit biases contained within?”
I smile. I forget that Penelope actually reads my academic articles. At least someone does. “It was, although in the context of refiguring definitions of literary value in the-”
She waves her hand to quiet me. “The point is, sometimes we’re so caught up in something that we don’t bother to step back and put a name on it. There’s no need. We know what we are in, because we’re in it. Sometimes, the urge to put a label on something seems to be an attempt to create something out of nothing.”
“Like getting engaged when you know the relationship is doomed,” Kate mutters, just loud enough for us to hear her.
“Right,” Penelope nods, “Exactly.”
I nod, grateful for my wise and wonderful friends. But the voice niggles in the corner of my mind, my mother’s words about women like us, the dull and the overlooked, the unwanted. Women who need to develop their brains, not because they want to or because they love to learn, but because they have no other options. No charm. No wit. No beauty.
Be smart, Jane, it’s your only option.
“It just…all seems so unlikely,” I can’t help but say, giving voice to the impossibility of this situation. Plain Jane and the beautiful man.
“Love is unlikely, honey,” Penelope smiles at me. “How could it not be? Think of the billions of people on this planet, nine, I think right?”
Kate nods.
“Nine billion people, all over the world. Different ages, races, genders, personalities, languages, perspectives. Think of all the ways a human being can live a life, all the challenges we face. Think of the statistical probability that two people, two out of nine billion, will cross paths with each other at the time and place when they are willing and able to love one another, that they would be someone the other could love. Think about that. Think of the math. Of course it’s unlikely. It’s pretty damn unlikely, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”
“It doesn’t happen for all of us, honey,” Kate is soft spoken, her eyes on mine. I sense sadness behind them. “But it seems to have happened for you.”
“And maybe it won’t work out,” Penelope shrugs. “Shit does happen, but don’t you want to at least try? At least see if your two in nine billion chance is something? Or are you just going to let it go?”
I sigh, resting my cheeks in my hands, elbows on each knee.
Damn. I hate it when they’re right.
29
David
I’m out back, enjoying the late afternoon sun and trying not to look at my phone and my non-existent missed calls from Jane when I hear her voice.
“Hey.”
I turn, almost jumping out of my chair, my outdoor set the only real furniture I have. My phone falls to the gravel.
“Hey,” I stand, waiting as she comes towards me. She’s awkward, hands in her pockets, back straight, and I am reminded of the first time we met, well, almost the first time. When she came to my house, collared shirt buttoned up to her chin, giant handbag clutched like a weapon. A woman preparing for war.
Quite the change from the soft, naked beauty I’ve grown accustomed to these last two months.
She comes towards me and stops an inch from my front, resting her forehead on my chest, her hands lightly on my waist. She says nothing and I wrap my arms around her, holding her softly against me, worried she’ll change her mind and break away.
“You ok?” I ask, my mouth pressed against her hair.
She nods.
“I called.”
She nods.
“I even came to your house. Knocked and everything. By the way, Jessica left you another book on your doorstep.”
She smiles and looks up at me. “I know.”
“What’s this one about?”
“Deconstructing implicit bias.”
I nod, and press a kiss to the top of her head. “Good stuff.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I just…I needed some space to think.” She presses her cheek against my chest again.
“Think about what?” I ask, enjoying the smell of her shampoo, something floral and coconutty.
“Us. This. Meeting my students the other night really,” I feel her shrug against me, “made all this real. I was enjoying the bubble and all of a sudden, I was outside of
