And I get it. No promises. No guarantees.
Let’s just see.
She takes a step, then another, and then she is in my arms, hands around my waist, palms warm against my skin as they wiggle under my shirt. I fist my hands in her hair and drag her mouth to mine, kissing her with all the frustration and fear I feel at the moment, as if we have both just agreed to give up on something neither of us wants to give up on. Her mouth is warm and wet beneath mine and I taste her softness, the scent of her supple flesh against my tongue, my lips, my teeth.
I want to drag her into the house, into my bed, down onto the grass. I want to rip off her clothes and pin her beneath me, thrusting into her until she agrees that she is mine, only mine, always mine, and all these stupid ideas about being sure and making certain are as far as possible from her mind.
I want to, but I don’t.
And when she pulls away, when she smiles and wishes me a safe trip, instead I grab both of her hands, kissing those sensible fingers, holding those teaching hands against my lips.
Her car pulls out of the driveway. I return to the silence of my unfurnished house, standing inside the giant, empty room with the enormous, sparkling chandelier and the clear, bright window facing the woods when the sun begins to set and the trees stand tall and silent.
Everything is silent.
As rational is this is, as sensible as it is, as reasonable and adult and important as it is to be certain, to know for sure, I can’t help but feel like I’ve made the worst mistake of my life.
Later that night, after my drive to the airport, after I park my car in the longterm parking lot and wheel my suitcase into the terminal, my phone vibrates. My heart pounds, wondering if it’s Jane, although I’m not sure what she would have to say.
Instead, it’s that random number, the mysterious friend of Jane.
Four simple words.
Don’t fuck this up.
30
Jane
It’s been a few days and I haven’t heard anything.
Well, not exactly. A few texts before he took off.
I’ll miss you.
Let’s talk when I get back.
And again, when he landed. A snapshot of the L.A. skyline taken, I assume, from his house.
Look! A rare night without pollution!
I responded with a thumb’s up and a photo of me and my friends at Dory’s. Mohammed took the picture, telling us to smile. I almost managed.
And now, nothing.
Students will be coming back in a few weeks and I’ve got meetings starting on Monday- discussions on coursework, new diversity policies in place, a meeting with the Chair of the Department to discuss my progress towards tenure.
It’s all business as usual.
Christine rings my doorbell and I answer. She’s one of the few who still knocks, rather than just walking in.
I open the door and stand to the side.
“I’m here to take you out,” she smiles.
“Where?” I blurt, before I can come up with an excuse. Work? Cleaning? Something, anything, so I can continue to mope, alone and depressed, in my house.
“Anywhere you want,” she smiles again, waiting for me to respond.
I’m silent. Like a petulant sixteen-year-old, which makes me even angrier. What kind of professional, adult woman allows herself to be reduced to this pathetic mess by a man?
A hot mess, that’s who.
“I was thinking the beach? Maybe some lobster rolls and a walk? I’ve got my dog in the car.” Her smile is firmer now, and I know she won’t leave unless I agree to go with her. That’s the thing about Christine. She’s soft and gentle and friendly, committing her life to making the world a better place.
But all that gentleness is wrapped about a spine of steel.
“Alright.”
And before I can mutter or complain or procrastinate with excuses about sunscreen or checking the windows, Christine has ushered me into her car, passed me a water bottle and a tube of sunscreen, and is cheerfully backing out of my driveway and taking us towards the waterfront.
Her dog, a skinny, black greyhound, pants in the backseat, chin resting on my shoulder, smiling in my ear.
They’re in on this together.
We arrive at the beach. Christine parks and attaches a body-harness to her dog, Amalfi. She loops her arm through mine and drags me gently towards the water. She’s holding a basket in her other hand, and my heart twinges at the thought of a picnic. I remember the last picnic I had, naked and in David’s arms.
She spreads a blanket and we sit. Amalfi spreads herself sideways, long legs stretched towards us as she closes her eyes and basks in the sun.
Christine opens a bottle of sparkling water and pours me a glass. She passes me a bowl of strawberries, adjusts her sunglasses, and smiles at me.
She begins to pet her dog.
“So?” I can’t help but ask.
She turns to me. “So?”
“So, aren’t you going to give me a pep talk?” I know I sound irritable, that petulant 16 year old side of me rising up again. I’m irritated at my own irritability.
Christine smiles, glances down at her sleeping dog, reaches forward and pets her, running her hand along the soft, glistening fur. She sips her water.
“No pep talk then?” I ask, swigging from my own water bottle.
“I’ve never been good at pep talks, honey. You know that.” She tilts her head back and I see her eyes close behind her sunglasses, her silhouette basking in the warmth of the perfect summer day. “I thought you’d like to get out of the house, enjoy the weather.”
I reach forward to pet Amalfi, the feel of her fur soft and warm beneath my palm. She moves, wiggling in the blanket, enjoying my touch. She tilts her head back too, her lips falling backwards into what can only be described as a smile.
Just enjoying the weather, embracing the warmth of the sun and the sound of the ocean.
