Jane Air Read online

  As Dory hoists the painting up to Christine, Penelope moves forward with arms overhead, adjusting it slightly and helping to hang it on the nail. “The color schema really works with the light in here.” She nods approvingly and I make a mental note to have her assess the color schema of my simple bungalow the next time everyone’s over.

  “Who is texting you about book characters by the way?” Kate asks, eyes never leaving the three of them. She grunts. Dory lifts the left side slightly. “Your colleagues?”

  “One of my students.”

  “I thought you weren’t teachin-” Dory doesn’t finish her sentence before Penelope whips around, dropping her side of the canvas. Christine and Dory scramble with the massive frame while she sprints past me and into the kitchen.

  “Is she ok?” Christine asks while Kate stares after her, looking ready to kill.

  “Is this David Jacobs’ number?” Penelope practically shouts at me, waving my phone in front of me as Jessica follows her, drying her hands on a towel.

  “Sorry Jane,” she shrugs. “I tried to stop her.”

  “Hey,” I move to grab my phone from Penelope’s hand but she holds it over head, far out of reach of my five foot four inch grasp.

  “Is this his number?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “Oh my god,” Penelope brings the phone in front of her, cradling it in both hands, and sinks slowly to her knees, gazing at my outdated iPhone with reverence. “It’s really here.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” I try again to swipe it from her but she jerks it away, glaring at me. “You know that is my phone.”

  “What do you do with it?”

  “Um, call you guys, usually. Sometimes check my email or Google Maps.”

  “Don’t toy with me Jane,” Penelope growls. “What do you do with his number?”

  “I tell him which book to prepare next.”

  “Prepare?”

  “Read.”

  “You said prepare.”

  I shrug. “Yeah. Prepare by reading. So we can discuss it.”

  “Where do you discuss it? And when?”

  “Are you reading Wuthering Heights?” Christine asks, more interested in the book title than in the student’s name.

  “Yes.”

  “I love the movement in this piece,” Kate states with a decisive nod, her back to us as she assesses the look of the painting, clearly not interested in David Jacob’s phone number. “It makes me feel alive?”

  “You know what would make me feel alive?” Penelope looks longingly at my phone, “If we could-”

  “Nope.” This time, I do manage to swipe it, tossing it in the air to Jessica who shoves it down her shirt with a warning glance to Penelope and a smile to me.

  “How often do you text?”

  “We don’t ‘text,’” I make air quotes with my fingers. “We arrange tutoring sessions.”

  “What do you say to each other?”

  “I tell him to read Wuthering Heights. He…” I trail off.

  I’m tempted to make a joke. To tell them that, in our first and only meeting so far, he hadn’t done the reading. He hadn’t even ordered the book, because he didn’t realize that, outside of a major city with personal assistants and massive studio budgets designed around your every need, you have to actually wait a few days for the mail to arrive.

  I don’t tell them that he hasn’t really left his house since moving here.

  I don’t tell them that he has no furniture.

  I haven’t told them anything, really. Not to Penelope, even though the tiniest detail would get me out of birthday and Christmas gifts for at least a decade. Not to Kate, who would no doubt cackle at his academic unpreparedness. Not to Jessica or Christine, neither of whom would care.

  Not even to Dory, who would understand my sympathy for the plight of the filthy rich, stunningly gorgeous, world-famous new guy in town.

  Nope.

  Haven’t said a thing.

  “He tells me when he’s free, and then we make plans for our session,” I finish.

  Neutral.

  No details.

  It’s a weird feeling, this desire to protect someone who needs no protection. Someone whose life is so much bigger and braver and more influential than mine that any efforts on my part, to protect him or to harm him, would likely go unnoticed.

  But there it is. This small, fierce part of me that wants to make sure he isn’t bothered.

  To help him find some space and quiet.

  Ugh. I almost roll my eyes at myself. I should just hand the phone to Penelope, let her memorize his number, and then hack into his private accounts, finding everything from his social security number to his security code. She could do it, no doubt, in less than ten minutes.

  Of course, his safety might be in jeopardy then. Not financial. But…let’s just say, she’d break into his house for reasons that have nothing to do with theft.

  “Ooh,” Jessica’s eyes light up. “It’s vibrating.” She smiles and presses a hand to her chest, where my phone is, I presume, tucked inside her bra. “He might be writing back.”

  “Oh please read it.” Penelope scrambles to her feet. Christine and Dory join Kate in their appreciation of the painting, seemingly immune to the digital drama playing out behind them.

  “I like the texture of the brush strokes.” I hear Christine say behind us.

  Penelope briefly glances towards the painting, her eyes darting between the discussion on art and the phone down Jessica’s shirt. I have never seen a woman so divided.

  Jessica looks at me and I roll my eyes. “Sure. Read it. Then you can know that nothing exciting is happening.”

  “Hmm…” Jessica fishes my phone out of her top and looks down. “That’s odd.”

  “What?” Penelope asks, eyes bright and frantic, fully focused on the phone in her hand. “What’s odd?”

  “Well, it’s from the same number,” Jessica looks, a confused look on her face even as her eyes dance, “but it just says, A little over 8 inches.”

  “Wha-” Penelope swivels towards me and I think she might actually pass out.

  “What is that in reference to?” Jessica asks with wide-eyed innocence.

  “You are so full of shit,” I reach for my phone and glance down. “This is a message from the Dean.” I hold it up, showing the room, now that everyone is looking. “It’s time to sign up for autumn classes.”

  Various mutters and murmurs ensue and we head back towards the kitchen. Chihuly safely against the wall. Enormous painting- art - securely hung. I look down at my phone and see another text. Hovering just before the entrance to Kate’s kitchen, I read it.

  What does Catherine see in him?

  I type back, glancing up to make sure no one is watching me.

  Your assignment is to figure that out.

  Three small dots appear beneath my message.

  It’s tough to know what a woman wants.

  I smile at that. The thought of the world’s most desired man, star of millions of women’s sexual fantasies, fretting over what women want. All he has to do is look in the mirror. But, then again, sometimes the most obvious things are the hardest to see.

  You can do it.

  And before it continues, before I pull up a chair and spend my evening texting with my crush like a teenager, I stuff the phone in my back pocket.

  Later, after we’ve eaten and said goodbye and I’ve driven home and tucked myself into bed, I see his last message.

  I think Catherine likes the bad boys.

  I laugh at this, at his straight forward, but not incorrect, interpretation of the classic Bronte novel.

  Some women do.

  I can’t help but respond, smiling as I press send.

  There they are again, those three little dots. I watch the phone in my hand, feeling a grin spread across my face. I wonder where he is right now, what he’s wearing. Is he barefoot again? Does he even have a mattress? Or does he just sleep on the floor, or maybe in his garden
, spread out like a forest god, resting beneath cool moonlight and lilacs. It would be nice to keep him warm.

  I stop.

  I press the button on the side, and place it face-down on the bedside table. I turn off the light and lie, straight-legged and stiff beneath my covers, feeling like a recovered addict who has just turned down an invitation to smoke or drink or do something else they know they shouldn’t.

  You know where this is going, a voice in my head says. You know how this will end up.

  I grumble and roll over, willing my inner narrator to shut up. She’s right of course but can’t a girl enjoy a harmless fantasy?

  But it isn’t harmless.

  I drift off to sleep with my own warning echoing in my ears.

  9

  David

  It’s warm enough that I suggest we sit outside. Partly to enjoy the sun, and partly because I have bought a pair of chairs and a small table for one corner of my back patio.

  It’s a start I suppose.

  She’s cute today. All buttoned up. Hair pulled back. Glasses firmly in place. I wonder if this is how she normally dresses, or how she dresses when she’s in teacher mode. Or maybe she just dresses this way around me. The armor of a buttoned-down shirt.

  “You got coffee.” She sounds surprised, looking at the paper cups on the table.

  I nod. “Didn’t know what you drank. So I picked a few.” I point to the small spread. “We have a latte, a tall black, a caramel something, and a soy chai latte.”

  She smiles, a small movement of the mouth, only the ends curling up. I’m becoming an expert on her smiles.

  “I’ll take the black.”

  We sit and pull our respective copies of Wuthering Heights from our bags. I solemnly hand her the copy she lent me in the beginning of the week. She takes it and smiles again, broader this time. A hint of teeth. I wonder if she’s happy I haven’t bent the spine, or if she’s remembering our heated exchange a few days ago, when she handed me her copy.

  “You have any trouble at the cafe?” She asks, removing the lid from the coffee and breathing lightly across its top. I stare, mesmerized by the movements of her mouth, the slight purse of her lips, and watch with amusement as the heat from the drink briefly steams her glasses.

  “No. I got in and out pretty easily.”

  “Was the owner there?” She takes a sip and my mouth waters at the way her lower lip catches on the rim of the cup, her mouth opening slightly, eyes on mine.

  Damn.

  “Uh,” I cough and adjust my seat, “I’m not sure. There was a big guy in the back, but I couldn’t see him. There was only one person behind the counter. A small blonde.”

  She grins now, a full, open mouth smile and her eyes light up. Her whole face lights up in fact and I swear I feel the temperature outside heat up by at least five degrees.

  “That’s Dory. She’s the owner. She’s a friend of mine.”

  “Oh,” my eyebrows go up. “She’s nice. Very unaffected.”

  Another grin. This time, with a shake of the head. A strand of hair escapes the bun low on her neck and I watch it slide loose to hang in a soft curl behind her ear, just barely caressing her neck.

  God.

  “Unaffected.” She smiles again, repeating my words. “Yeah. I guess she is.” She looks up at me. “She’s very cool. And the cafe is a great place to hang out. You should try their pie.”

  I nod. “Well. I got coffee. Let’s take it a step at a time.”

  A laugh. A full-throated, head back, open-mouthed laugh.

  And I do stare. This time. I stare at her eyes, closed. I stare at her cheeks, soft and round. I stare at her lips, open and pink.

  I’ve met women like Jane before. They hide in plain sight. They dress like nuns or teenage boys. Minimal make up. Serious expressions and stern voices.

  It’s easy to believe all that. To believe the image they put out in the world. But every once in a while, if you’re very lucky, there’s a crack, a tiny sliver between the pieces of their carefully curated facade, and the light shines through. The bounce of breasts, the fit of the jeans, the glimmer in their eyes.

  I don’t know why some women try to hide their beauty. I’ve never understood it. It’s certainly not the Hollywood way, where everyone shows everything from every angle all the time. But I’ve noticed it outside of the movie industry. Women who seem to veil themselves. And it has nothing to do with what they wear, to be honest. It’s how they hold themselves. Stiff, straight. It’s how they talk. Unyielding. Firm. Direct.

  I can’t help but wonder, looking at her, the smile still playing on her lips, the shine of the sun against her hand where it rests on the book cover, the tap of her fingers against the side of the cup, why she holds back like she does.

  Perhaps it has to do with me. I am blackmailing her after all. So, it’s no surprise she doesn’t want to relax around me. Doesn’t want to let me see her. And I did come across her naked in my pond, and accuse her of trespassing (which, technically, she was doing). I guess it’s natural her defenses would be up.

  But perhaps it’s something else. Perhaps she’s been wearing her defenses for so long she doesn’t even realize they’re there.

  Then again. The woman has a PhD. I bet she knows exactly what she’s doing.

  “How long have you been a professor?” I ask, sipping from my coffee.

  “Three years.”

  My eyebrows go up. “That’s not long.”

  “Well,” that laugh again. Softer this time, eyes glancing at the cup in her hand. “PhDs take a long time. And then there was the Visiting Assistant Professorship. Three of them actually.”

  “What is that?”

  “Uh,” she shakes her head and rolls her eyes, “basically, you get a one year contract somewhere. And you teach and spend the whole year applying for another one year contract somewhere. And if you’re lucky, you get one, so you pack up your whole life and move to wherever the next one is.”

  “Sounds like acting.”

  “I guess,” she smiles. Broadly this time. I watch her shoulders loosen, arms resting closer to her sides as she relaxes into her chair. “I guess it is. Do you move around a lot for work?”

  I nod. It’s hard to explain. Because it sounds so glamourous. Go to bed in LA. Wake up in Tokyo. Go to bed in Copenhagen. Wake up in Delhi. And it is glamourous. For a few years.

  After that, it’s hell.

  “It’s a hard way to live,” she says, seeming to speak more to herself than to me. “You can’t really make plans, because you don’t know where you’ll end up.”

  “And you can’t commit to anything, because you don’t know if you’ll be around,” I add.

  “And you spend all your time lining up your next position, so even though you spend a year in a place, you don’t really spend any time in that place.”

  I nod. “You can’t enjoy it. You work all day, and then prepare for the next job all night.”

  She nods. “On my third one, I was in the middle of nowhere, a tiny school in North Dakota. It was really tough. The winter, man.” She shakes her head. “We have winters here, but over there? They need an entirely different word for whatever that is.”

  I smile. “I filmed a few weeks in Vancouver in winter. We had to stop the shoot because the cameras kept freezing.”

  She laughs at that, the sound sparkling between us.

  “The school was tough,” she continues, “and there was no budget for conferences, and I made nothing because they didn’t even give me a full rota of classes. And I remember saying to myself, you know Jane, this is it. You do one more round of applications. One more attempt at a tenure-track, secure position. And if it doesn’t come through…”

  “What were you going to do?”

  She shrugs. “I was ready to walk away. After eight years in a PhD. Three years living out of a suitcase. Thousands of hours of reading.”

  “That’s a lot to throw away.”

  “You’re telling me!” She laughs aga
in. “And remember, I have no practical skills apart from writing articles about old books. So I may have been ready to give it all up, but I had no back-up plan. There was never any time to build one.”

  She shakes her head, sipping slowly from her cup. “But I got this position, here in Midnight, and I was so thrilled. I didn’t tell anyone for a week because I was worried I had imagined the whole thing. Or they were going to change their minds. So I kept it a secret up until my deadline for responding.”

  “You know,” I move forward, bringing my elbows to rest on the table, “I moved to LA at 19. I had some success with a commercial or two in New York when I was a kid, taking the train in from New Jersey to audition on weekends. And I figured, well, hey, it can’t be that hard. I’m already making some money so it’s just a matter of time before I make more.”

  “And, man,” I close my eyes, remembering those early years, two decades ago. “I shared this shitty one bedroom with three other guys, all of us trying to make it as actors, all of us waiting tables. And everyone I met was an actor, or trying to be. Taking classes. Going to auditions. Quitting day jobs when their boss wouldn’t let them go to an audition. Not paying the rent. At one point we had another guy sleeping on our couch. So there were five of us. In 400 square feet.”

  “Wow.”

  “And what’s crazy is, they were all really good. I remember going to one of their plays. And it was amazing. Dave, the guy in it, who was sleeping on our couch at the time, was fantastic. The audience lost their minds over his monologue. And I just sat there, in the back, thinking, ‘I’ll never be able to do that. I’ll never be that level of success.’”

  “Where’s Dave now?”

  “I don’t know. I never see him in anything. And we lost contact.”

  “Maybe you should reach out.”

  I shrug. “It’s hard. And…”

  “What?” Those big, brown eyes staring at me. I realize I want to tell her everything. I want to open up, let her in, let her see me, in a way I haven’t let anyone see me in a long time.

  “He’s better than me. He never made any money, and no one knows his name. But he’s so much better.”

  She nods. No judgement. No condescension. No even a joke, or a reference to my wealth, as so many do. As if being rich means being immune to everything.