20. Twenty
Twenty
Noah
M y coffee’s gone cold.
Which is a damn shame because after a long day of classes and a faculty meeting, I’m not ready to teach my Friday night class. It’s only an hour and a half, but I can imagine that college students don’t like having class from six to seven-thirty on a Friday night either. It’s one semester, though.
I glance at the stack of graded papers that were dropped on my desk earlier today and decide against looking at them. After the busy day I’ve had, they can wait until next week.
Opening my phone, I find the group text titled No Nuts No Glory , and shoot a text to what is now Ryan, Griffin, Ryan’s partner, Wyatt, and the entire band Griffin works for.
Me: Anyone up for the bar tomorrow? The one with arcade games so I can kick all your asses at Pac-Man.
Before I close out of my messages, a text from Lennon pops up, making my entire body buzz again with the memory of last weekend. We’ve texted daily, neither one of us mentioning what happened in the barn. There’s been a heavy dose of flirting, but I can’t bring myself to be the first to break. She’d been clear that the sex would be just that– sex . I’m not sure what we did counts as breaking our only one time rule, but I don’t want to find out.
With our physical relationship off the table, we’ve texted about numerous unrelated topics. Music, childhood memories, books, our jobs–anything and everything.
Lennon: Been busy today? If you’re up for it this weekend, I need to shop around for some furniture. I need an expert.
I chuckle, typing out a response.
Me: I just invited the guys to hang out tomorrow, but Sunday is open. I can pencil you in.
Me: As for busy, I haven’t even had dinner yet, and I have a class in ten.
Lennon: I can bring you something?
Lennon: I want to see you.
Me: Sure. Done at seven-thirty.
Pocketing my phone, I grab my bag and lock up the office, heading toward the room at the end of the hall where the majority of my class is already seated and chatting.
Distracted and somewhat flustered, I set my laptop up on the podium.
My carefully crafted love-life only remained possible through clear communication and hard boundaries. With Lennon, every rule has gotten up, and jumped out the window, never to be seen again.
The worst part is I like talking to her. The more I learn about the original hardwood floors, the heights etched into the door to the basement, and the banister that Lennon seems so infatuated with, the more I uncover about her .
Lennon loves to create stories about the people who used to live in the farmhouse. I added that she’s one Ouija board away from talking to them herself, and she informed me that if I brought such a thing near her, she’d never speak to me again.
And I desperately need her to keep talking to me.
I look up at my students seated around the old classroom. Hardwood floors, crown moulding, and creaking–everything. The classroom and my office exist in the oldest building on campus. She’d love it.
“Christ, don’t you guys have better things to do than sit in class on a Friday evening?” I ask, and soft laughter flits around the room.
“Yeah, actually,” Cole says from the corner. Cole’s on the baseball team and frequently flirts with the girls in my class, but he’s a decent kid, secretly enjoys the subject matter, too. “How about you cancel class?” he asks, a crooked smile on his face.
I sigh. “Can’t.” Clicking around on my laptop, I find the presentation that goes with today’s lesson. “Unfortunately for all of you, I would like to discuss the cultural significance of Lord of the Flies .”
Maggie, one of the students toward the front, makes a small sound, all the color draining from her face. “I thought we were reading Emma ?”
I grin as the presentation for the exact book she’s talking about pops up on the screen. “Gotcha.”
Groans erupt across the room.
The projector slowly focuses as the first slide of my presentation appears. “So,” I start before taking a sip of the cold coffee clutched in my hand. “I’d like to continue talking about themes present in the novel. Last week, we discussed bias as a theme. Emma had an idea of what she believed about Mr. Elton and Harriet, and so everything she saw had been viewed through that lens. What other themes do you find evident in the text?”
Paige sits up, her straight, brown hair smooth–not a single strand out of place. I recall reading her essay about the last assigned book we discussed in this class. Her attention to detail happens to be equal parts impressive and disconcerting. “The lack of transparent communication,” she interjects.
I clear my throat, nodding once. “Good. Okay.” My fingers fumble with the stray pen left on the podium, impulsively clicking the end a few times. My phone feels heavy in my pocket–taunting.
I look at Paige. “Go on.”
She beams. “Well, for one, the novel is full of miscommunication. Not only did we find bias in Emma, but overall, the social propriety led to a lot of heartache for the characters. Honestly, if they had one singular honest conversation, maybe Emma would have spent less time matchmaking and more time realizing she’d been in love with Mr. Knightly all along.”
My collar feels too tight, but I don’t let my discomfort show. I make it a point to keep my personal life out of my lessons, but this one has taken an unfortunate turn. Bringing my coffee to my lips, I urge them to continue.
Cole chuckles, leaning back casually in his seat. “Sure, but then there wouldn’t be a story. Besides, I’m not even sure Emma realized what she truly wanted.”
Maggie grins, glancing back toward him. “Or she just convinced herself her life had been comfortable for fear of leaving her father in the event she married.”
Rolling his tongue along his cheek, Cole sits forward, elbows resting on the wooden table. “Maybe if Mr. Knightley and Emma boned way sooner, she wouldn’t have spent so much time lying to herself.”
I choke on my coffee, setting it down before interjecting. “Interesting take. Not necessarily true.” I push the sleeves of my sweater up, suddenly way too hot. “Emma did not want to marry for many reasons. Her father, the estate. I don’t believe those were excuses but practical reasons to avoid such a thing. Complications provide a decent deterrent.”
Cole’s shit-eating grin tells me I’m not going to like what he says next. “You’re married, right Professor Ashwood?”
I frown. “I am not. Nor do I make it a habit of discussing my personal life with my students.”
Paige giggles, and I tap the pencil against the podium.
“Miscommunication serves a purpose in literature, but beyond that,” I begin, taking the reins. “It’s a more accurate reflection of real life.”
When class ends, I know it’s late based on the darkened hallways and the lingering exhaustion weighing heavily on me.
The beginning of class sent my mind racing with questions I didn’t want to answer.
Maybe if Mr. Knightley and Emma boned way sooner.
I scoff. As it seems, having sex can actually add more complexity than clarity, though I have wondered.
I gave up a lot following my failed relationship, made excuses, one might say. The thought of easing into something with Lennon, a date, perhaps, doesn’t cause my skin to itch with discomfort.
An entirely new feeling.
Maybe Cole had been onto something.
I unlock my office, expecting Lennon within the next hour, so I try to respond to a few emails, tackle the grading I refused to look at earlier, and take a second to decompress.
When my phone vibrates on the dark wooden desk, I instantly snatch it, hoping it’s her.
The number that flashes on the screen causes my brows to furrow.
I don’t have it saved–but I remember it just the same.
Alexis .
I debate whether or not I should answer it for a solid three minutes before deciding to pick up despite the twisting in my gut. Her presence sucks the energy right out of the room.
“Hello?”
“I got your message.” No hello, no pleasantries, just her irritation, and my uncomfortable emotions. I sent that message as a courtesy, but I’m now rethinking the decision. It looks bad. It is bad. I’m not sure why I cared to begin with.
“That would be the point,” I say, tapping a pen on the shining wood of my desk. The coolness of her voice sets me on edge, anger simmering beneath the surface.
“How fucking dare you.”
She’s mad–incredibly so, and I flinch. Definitely not the right decision.
“Alexis–” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Is this some sad attempt at ruining my marriage out of jealousy or something?” She’s fuming, and I can’t say I blame her. I thought I’d done well phrasing it, but apparently not. A huge fucking mistake, that’s what sending that message was. “Noah, I know I fucked up, but it’s been five years. It’s time to get over it and move on. I don’t know why you had to come out of the blue. Hayes is pissed.”
Rightfully so.
“Excuse me?” I say, ready to add more, but she doesn’t cease.
“We weren’t a match. You were focused on school and your career and hardly made time for me. Can you really blame me for what I did?”
What the fuck?
“I felt pressured to say yes to you because my family was there. But let’s face it, we didn’t have anything in common. Now I’m happy, and you decide to come in and fuck it all up.”
“That’s not–”
“It is!” she snaps. “That is exactly what is happening. I can’t believe you decided to send me anything. I can’t believe you thought you had the right to do something like that.”
I lean back in the chair, staring at the bookshelf in my office and wishing I could sink down into the earth to disappear for a while. She’s right. It has been five years, but something like that will scar you.
And while the skin around that scar feels numb and strange, her words still cut just the same. I wasn’t cut out for marriage. There are a million things she said to me that come to the surface and remind me of my inadequacy.
I haven’t directly thought about wanting more with Lennon until tonight. I’ve refused to touch that idea despite it dancing within reach, and as I listen to Alexis, I realize exactly why.
Lennon and I are better off as friends.
“I just thought you should know about Hayes, Alexis.” My tone has gone cold–detached.
“And how did you know anything? Because he’s informed me that it’s all made up, and I’m inclined to believe him over my failure of an ex.”
Ouch .
“He showed up at an art show with a friend of mine,” I say, running a hand down my face.
“A friend?” She huffs. “A friend you’ve slept with? Don’t think I haven’t heard about how you spend your time, Noah. It’s some girl you’re fucking?”
I’m not understanding where she’s going with this, nor do I care to continue listening to her. Those words sting, though. It’s some girl you’re fucking doesn’t feel right. Reducing Lennon to that feels inherently wrong. It doesn’t match what I’m feeling–what we’re doing.
Or does it?
“I shouldn’t have told you,” I confess, as a sad attempt to placate her.
“Fucking hell, Noah,” she spews. “Grow up!”
The phone cuts out, and I’m left with my thoughts. What she said was wrong. Lennon and I are friends. Then again, we haven’t talked through what we are doing or why we are doing it. I finger fucked her in a barn after asserting that we were just friends and wouldn’t make things weird for anyone.
There’s a small part of me that feels like I’m doing her a disservice. Sure, Hayes was an asshole, but Lennon was on a date–she was pursuing a relationship, and that’s something I haven’t offered her. We’ve spent so much time together over the last month. I’m certain I’m holding her back. What if that’s what she wants, and I’m just distracting her? An obstacle to her happiness?
“Knock, knock.”
I look up to find Lennon walking into my office, a bag of takeout in her hand. “Hey,” I say, trying like hell to hide how fucked I’m feeling.
“Wow, you do look tired.” She sits down in the chair across from me, setting the bag on my desk and opening it to place food containers in front of me. “I didn’t know exactly what you’d want, so there’s a lot here. Hopefully, you’ll find something.”
“Where did you go?” I ask.
“Just the pub in that little town that is down the road from here. They had a bit of everything. I don’t know.” Her brows furrow as she grabs plastic silverware from the bag, looking unsure of herself. It’s adorable.
“I trust your taste completely,” I say, popping the lid off one of the containers.
We eat dinner in my office, talking about the past week. Lennon’s back to working at the pediatric office, and I can tell she hates it. Especially when the conversation shifts to her plans for opening the bed-and-breakfast next summer. She talks about the mounds of paperwork, the scratch across the hardwood in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs, and I make a note to take a look at it the next time I’m over.
“You leave for Thanksgiving next month, right?” It’s more than six weeks away, but I know she was nervous about it–could tell as much when she brought it up at the bonfire.
“Yeah,” she says, placing the lid back on her container of food. “I’m trying to get as much done as I can before I go. I need to show something for myself.”
“What if I go with you?” The words are out before I can stop them, and I realize my heart is racing in my chest. What the fuck am I even saying?
I just spent thirty minutes in my office brooding because I didn’t think I could be whatever Lennon wanted. Maybe that’s true, but maybe I could try. I’ve seen the bed-and-breakfast. I know how hard she’s worked. I could be a buffer.
The look on her face has me second-guessing.
“What,” she says.
“I could go as a friend. I don’t know, I’ve seen what you’ve done with the house. I could compliment all of your grand achievements every chance I get–put your father in his place.”
She smiles. “That’s kind of hot.” Lennon taps a finger on my desk. “And you mean your efforts,” she says. “You’re the one fixing everything.”
“It’s a teamwork thing,” I say, winking.
Lennon shifts in her chair, and I wish I knew what she was thinking. “What about your family, or whatever?” she says. “If you’re being serious.”
I wave a hand. “My parents do a couple’s getaway every year for Thanksgiving. I think it’s because I haven’t given them grandkids yet. Don’t worry; I see them often enough. My mom always plans dinner the week before. You’re welcome to come.”
Her green eyes fix to mine, a question there that neither of us asks.
“Do you even want kids?” she asks, and my stomach sinks.
For some reason, I can’t offer anything but honesty to her. “I did,” I say. “I was engaged, remember? I wanted a lot of things I wasn’t exactly cut out for.”
Lennon’s head tilts to the side, those eyes blazing in a way that makes me feel seen. It’s almost too much.
“Who told you that?” she asks, and silence echoes in the room.
Another knock sounds from the door as Julia pokes her head in, and my eyes widen.
Lennon turns, staring at her.
“Hey,” Julia says, her eyes flicking between Lennon and me. I’m not sure how to navigate this situation because if she’s here, if she’s in town again, there’s only one thing she really wants.
“This is Lennon,” I offer, floundering. “We have mutual friends.”
Fuck .
If she’s hurt, Lennon doesn’t show it, and something about that bothers me. We were just talking about spending time with each other’s families, and now we are here–lost in some weird relationship purgatory.
“Hey,” she says. “My best friend is marrying his.” Lennon tilts her head in my direction, the words creating more distance between us–like she doesn’t want Julia to know our history–that I’ve been inside her.
Maybe she’s embarrassed.
“Nice to meet you,” Julia offers before her eyes meet mine. “I was wondering if you wanted some company tonight, but if you’re working on best man duties, or whatever.”
“I–”
Lennon stands up, gathering her half of the food and bagging it quickly. “I should go,” she says, and I can’t get a good read on how she’s feeling. Usually it’s written plainly across her face, but she’s gone cold. “I haven’t told Ellis he’s proposing, by the way. But we can chat more about–” she pauses, her face twisting just briefly. It’s at that exact moment I know I’ve fucked up. “We can talk about wedding details or something.”
Lennon’s gone before my brain can even catch up, leaving Julia standing in the doorway with a puzzled look on her face.
“That was incorrect, wasn’t it,” she says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize–” She’s fumbling for words. “I guess it’s been a few weeks since I was here last. I flew out for another talk, and I am just a bit confused right now.”
I clear my throat, closing my laptop and collecting my things. “I’m sorry,” I say, because I am. “I’m not free tonight.” My eyes meet hers when I stand up and put my bag over my shoulder. “I’m actually not free any night, really.” I wince.
Julia chuckles before chewing on her cheek. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll see you around or something.”
She leaves the room too, and it feels like the oxygen has finally returned to the room, restoring my frontal lobe.
I should text Lennon; I know this. But I also know that she has never expressed a desire to be anything more. Maybe if I text her, it’ll freak her out.
I’ve spent the entire day engrossed in my work, vacillating between the possibility of wanting a relationship with her and realizing I’d be shit at it.
I run my hand down my face, the tension tightening in my shoulders. Maybe I should try to just communicate. There’s only one thing I know for sure, and it’s that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.