Chapter Eight
EIGHT
By Friday, I’ve reached a point at which I can no longer deny my Austenless reality.
There’s too much evidence—or, more accurately, lack of evidence.
No proof of life, so to speak. And the final nail is hammered into the coffin during Friday afternoon’s freshman seminar on the English novel.
I slide into my usual seat and say to Camry, scrolling her phone next to me, “Hey, could I take a peek at your syllabus? I need to check something.”
I’m sure she thinks some due date has slipped my mind, but what I really want to see is the list of required books.
Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. OK, that’s a reasonable starting point for the course.
No Pride and Prejudice, but I was almost resigned to that. But hey, Frankenstein has taken its place, so that’s not all bad.
Then I look a little closer. Does that say “by P. Shelley”? As in Percy Shelley, the poet, the egomaniacal husband of the book’s actual author, Mary??
In this universe, he gets all the credit for her work???
I scan the rest of the list more quickly. Nope—not a single woman’s name. No Charlotte Bronte, who complained that Austen’s work lacked passion. No Virginia Woolf, who wrote so glowingly of Austen’s unmatched gift for prose.
No Henry James, either, which I can’t say I mind, because a) The Ambassadors is a snooze-fest and b) he was utterly condescending about Austen and here’s proof positive that without her influence, he couldn’t have written a publishable word.
In his place, we get Thomas “all women are temptresses who destroy men” Hardy and D.
H. “I never had a conversation with a woman other than my mother, and that one went badly” Lawrence.
And instead of a happy ending, we finish off the semester in the sexist, violent, dystopian world of Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange.
All undisputed classics.
Also indisputably grim.
I slide the syllabus back to Camry with a muttered “thanks” and turn my attention to the classroom itself. Most of the faces are familiar. But Rain is absent. Along with Samantha, the creative writer. And now that I do a quick head count, I note there are more men than women here.
I’ve only just realized that Geoff isn’t among those men when Professor Pedersen walks in.
I have tried especially hard to convince myself that the whole Julian Pedersen thing was just a bad dream. But honestly, in a world without Jane Austen’s novels and their lasting impact on literature by women, would someone like Julia Pedersen decide to become an English professor?
And if not, then it stands to reason her absence would leave a space for … Julian.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “I’m sorry to report that Mr. Winkworth has had a family emergency and will be away for a couple of weeks.”
I make a mental note to text Geoff and ask if everything is all right.
Pedersen gestures toward me. “In the meantime, if you have class-related questions, please reach out to Miss Bradshaw instead.” Which is really his job, not mine, but OK …
Then he launches into a fifty-minute lecture on the masculine imagination behind Frankenstein.
I’m not trying to paint him as a bad guy. But by the end of class, if not before, it’s clear that even if he lived in a world where you could devote your life’s work to studying the novels of Jane Austen, he wouldn’t make that choice.
Back at home, I throw myself into preparing for my …
well, I still think it’s a date. But I’ve checked the balance on my banking app three times just in case Fisher expects me to pay for my own dinner right before declaring that last Friday was a huge mistake and we should never speak to each other again.
And though I’m queasy-nervous every time I think about how badly tonight could go, parts of me (OK, my lips—but not only my lips) still really want this second chance, even if “second chance” has never ranked higher than my fourth favorite trope.
I nearly collide with Cassie as she’s passing from her bedroom to the bathroom, evidently in search of better lighting so she can put her earrings in.
She’s dressed nicely, though the style is more conservative than her usual.
It occurs to me that maybe she has a Zoom job interview and didn’t mention it because she doesn’t want me to feel bad.
Even her hair looks different, restrained from its usual magnificent twist-out, which I suppose is consistent with it being a job market thing.
Some people are weird (read: racist) about natural hair.
“Sorry,” she says as she blots her already subdued lipstick. “I’ve got a date.”
“A date?!” I screech (and without a trace of irony).
Though maybe I shouldn’t be shocked by her news. Cassie is smart, pretty, funny, the whole package. The kind of woman men ought to be falling all over themselves to ask out. And in fact, back when we were baby grad students and had time to go to the occasional club, they often did.
But for as long as I’ve known her, she’s never really done the dating thing. Runs counter to her stated intention to “stay serious” and “focus on her future.” Meaning, of course, her career.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” I ask.
She doesn’t turn from the mirror as she answers, “Bill.”
It takes a moment before I manage to come up with “Conklin?”
Her lips twitch at my incredulous tone—maybe amusement, maybe annoyance—and she shoots me a defiant look. “Yeah?”
The lift in her voice says, who else could it possibly be?
How the hell did that happen? I want to ask. Is it possible she’s doing this for me? Did she slip him her number on his way out the door to get my mom off my back?
Cassie and I have been friends a long time, but it’s hard for me to imagine even she would willingly make such a sacrifice.
“Well, have fun,” I tell her—though personally, I can’t imagine she will. “Actually, I’m going out too.”
She passes a critical eye over me, taking in my dark wash jeans and my fitted, pale green sweater with the wide navy-blue stripe across the chest. Nothing fancy, but it’s one of my favorite tops for the, um, asset-enhancing quality of the design.
All that’s left is to run a brush through my hair and maybe swipe some gloss on my too full lips.
Her eyebrows lift. “Then I should let you have the bathroom since you obviously still need to get ready,” she says, her voice cool enough to send a chill scuttling down my spine.
Cassie can absolutely wield her tongue like a weapon—but it’s rarely directed at me, and never about something as insignificant as clothes. Or makeup. Or a guy.
I’m on the point of snarkily suggesting that I hope she gets a chance to “clear her head” tonight—maybe sex will help her shake off this weird mood. But then I remember that she’s going out with Bill, and no matter how much her words smart, I can’t wish those clammy hands on my best friend.
Fisher picks me up in a black Jeep that’s definitely got some miles on it. The kind of vehicle my dad would call “practical when it snows.” In comparison to his house, it’s … normal. I like it—or rather, what I think it says about him.
After Cassie’s veiled critique of my clothes, I’m relieved to see he’s also wearing jeans. His are paired with a fitted button-down in a shade of dark red that looks great on him. Unfortunately, the color also makes me think of spilled salsa. Or spilled wine.
I wonder whether he’s hedging his bets.
At least it’s not a t-shirt. And yes I know, at the coffee shop, I was relieved to see one.
But the last time we went to a restaurant together, he was wearing a black shirt that read In order to understand recursion, you must first understand recursion— with the white text looped in a circle.
When I asked him what it meant, he said it was a coding thing and waved away the question.
Like I wouldn’t understand the answer. Like I’m an idiot or something.
So … yeah. I could do without a repeat of that.
Once we’re both in the car, he starts the engine, then immediately reaches for the volume knob on the stereo and twists it to zero. But not before a few raucous chords escape.
Apparently, the t-shirts with the obscure metal bands aren’t a pose.
It’s not my preferred genre of music, but I can’t deny it’s heart-pounding. Primal. Enough to pin me to the passenger seat.
Enough to make me curious about the possibility that Fisher has dark corners and hidden depths.
When he reaches for the gearshift, I stop him with the barest brush of my fingers over the back of his hand.
“Before we go,” I say, “I think we should clear the air about last Friday night.”
And for once in a week, I’m not thinking about the geomagnetic storm.
I’ve been mulling over this move for a while now. I might find myself back on the curb in a minute, but with all the uncertainty and confusion in my life—now exacerbated by another tense exchange with Cassie—I’d prefer to know where things stand between Fisher and me.
“All right.”
He’s looking straight ahead, and by the light of the streetlamp glaring through the windshield, his profile appears to be carved from stone.
His voice tells me he’s resigned to this conversation, but his hair looks as if he’s run nervous fingers through it half a dozen times at least on his way over, and on the steering wheel, his knuckles tighten as if he’s fighting the urge to do it again.
“Why did you say we’re not friends?”
“I felt it was an accurate assessment of our situation,” he replies with some real “I study computer science so that makes me a scientist” energy.
The English major in me can’t help but notice the usage of past tense.
“Does that mean you thought of us as … enemies?”
(Only after I’ve spoken it aloud do I realize the word enemies makes my romance reader pulse tick up a notch in an almost Pavlovian way, and I don’t appreciate the discovery one little bit. Because we all know what enemies are fated to become …)
He pauses as if to give the matter due consideration, then shakes his head. “Enemies feels a little ‘Marvel supervillain origin story,’ don’t you think?”
Speaking of the MCU, I bet I could just as easily end this date before it starts if I told him about my personal Loki, God of Mischief/Multiverse of Madness situation.
Except, I don’t really want to. Put a premature end to this date, I mean.
“So what you were really saying is we’re two people with not a lot in common who have had little reason to communicate outside select work-related scenarios.”
He lifts one shoulder in a gesture I choose to interpret as agreement.
“So, why’d you kiss me?” I ask.
“You kissed me,” he counters with a speed that suggests he too has been giving it some thought.
But a telltale hint of warmth surges into his cheek. Like maybe he knows he’ll lose this argument once I point out that he wrapped my legs around his waist, pinned me against a door, and kissed me back.
“You said it yourself: one kiss doesn’t have to mean anything,” he insists.
“Unless we want it to.”
“So …” I’m fascinated by the movement of his throat as he swallows. “Do you want it to?”
I am 99.8 percent sure I’m not imagining the note of hope in his voice.
It emboldens me. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, that’s the whole point of tonight—to help us decide. But …” I drag in a breath and let the rest come out in a rush. “Until we make our decision, I think it would be best not to muddy the waters with more kissing. Don’t you?”
“That seems … reasonable,” he says, like right this moment, he’d prefer to be anything but.
And honestly, when I look at the sharp angle of his jaw, shadowed with the dark growth of a day’s beard, and remember last Friday, how much I liked the way it prickled against my palm and grazed my cheeks, I question myself.
With a sideways glance at me, he shifts into drive. “Ready?” I nod. “Then let’s go.”