Chapter 23
Chapter 23
Three years, two months, two weeks, and five days earlier
Edinburgh, Scotland
The first package arrives the day after Conor’s departure.
I struggle not to frown at it as I read the attached card.
Last night was a mistake, and I take full responsibility. I shouldn’t have left without waking you up, but it seemed like the wisest thing.
If you need anything, call. Whenever.
Conor
In the box is a state-of-the art bread-making machine. I glower at it for a few moments, uncomprehending.
“What’s that?” Georgia asks when she enters the room.
“Hmm?” I stuff the card in the waistband of my pajama bottoms. “Just a present. From a friend.”
She grins, salacious. “What did Conor Harkness get you?”
“A…bread-making machine.”
“Oh my god. Because he knows you love fresh bread?”
That must be why. I did mention my cravings for homemade bread at some point, but it was such an offhanded, in-passing comment, there’s no way he remembered.
Except, he did. “Motherfucker,” I mutter, staring at my scowling eyebrows on the metallic surface of the appliance.
“What? Why?”
I ignore Georgia and storm to my room. How fucking dare he? Be a dick to me on the phone, then come to my rescue, then coax me into developing a robust crush on him, then make me come like the world is ending, then leave me alone in his fancy hotel where I totally revenge-ordered breakfast room service, then remember what I enjoy and send me a way to enjoy it more often.
How. Dare. He.
But in the following days, the gifts continue.
A necklace. Three fantasy books. New Post-its and a fancy umbrella. Flowers. A set of plush towels. An Xbox. Sneakers that, the internet informs me, I could resell on eBay if I ever wanted the starting capital for a new life.
Should I take a stand and return them? Nah. If it were anyone else, I would interpret the presents as a wooing strategy, or maybe an apology for acting like a total douche. Unfortunately, I understand Conor well enough to know that if he wanted forgiveness, he’d simply ask for it.
He’d never be so gauche as to parade designer brands in any real courtship. The boxes he has delivered are too flashy, with no element of surprise—the opposite, in fact. He’s not sending me Tiffany jewelry and Hermès sweaters because he wishes me to have them. He just wants Georgia, Alfie, Rose, and everyone else who visits my apartment to know he’s still interested in me. Continue keeping up the charade.
“Why doesn’t he bring them to you in person?” Alfie asks during D&D night. With each passing day he becomes more unfuckable to me. What did I used to see in this whiny, clueless, cowardly little shit? I wish I’d taken notes. I want a word with past Maya.
“Because he’s a fancy finance boy, or something,” Sami says. “I bet he’s in Singapore, disrupting the local economy.”
“Conor’s a biotech investor.” I looked that up. “But yeah, he got busy. He might come to visit soon, though,” I lie.
“And disrupt you .”
I grin at Sami while Georgia and Rose giggle and Alfie rolls his eyes. Later, once the session is over and I’m alone in my room, I toy with the idea of picking up the phone and calling Conor.
“ Whenever ,” he said.
I check the hour. It’s the middle of the day, back home. Lunchtime, in fact. Why not? He’s probably having a protein shake. Or training on the rowing machine in his river-view gym. I bet he has time for me.
And yeah, he does. Because he picks up after exactly one ring. “Everything okay?”
“Hello to you. Where are you?”
“Office.”
“Ah, yes. How’s Austin doing? Still being taken over by the tech horde?”
“That one’s unstoppable, I’m afraid. Maya, are you okay? Is there anything you need?” There’s some urgency. Like he’s ready to jump on a plane. Again .
“I just wanted to talk to you.”
A pause. A long pause. “When I said to call me if you need anything, I meant—”
“If I needed a kidney, or a rec letter for an internship, or five hundred thousand dollars. I know. But what if I want to…” A dramatic pause, for effect. “ Talk .”
“We shouldn’t—”
“Talk?”
I can almost see him leaning back in his chair. How long does it take to memorize someone’s mannerisms? Could it be less than forty-eight hours? “This is highly…”
“Fun? Joy-inducing? Welcome?”
“Problematic.”
I huff. “What does ‘problematic’ even mean? It’s way too broad a term. Variable definitions.”
“You know exactly what it means.”
“Mmm, I’m currently dealing with memory loss.” I settle in the chair. Stretch my legs on the desk. “Did you close the Mayers deal?”
“Of course.”
“Is that why you’re dropping some serious cash on all these gifts?”
“No. It’s because—”
“You want to make my roommate think that we’re going strong, I know. I’m grateful that you’ve chosen to pepper the brand names with cute stationery. And please , keep the food coming.”
A noise on the other end, and—he’s laughing. I made him laugh.
My body is ablaze.
“So, yeah. I did want to thank you for the gifts. But above all, I wanted to thank you for the orgasm. It was insanely good. Best sex I’ve ever had.”
“Jesus Christ, Maya,” he says roughly.
I smile. “And I’ve been wondering…is it a you thing?”
A confused: “What?”
“See, I’m single. And horny. I’m trying to replicate what you did to me as closely as possible. In order to do that, I’m going to have to isolate the variables—”
“Maya.”
“—and figure out where to get my fix of…carnal pleasure.”
Is that a growl ? “Do not use the word ‘carnal.’?”
“Why? You hate it? Is this a moist situation?”
He sighs. I can feel the puff of air, even across the ocean.
“My question is: Do you think it’s because you’re older, and wiser, and more experienced? Should I be looking into dating older men?”
“Don’t. No older guys. They’ll only take advantage.”
“Not all older men take advantage,” I contradict him. “I recently hung out with this ancient guy who was super nice—”
“I know him well, and he’s a shithead,” he interrupts, harshly. A little too harshly. “Goddammit, Maya. Just find a twenty-year-old. Any twenty-year-old.”
I don’t know why, but it feels, just a little bit, like he’s running an ice cream scooper in the inside of my stomach and tearing out its lining. “Is that what you want?” I ask quietly.
“No. It’s not what I want, because—I don’t care , Maya. It’s not my business who you date, fuck, hang out with. All I care about is your well-being, and I have already jeopardized it once .”
The last couple of words are as close to yelling as he’s ever gotten with me. It makes my heart weigh a million pounds, how much he does, in fact, care. How misguided he is. How stubborn about the boundaries of the life I’m going to live, about the shape my happiness is allowed to take.
I am, I realize, on a bifurcating road. I could pursue him. Keep flirting with him. Tell him that I like him for a million reasons that have nothing to do with his age, or his money, or his looks. Try to get him to accept that he likes me, too. And when I inevitably fail to get through to him, lose him.
Or I could have him. Not to the extent I want him, but…
It’s a no-brainer, my choice.
“Yeah, okay. Yap yap yap.” I force myself to sound bored. “One can’t even pretend to be a femme fatale anymore.”
I feel the confusion over the line. “What?”
“Listen, I was kidding.”
“…About?”
“I was just trying to get back at you for leaving me alone in your room. But…” I swallow. “You were right. Are right. You’re a million years older than me, and it would make things soooo weird with Eli, if I were to develop any kind of long-term crush on you. And, here’s the deal, I really do like sex. Which is the reason why I don’t want a thing with someone who lives on a different continent.”
He is silent. For a long while. Until he says, flatly, “Trouble.”
I laugh. “Yup, that’s me. Here’s the deal, I have no use for you as a boyfriend. I do, however, need a new friend, given that three of my old ones are on thin ice. Can you get over the fact that I’m stupidly beautiful and be that for me?”
“Depends. What kind of friend?”
Just a friend I can talk to , I think. But say, “Can I call you and laugh theatrically at every single thing you say when Georgia and Alfie are in the kitchen making dinner?”
“Maya,” he says, reproachful.
“What?” I reply, defensive.
“I’m disappointed you have yet to do that.”
Alfie comes to me on a sunny morning, several weeks after we broke up. I’m at the library, finishing up the bibliography for my thesis. He sits next to me, takes a deep breath, scratches the back of his head.
Uh-oh , I think.
“I’m sorry,” he says, wooden. “I was a dickhead. I acted…Harkness was right. I knew what I was doing was wrong. But I was halfway in love with Georgia before even realizing it.”
I fold my arms. Watch him sweat a little. Where my feelings should be—sadness, rejection, anger—I only find tumbleweeds. I’ve moved on from this guy way too quickly. It’s okay, I never really loved you is something that I could say, and it would be the truth, and maybe it would hurt him as much as he hurt me. But I no longer care about him enough to seek any kind of vengeance.
I do have a question, though. “Before you broke up with me, did you and Georgia…?”
After a moment, he nods. I’m not even surprised.
“Did Rose know?”
He nibbles at the inside of his lips, and I know this boy’s tells. I already have my answer. “She saw us once, and…She said she wanted nothing to do with it, and that she was going to pretend to have fulminating amnesia.”
So, yeah. She knew. I wonder if I have forgiveness in me, and…Yes. I do. But it might be wasted on this specific set of people.
On my way home, I call Conor. We’ve been on the phone a lot, mostly when I’m in my apartment, mostly for show. Our calls tend to last a while, but when Rose wanted to know what Conor and I “ talk about, all the time? ” I couldn’t come up with an answer.
Everything. Nothing. Some things.
“What’s up?” he asks, groggy.
“Were you sleeping?”
“I was, yes. Because it’s five in the morning.”
“Why did you pick up, then?”
“Because you called.”
“Okay, listen. I know you didn’t grow up with any digital literacy, so I’ll hold your hand as I say this. But—”
“I’m hanging up.”
“—there is this magic trick you can do with your phone, which is called silencing your notifications—”
“I gave you an emergency bypass.”
My heart skips so violently, I have to stop. Here, in the middle of a busy sidewalk. “You better take it off, or I’m going to abuse my privileges.”
“How about you just don’t, Trouble?”
“Doesn’t sound like me, though. Anyway, I’ll let you go back to sleep.”
“Nah, it’s five a.m. I might as well go for my run.”
“A sentence you will never hear me utter.” I resume walking. “Do you happen to have a chia protein smoothie before your morning exercise?”
“No.”
“After?”
No response. Yes, then.
“So, do you have a personal trainer?”
“Just a lurid student athlete past.”
“You know how to squat, hmm? That explains it, because you’re really fit—”
“Maya—”
“For your age.” A faint, rumbling grunt. I smile. “Hey, Conor?”
“Yes, Trouble?”
“I think I want to know everything about your exercise routine.”
“Why? So you can make fun of me?”
“Yeah, of course.”
He sighs.
And then he tells me.
April fifteenth is the last day for students to accept offers of financial support from US institutions. That morning, I sit at my desk and write an email.
Dear Dr. Sharma,
I am so excited to join your lab at UT Austin.