Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Jay
I’ve always thought of myself as a good guy. Once again, being around Phoebe forces me to reevaluate. Because a good guy would have listened to Director Hopper present and admire how prepared, thorough, and professional she was. Instead, I half listened to Phoebe morph into a proper dictionary like she does around other people, and I respected that she delivered the information well. But mostly I sat there fixated on how much her red lipstick made me want to kiss her.
About the only thing that could distract me from her was the opportunity to talk to Professor Martinez, which I took every chance I got. I mentioned an interest in teaching at the university level, made it sound curious rather than needy, and brought up meeting for lunch sometime so I could pick his brain on breaking into academia. He wasn’t overly enthusiastic about it, but he seemed game enough and told me to email him.
It’s a toehold. No, not even a toehold. But he could become the toehold or point me toward one.
Final score: I advocated for myself but fixated on Phoebe’s full red lips. Conclusion: I would not hire myself tomorrow for the role of good guy based on my actions today.
When I reach the cottage, dusk is falling, and the air is loud with crickets and locusts, especially back where the lawn ends and Grandad repopulated the back acres with native plants. I even have a visitor waiting next to the front door—a box turtle the size of a salad plate, almost, crowned with a domed shell. It’s probably pretty old to be so big.
“Hey, friend,” I say, stopping a few feet away to watch it. It sees me but doesn’t move. After a minute or so, it’s clear it doesn’t intend to entertain me with a turtle walk, so I skirt past it to the front door. The cottage is single-level with a plain concrete porch and no raised steps, but for as long as I can remember, there’s been a wooden bench by the door, and I have myself a sit. “Can I tell you my troubles, mister?”
Nothing about it suggests it’s interested, and I nod. “I get it.” I feel a pang of missing Grandad. I wish I could walk right back into his library, sit across from him at his desk, and ask him a bunch of questions. Like why he never told me about Phoebe before. And does he know the story between her and Catherine?
I did try to be a good guy and intervene when Catherine Crawford raised concerns. I wish I knew the history between those two, but I got the sense that Catherine was being more critical of Phoebe specifically because it was Phoebe. It’s hard to say since she didn’t state her specific objections, but it obviously hadn’t helped anything to have her walk in and find Phoebe in my lap.
I don’t regret it, even though I know it embarrassed Phoebe. I didn’t mean for her to fall, but I’m not sorry she landed in my lap. More evidence against me. For the handful of seconds she was there, she felt exactly right. It was proof that for all her talk, she’s aware of the chemistry between us because it almost sparked, it was so intense .
“I’m not sure what to do about it, mister,” I tell the turtle. “If this were any other chick, I’d know. Smile, charm, talk her into a date, let it turn into a few more. We’d help each other fill our free time this summer, and when I finished my book, I’d give her a long kiss goodbye and look forward to seeing her at future board meetings.”
The turtle finally moves his head to stare at me.
“You’re asking why I don’t do that?”
He blinks.
“Fair question, and I have no easy answers.”
From the moment I caught her on the ladder, Phoebe has not been like any girl I’ve known. With other women, I’ve got game. I expect it to work because it always does. With Phoebe, I’m desperate for it to work, and I can never tell if it is. I work hard for every smile she gives me, and I want to high-five myself every time I say something that impresses her. Worst of all, I spend way too much time thinking of scenarios that end with us making out. I’ve developed an addiction to her.
It’s not like I don’t know what this is. I’ve been around when my friends have fallen for a woman. I’ve seen it happen instantly, where somehow my dude is half in love with a woman on sight, before they’ve even said hello. Even when it takes “longer,” I’ve seen more than one friend start with a social hello, but by the end of the evening, it’s obvious he’s interested, and that hook sinks in deeper the more time he spends with her.
“Do turtles fall in love?” I ask my visitor. “What about love at first sight? Or is it more straightforward for you guys?”
The turtle stretches his neck and opens his mouth.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you yawning at me?”
He snaps his mouth shut, then opens and snaps it again.
“Oh, not yawning?”
He lowers his head but keeps it turned my way .
“I can’t tell if you’re cute or so ugly you’re cute. But your house rules.” Geometric gold markings cover his shell, and they look awesome against the black. But his head looks more like a snake, and with his red eyes, it’s kind of intimidating.
“I want you to know I’m only staying over here because I like my space, not because I’m afraid to pick you up.” But I eye his scale-covered legs that end in claws. Sharp-looking ones. “Are you even a dude? Maybe you’re a lady turtle and you can’t understand my problems.”
I get a slow blink that feels like an eye roll. Hmm. That’s got a distinct feminine energy.
“I could use a woman’s perspective. Do turtles do love at first sight? I’ve always thought the ‘instant’ thing was ridiculous, but two of my friends married women they claim they fell for the minute they saw them.”
It’s not bad as proof goes. I shift on the bench, and Ms. Turtle settles her back end down like a dog on its haunches.
“Fine,” I tell her. “Here’s a confession. Maybe I get it. Not that I’m in love.”
But now I understand how someone can fascinate you before you even exchange a word because it happened to me two weeks ago. Every interaction with Phoebe intensifies that feeling, like every conversation is too short and no number of her smiles is ever enough. Like each new angle I see her in is a revelation, whether it’s the sun shining down on her as she walks to the vault or the way she’s still vibrant under utilitarian basement lights. I can’t get enough of her jokes or laughs or even her annoyed frowns.
I know how I sound. Like a maniac. But the thing is, I feel more clearheaded than ever.
Except for one thing. She says she’s only open to friendship, not dating. I could live with that if I thought she meant it. But I’ve seen too many signs that say she doesn’t. Signs that say she feels drawn to me. I don’t think I’m flattering myself. I’ve dated enough women to read the situation.
None of that is helping with the “what next” question.
“Your thoughts, Ms. Turtle?” She blinks. “On what’s next?”
Her chest lowers to the ground, and then she disappears into her shell, and it closes completely. It’s how box turtles get their name.
“Thanks for nothing.” I get up and go in the house, but maybe the turtle answered the question: Run away and hide .
It’s not a Martin quality, and I try to be a quality Martin, so I guess that means I’ll do the opposite: Charge full steam ahead.