Chapter 22 Claire
Claire
Icount the number of times the cursor on my screen blinks — one, two, three, four — as I space out, mentally running through my previous search. Earlier I decided to Google: What jobs can you get with a teaching degree?
I thought it might ease my anxiety about telling my parents, and planning the rest of my life, if I at least had a plan. So before our weekly dinner, I did some research. Google produced the following ideas:
Classroom teacher - Shocker.
School counselor - Unqualified.
Social worker - Too sad.
Psychotherapist - Sounds scary.
Event planner - Feels like a stretch.
Tutor - Check.
Writer - I wish.
Then there were the ones that at first glance seemed like they may actually work:
Librarian
Advisor
Curriculum planner
Instructional coach
Human Resources
After looking over the list again, I crossed off curriculum planner because honestly, that sounds like the most boring thing on the planet and then also deleted human resources.
There is no way I could hire or fire anyone without wildly overthinking how to do it or whether or not they’d be mad at me afterward.
Once the list was narrowed down to three, I typed my prospects into every job search website I could find. Unfortunately, there are currently no listings under any of those categories within thirty miles. So, now I’m back to square one.
I stare at my document entitled Novel Ideas.
I thought it was fitting in both senses of the word.
I was on a roll the other night, but either my head is somewhere else now, thinking of a world full of rejection letters and unemployment, or those few bullet points were all I was capable of.
I actually find myself hoping it’s the first one.
At least in that world, my dream isn’t in the gutter. Just everything else is.
My phone dings unexpectedly, and I ready myself for Chloe’s latest update.
Ever since meeting Ronan and finding out that he is Irish and not Italian, she has been down a rabbit hole of famous Irishmen.
Her last text came through about twenty minutes ago and read:
CHLOE: Did we know Bono was Irish?
To which I responded:
ME: I guess WE didn’t, but I did, yes.
She then sent:
CHLOE: Okay, but did we know his real name is Paul David Hewson?
Now that I didn’t know.
ME: Nope. But I’m sticking with Bono. Way more rock n’ roll.
Turning my phone over, I see it’s not Chloe who texted. It’s Jay.
JAY: Are you hungry?
Does he even realize the way that this question is like foreplay for women?
ME: The answer is almost always yes, even if it’s not.
ME: But right now I am starving.
Dinner with my parents tonight was mom’s meatloaf. Between that and constantly dodging the topic of work, I barely ate a thing.
JAY: Pizza? Ro and Mikey just closed up and gave me a whole pie of leftovers.
My stomach growls at just the thought.
ME: I can be at Enzo’s in 20?
I flip my laptop closed and look around for my wallet.
JAY: Actually, I thought maybe I’d bring it to you.
Wait, what? Like to my apartment?
JAY: And before you pull the stalker card, you gave me your address last night.
I laugh out loud and for half a second I wonder if this is a booty call.
I mean sure, Jay seems shy and sweet, but it is almost 10 pm and he is, well…
a guy. Add that he’s smoking hot and I wouldn’t say it’s completely out of the question.
I decide that in this situation, my stomach beats my mind by a mile.
Besides, would it be so bad if it was a booty call? Chill, Claire, damn.
ME: Doesn’t explain the mall…
ME: But sure. I’ll meet you outside.
I look around at the state of my apartment.
Thankfully my afternoon tutoring session was canceled today, and I spent the time panic-cleaning about work before I decided to do my Google dive.
Throwing my running clothes from earlier into the hamper and putting the blender in the dishwasher from my post-mall smoothie, I decide it’s pretty much as good as it’s going to get.
JAY: Be there in ten.
Perfect. I spend the first four minutes attempting to find something to change into that says both “Let’s eat pizza” and “Please undress me” — just in case.
I land on baby pink pajama shorts with mint green polka dots and a matching lace tank.
I leave on the nude cotton bra and underwear I’m wearing because if my gut is right and this is just food, sexy lingerie is going to send entirely the wrong message.
The next three minutes I spend reapplying deodorant and my vanilla body spray and practically power washing my teeth. By the time I’m done freshening up, I get outside right as Jay steps out from his truck, pizza box in hand.
He’s wearing a gray t-shirt that says Monroe's Motors in navy across his perfect chest and another faded pair of jeans. He’s swapped his work boots for a pair of black Vans and although they look good, I can’t help but notice that I kind of miss his usual style.
His hair looks freshly cut and as he approaches, I smell his familiar scent, this time mixed with dough and mozzarella cheese.
He smiles without showing his teeth but his eyes tell me he’s happy to be here — just one subtle gesture that I’m learning from a man who doesn’t say too much out loud.
“Wow." He looks me up and down. “You look…”
“Ready for bed?” I mean it critically but his face flushes and he tightens his jaw.
“Something like that.”
Now my face grows warm. The attraction between us is clearly there. That was evident from the night at Enzo’s. But the lack of drawstring in his pants tells me he isn’t just here for sex. Besides, would it even be a booty call if he brings me dinner first?
I stop overanalyzing and point over my shoulder. “Shall we?”
He looks me up and down again. “Let’s do it.”
The spot way below my belly button flips. Not “IT” you perv. I rip my mind from the gutter and lead him in.
When we get into my apartment, he looks around.
Starting at the kitchen, he drops the pizza on the counter and then runs his hand across the small island.
Next, he scans the living room, passing my couch and loveseat, touching a pillow on each as he goes.
He peeks into the hallway bathroom and finally stops at my bedroom door.
He sees the bed and then the connected door that leads to the full bath.
His eyes are wide as he turns back to me leaning against the doorway.
“Claire, your apartment is huge.”
“Is it? It kind of feels a little tight if I have people over, but it does the job.” He laughs but his face says he’s a million miles away.
“This isn’t tight. Trust me.” I wish I knew where he went when he got like this.
“Well, thanks.” I smile and shrug my shoulders, not really sure what else to say.
“I live behind Enzo’s.” He’s standing up now with both hands shoved in his pockets. I’m taken aback by how random his confession is but I try to just go with it.
“Oh, okay. I mean, that makes sense since I’ve seen you there more than once.”
“No, Claire, not like in a complex behind the building. I live in Enzo’s. There’s an old utility closet that Ronan turned into a studio apartment if you can even call it that. And I live there. Like, behind the kitchen.”
My eyes squint as I take in what he says.
After I’ve processed, the change in his demeanor makes much more sense.
He’s here in my very decent apartment with one and a half bathrooms, two couches, and a queen-size bed, and he lives in a pizza shop owned by his best friend.
By his body language alone, I can tell he was embarrassed to say it but my complaining about the size of my place didn’t help I’m sure.
I think about how to respond. From what I can tell, Jay isn’t looking for sympathy.
In fact, he seems like the type who would hate it more than anything, but what am I supposed to say?
“I’m happy for you and your glorified closet?
” Where he lives doesn’t matter to me but it’s obviously a big deal to him.
I fix my face and take my foot out of my mouth, placing it back on the floor where it belongs. Walking over to him, I pull both of his arms from his pockets and take his hands in mine. I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly as he waits expectedly for my response.
“Jay.” I pause for effect. “It won’t matter where you live if I die of starvation before I ever get to see it.”
He laughs, his mouth spreading into the biggest smile, before dropping his forehead to mine. We stand like that as he closes his eyes and lets out one last chuckle. I feel his shoulders relax and give his hands a small squeeze.
“Okay, fine,” he says as he stands up straight, maybe a little straighter than before. “Let’s eat.”