Chapter 21
Girlfriend
Renée
“Remember to complete your pre-labs before Thursday,” I say to the small lecture hall of students as they pack up to leave. “No one’s going to know what the inside of a rat looks like unless you come to the lab prepared.”
Most of the students in this three-hundred level class are students I have taught since freshman year, and they are hoping to use their biology degrees for the greater good.
Aspiring veterinarians, research scientists, marine biologists, what have you.
At least they think they’re in it for the greater good at this point.
It’s easy to romanticize what your life will shape up to be when you’re young and hopeful—before the crushing reality of capitalism and greed and expectations of others set in.
Oh, to be a kid just dreaming of saving the whales.
But the semester just started, and I would never purposely crush their dreams. Manage their expectations, yes. First-year students majoring in biology always hear the truth, and the unsure ones weed themselves out by the end of the year.
I do particularly enjoy this level, however.
They ask smart, thought-provoking questions.
There’s more diligence in reports, drawings, and presentations.
Unlike the next class I have—my one hundred-level Pennsylvania Nature Study class—which starts in twenty minutes.
It’s held in the largest auditorium-style classroom on campus because students from all different majors and programs take it as a cultural enrichment course.
This class is a breeding ground for students like Jonah—though no one is or was ever as brazen.
The last of my students trickle out, and I pack up my bag and head back to my office for a quick pit stop before my next class begins.
My office is private, which not every professor on campus can say.
There’s a large glass window overlooking the quad, and the walls are white with my framed degrees, a periodic table, animal anatomy posters, and ecological memes pinned to a corkboard (I’m fun, dammit).
Before grabbing a stack of workbooks for the next class, I check my phone to find a few new emails and a text from Jonah. An embarrassing heat fills my face when I ignore the emails and open his message first.
Jonah: This is white goldenrod (aka Solidago bicolor).
Non-binary they/them. They have white flowers instead of yellow because they’re not as flashy as their goldenrod cousin.
The flowers are tiny and pop off the sides of the stem.
Insects like and love them.
Birds snack on the leaves too. They grow 1-3 feet (I can relate ), and like chill dry areas like the edge of my property by the road.
They grow all over Canada and the eastern half of the United States except Florida (what did Florida ever do to them? !)
Jonah: White goldenrod is non-toxic to dogs, but very toxic to horses and goats! I’m beginning to see why Florida doesn’t like them
Jonah: Scratch that... there’s confusion around a plant with a similar name known as rayless goldenrod (Isocoma pluriflora) which is highly toxic to goats and other livestock, but that’s not what’s growing on my land
Falling into my chair, I lean back and reread every word. Even with an eye roll or two, I smile. Not because of the toxic to horses and goats thing, but... everything else. Him and all his sunshine and goodness that pours out of him like a waterfall—unstoppable and unfiltered.
Renée:
Jonah: I got an A?!
Renée: I can tell you’re putting in the effort. You deserve it.
The typing dots appear for a long time and disappear. Then again, and again.
Renée: Are you doing anything tonight? I was thinking we could plan Delta’s party. But if you have to work then maybe another time.
His reply is immediate.
Jonah: Yes! Come over! And I actually don’t strip anymore (but I’ll make an exception for you, just ask)
Renée: I’ll see you later then.
The memory of our private room all those months ago flashes behind my eyes and, yes, I very much want a private dance from all those glistening muscles. Ohhh, what I would do if there were no rules, no bouncer, no time limit...
My mind trails off on a delicious tangent before it’s derailed for another reason.
How does he make money? The question flickers like a neon sign.
Stripping can’t be that lucrative. Does he even have a job?
I need to sort this out because it’s starting to bother me.
Straight up, I’m going to ask him tonight.
I know it’s none of my business, but... it kind of is now.
He’s not some random former student; he’s not a quiet neighbor who sticks to himself.
My daughters are enamored with him, and I am growing a garden on his property.
I kind of do have a right to know how he makes his money.
Jonah
With a light heart, I fall back onto the closest soft surface in the middle of the showroom floor. This couch is too firm for my liking, but it serves as my fainting pad after reading Renée’s text.
My exhale is loud and high-pitched, and I’m certain cartoon hearts are popping out of my eyeballs. “She’s coming over tonight, LaShonda.”
The sales associate, who has been more than accommodating of my every whim and expertly reigns in my furniture choices, crosses her arms and studies me. “You look smitten.”
“As a kitten,” I sigh.
Joaquín turned me on to this fancy home furnishings store, and for the last two days LaShonda has been helping me pick furniture for every room in my home.
She about fell over when I told her how much I needed.
I showed her the online listing of my house, and she snooped through every picture and took notes on what I needed.
Couches and chairs and bed frames and desks and rugs and lamps and blankets and. .. I’m dizzy just thinking about it.
She’d better get a huge commission check because she deserves it! What a pro.
Suddenly the reality of what I just agreed to hits me. Renée will be in my home tonight, and I still have no furniture. It’s been weeks since she was over during the storm, and all I had then were beds and a couple of stools.
I bolt upright. “How fast can I get all of this delivered? Like, can I get it tonight?”
LaShonda’s eyes round, and she laughs. “Mr. Johanssen, this is custom furniture. Even with an expedite fee, delivery will take at least a month.
“A MONTH?”
I have Joaquín on the phone in less than five seconds. “She’s coming over tonight to talk about birthday party plans, and I still don’t have furniture, dude. What should I do?”
“I assume you’re talking about Renée?”
“Of course.”
LaShonda steps away to fill out some forms while my heart pounds through my chest, waiting for my Joaquín to save me.
“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. Finish your furniture order, and on your way home, pick up the nicest outdoor patio set at a home improvement store. It’s a beautiful day, so have your meeting with her on your porch.”
My best friend is the best best friend that ever friended.
Renée
The rest of my classes flew by after we made plans for tonight. Amber only had to work the lunch shift today, so she was already home with dinner halfway done by the time I arrived after work.
“You should just go over there now,” she says. I cast a glance at her as I sip on my chardonnay while the girls do their homework at the table.
I bite my lower lip and stare out the window toward his place. “You don’t think it’s too early?”
She shrugs. “He’s home. His vehicle is in the driveway. You know he’s just waiting for you,” she says, with mischief in her eyes. “He’s such...” She waits for me to flick my focus to her before silently mouthing, “...a good boy.”
My cheeks burn and I attempt to stare daggers into her eyes. It’s not like my girls heard her or know what any of that means. Regardless, red-hot lust dances with embarrassment under my skin.
Maybe I should walk over to his place now. I take a calming breath and nod. Then I look at my clothes—the same clothes I wore to work. A navy blue and tan plaid skirt that stops mid-calf, with a white, collared blouse. It’s nothing special, really.
“Should I change?” I ask Amber.
“Oh, no,” she chuckles. “You’re a hot professor. This is exactly what he wants to see you wear.”
I swallow the last bit of my wine and roll my eyes. “This is not a hot outfit.”
“Wait, where are your reading glasses? He’ll lose his mind if you wear them. Oh, and you’re going to need this.” She hands me a paper napkin. “For his drool.”
Laughter bubbles up, and I wad the tissue to throw at her. The girls are still engrossed in their homework as I grab my notebook from the table and head out the back door for Jonah’s place.
Instead of the sensible heels I wore to work today, I opt for the well-worn sandals to trek across our yards. Passing the garden, I’m pleased to see so much is ready for harvest already. Some tomatoes, kale, and green beans look good enough to eat straight away.
And the sunflowers! I must have picked the wrong seeds because they’re twice the size they should be. Most of them stand about eighteen feet tall, and I have to laugh because what the hell? They’re completely ridiculous, but I kind of love how outrageous and unexpected they are.
When I step up to Jonah’s back porch, I realize a little too late I should have gone around to the front.
I’m about to change direction when I spot something new—an elaborate outdoor dining table and six matching chairs with thick, tan cushions.
He didn’t have this last time we were here or the night of the storm.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and before I know it, I’m peering inside his windows to find out if he’s finally filling his home with more than a massive TV and a recliner.
That’s when my heart stops altogether.
Right there, standing in the kitchen with long, damp blonde hair and even longer legs poking out of a man’s T-shirt, is a young—young—woman biting into a piece of toast. Only her profile is visible when she closes her eyes and sighs, like there’s nowhere more comfortable to be than right here in Jonah’s kitchen.
Before she can take another bite, I’m flying back to my house with a lump in my throat and stupid, stupid tears threatening to escape.
Of course he has a girlfriend. Or maybe she’s a hookup.
A situationship? Ughh, it doesn’t matter because she makes way more sense for him than I do.
Fuck! Why did I let myself even imagine a world where I was part of his life like that?
He’s twenty-five and I’m a mom who’s knocking on forty, for fuck’s sake.
What did I think was going to happen? And when did my perception of what we were change?
The plan was to keep the irritating manchild who had never heard “no” at bay.
When did I let him into my heart, and why the hell did I think he would want to be?
When I return, Amber is surprised to see me. “Everything okay?”
I shake my head, and she follows me to my bedroom so we can talk in private.
“He had a woman over. In his kitchen. Young, tall, gorgeous.”
“So?”
“All she was wearing was his T-shirt.”
“How do you know it was his?”
“I guess...” I start, but irrational anger takes over. “I don’t know! I just... It was oversized. And her hair was wet, so she obviously showered there, and she ate at the counter as if she owned the place!”
My sister sinks into the same realization. “I can’t believe this. He’s been so obvious with his feelings for you.”
“This is what I get for not following my own rules. Dragged along like I’m some plaything. I knew he wasn’t mature enough.”
“Well, maturity might not be his downfall.” I don’t love that she’s playing devil’s advocate right now. She continues despite my scowl. “What if he’s polyamorous? Didn’t you say his brother was?”
“I don’t think I’m cut out for that,” I answer honestly. “I’m not even cut out for monogamous marriage anymore.”
Amber lifts her eyebrows and sighs because she doesn’t need a rationale behind my anti-marriage stance. I’m too damaged for that, and it’s no surprise why. What is surprising, however, is how susceptible my heart still is to being trampled on.
An hour later, when my heart rate returns to baseline and I’ve reminded myself one million times that I don’t need anyone’s attention or sappy-sweet feelings clouding my judgement, I make the call.
Jonah picks up right away. “Hi,” he answers. His voice is bright, as always. “Are you ready to come over?”
“I’m not feeling well,” I reply, the half-truth easily falling out. “Would you mind if we discussed the party plans over the phone?”
“Are you okay? Do you need anything? I can—”
“I’m fine. I would just rather stay home tonight.”
“Oh,” he breathes, and I can practically feel his dejection.
Whatever. I will not feel bad about this. I will not feel bad about removing myself from someone who can harm me.
“No problem,” he says. “I have my pen and paper, ready for whatever ideas you have. What is going to make Delta happy, and does it include an inflatable obstacle course? Because I heard you can rent them.”
My icy heart thaws the tiniest amount, and I shut my eyes. “She would love that.”