Chapter 9 #3
An easy smile settles on her face. That one—that’s genuine. “The Anywhere but Here Tour? I loved that show. I was still into it back then, at least for the most part. It was just pure fun.”
“I could tell. You looked like you were having the time of your life onstage. You were…you were magnetic.” Surrendering this compliment feels a little like giving her the answers to a test she hasn’t taken yet, but he can’t help it.
“That was my job,” Ramona says simply.
But it didn’t seem like work. Magnetic is only a shred of the truth, and even without any of the spotlights or costumes or backing band, he feels it here, too.
Some external force, her natural aura—her three astrological signs, maybe—keeping him anchored to this parking lot.
She must be aware of it, even attempting to move through the so-called real world.
He has a tremendous amount of respect for what she’s accomplished, can barely wrap his mind around what her life has looked like for the past decade. The number of people who adore her.
Why would you give that up? he wonders.
“You probably need to get back, huh,” she says, rolling up her foil and sticking it in the empty basket. “I can Uber to pick up my car tomorrow. Or I could even Uber home from here. You have a spouse or family waiting for you?”
Maybe it’s how open she’s been with him today, but he finds the truth hovering on the tip of his tongue.
“I…got divorced earlier this year. Separated for longer, but all the official paperwork went through last month.” On instinct, he rubs at his ring finger.
It’s still a little awkward, explaining it to people who don’t already know him, who weren’t there during the year everything fell apart.
But he supposes he’s going to have to get used to it.
Ramona’s eyes widen as she holds a sympathetic hand to her heart. “Oh—shit. I’m sorry, I had no idea. In class you’re always so…upbeat.”
“I try not to bring my personal life into work.” Nick stares down at the table, wondering if she assumes the divorce is his fault.
And to be completely honest, he isn’t sure, or maybe that’s the self-pity talking.
Either way, he hasn’t hit his ten minutes yet today.
“I’m living with my sister and her daughter right now, the one who loves your music.
They have a guesthouse in the backyard.” He brings his gaze back to hers.
“What about you? Do you…have anyone at home?”
“Besides my gardener and the cleaners who come every other week?”
“And the private-jet salesman.”
“Right. Gary. It’s so nice of him to do house calls.” She shakes her head. “Nope,” she says with a puff of breath on the p. “Just me and my cat, Janet.”
I didn’t have anyone else to call, she said in her voicemail.
Ramona Wilder…might be lonely.
“I don’t mind giving you a ride home. Or back to your car, if you prefer.”
“Back to my car would be great. Thank you.” When she reaches across the table to give his arm a pat, her sweater slips down one shoulder, exposing another constellation of freckles there. Or at least, it would if he were looking. Which he isn’t.
He forces himself not to react to her touch. It’s a simple pat of gratitude—he’d be a perv to read anything else into it.
“You’re actually not that bad outside of class,” she continues.
“Oh god. How bad am I inside of class?”
“No, no, you’re great. For everyone else,” she says.
“I know we got off on the wrong foot and you don’t like me very much, but I don’t think I’m too terrible a person, if you give me a chance.
Aside from what happened with your car, which I promise you was deeply unusual and not at all indicative of my true moral character. ”
“It’s…possible I made some snap judgments too,” Nick says, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry. And I don’t think you’re a terrible person, either.”
Ramona grins. “Not inherently evil?”
“Well. Let’s see what your car insurance covers.”
The sun has started to set, the parking lot filling with other diners. Ramona slides on her sunglasses.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully. “You have my number now. It might be a good idea for me to have your personal number too. Just in case something like this happens again.”
He rubs at the back of his neck. Everything else that’s happened today could sort of fall under his DD duties, if you squint.
He was helping someone in need, and then they both had to eat.
They just happened to do it together. But giving his number to a student—a student who called him hot and gave him a gratitude-pat on the arm—that is the very definition of a bad idea. A crossed line.
But it’s a bad idea he really, really wants to say yes to. A moral quandary for a class he’ll never teach.
“Sure, Wilder. The next time you’re trapped in a mall bathroom, just let me know.”
She passes him her phone, and he types his number in. A moment later, he has a message from her. Three emojis: a teacher, a burrito, a roll of toilet paper.
And when he drops her off at her car, she promises to do the homework.