Chapter Four
FOUR
When I wake up, I can tell from the way the sun slants across my bed that it’s afternoon.
Somehow, though, I still don’t feel well-rested. I had such bizarre dreams all night long.
Among my notifications is a text. It’s from an unknown number, but I open it anyway.
Sorry for the mess I made last night—
I hope everything’s all right.
I take a moment to marvel over the fact that I am in the unprecedented situation of receiving a morning-after text that could be from either of two guys. But since I kept Fisher as a contact in my phone for some reason, I know this message has to be from Geoff.
And because it’s Geoff, he’s obviously referring to the wine and database mess, but my mind immediately goes to the real malfunction of the evening: climbing Fisher like a flagpole and kissing him like my life depended on it.
Briefly, I let my mind prod at an inexplicable wish for a text from him, then poke around the possibility of whether his not apologizing means he isn’t sorry it happened.
Finally, with a flick of my thumb, I swipe Geoff’s message away unanswered and push all the rest of it deep into my mental not-right-now drawer before dragging myself out of bed.
In the apartment’s large, open living area, my roommate Cassie is sitting at the table working on her laptop, perched forward on the edge of her chair, partly to get close to the screen, but mostly to make room for our cat, who is curled up behind her, sleeping.
His name, officially, is Charles Bingley, after the character in Pride and Prejudice.
Like me, Cassie is an Austen superfan, a Janeite, and “Charles Bingley” seemed to us an obvious choice for an orange tabby who’s enthusiastically friendly and a little goofy.
We intended to call him Charlie, even had it engraved on the little fish-shaped ID tag that dangles from his collar.
But one time when he had the zoomies and went parkouring off the walls and furniture, I called him Bing Bong and it stuck.
When he really gets going it sounds like we have an elephant, and I know Mrs. Merriweather who runs the shop downstairs can hear him.
Fortunately, she’s not the sort of person who would tell our mutual landlord about an illegal pet of any size.
Cassie tried at first to convince me Bing Bong had to be my cat, because, and I quote, “Black people don’t have housecats.
” But since he climbed into her car at a rest area when she was driving back to Grantham from her folks’ place near Chicago, I told her it was bad luck to go against the Cat Distribution System.
Eventually she agreed to call him ours, though it’s clear who he prefers.
“Well, good morning,” Cassie says in that dry way of hers as I head to the kitchen for a glass of water.
She hasn’t looked up, but it seems the sensation of Bing Bong stretching and jumping down from her chair alerted her to my presence.
He may love her best, but he’d never let anyone pay a visit to his favorite room unaccompanied. “Rough night?”
“You could say that,” I concede between gulps. “First, I found out that Pedersen wants me to go to a conference in New York with Geoff Winkworth. Then she announced she’s making him Team Leader next year.”
That gets her attention.
“It’s no big deal,” I insist. “I’m graduating.”
One eyebrow arcs in disbelief, but whether she disagrees with my assessment of the significance of the Geoff news or is skeptical of my actually finishing my degree remains unspoken.
“And then,” I continue, hoping to change the subject, “while I was working late on the database, the power went out and I got stuck because the electronic lock jammed.”
I deliberately don’t mention Fisher. Not every conversation between two women has to be about a man, after all.
“Yikes,” she says. “That must’ve been scary.”
“I’m fine,” I insist. “But that’s why I was so late getting home. And honestly, I’m still a little fried.” With that, I plop onto the couch and pick up the television remote. “Will this bother you?”
“No. I’m about to head out to the library anyway. Whatcha gonna watch?”
“Well,” I say, frowning at the screen as I scroll, “froth at its finest, I thought. But I can’t find the Hallmark Channel.”
She pauses in the process of packing her bag. “The what?”
“The Hallmark Channel.”
“Hallmark?” she repeats. “Like the greeting cards? I didn’t know they’d branched out into TV.”
I almost ask her whether she’s suffered a recent blow to the head.
Cassie’s degree focus is media studies, she’s drafting a paper on the importance of diverse representation in holiday rom-coms, and when she presents it next month at the annual meeting of the United States’ largest professional association for the study of popular culture, it will be the cherry on top of her irresistible dossier.
But of course she’s just mocking her own obsessive work habits—either that or making a dig at my romantic failures.
Once she’s gone, I open Netflix instead and am relieved to be greeted by the familiar logo.
Scrolling through the menu, I find “Continue Watching,” but somehow Bridgerton isn’t there, even though I stop and start episodes of the sexy Regency-set drama all the time.
I go back to “My Watchlist” (still nothing), then “We think you’ll enjoy …
” and finally, in a moment of desperation, I click on the little magnifying glass and begin to type into the search bar:
B-R-I-D-G-E-
With every letter I add, the set of possibilities that meets my criteria shrinks, and when I finally press R, there’s nothing left. “Perfect,” I mutter beneath my breath and click the off button on the remote.
I remember what Fisher said about service disruptions. Maybe this is all part of the upheaval caused by the geomagnetic storm.
Determined to get my romance fix one way or another, I rummage through the mess on the ottoman for the deliciously spicy historical I’ve been reading, then go to my room to find it, but between the clothes on the floor and the general clutter that is my life, The Duke’s Debt Comes Due seems to have gone into hiding.
It’s difficult to escape what all these signs and signals point to: the universe is telling me to work on my dissertation.
Pedersen approved my proposal in August, but I can’t seem to muster much enthusiasm for the project, and I haven’t written a single word since.
Grumbling, I drag my laptop from my bag, plug it in, lift the now stickerless lid, and press the power button.
Given the way the last twenty-four hours or so have gone, I should not be even a tiny bit surprised when nothing happens.
Actually, I’m not surprised. I’m panicked. Because my life is on this laptop, and if something’s really wrong with it …
I grab my phone, then remember the IT help desk is closed on Saturday afternoon.
I hesitate over my options. I could wait—but will that make the problem worse? I could take it to Tech World, but that will cost money I don’t have. I’ll probably be sorry, but don’t see that I have much choice but to call Fisher and ask for help. Again.
It rings four times before he answers. “Hey,” I say when I hear a husky “Hello?” He sounds a little out of breath.
Only in the long pause that follows do I consider that maybe, I should’ve texted, emergency or not.
“Sorry to bother you,” I say, “but my laptop won’t turn on.”
“Bummer.” His voice is flat. “If you want to bring it by the office on Monday, I’d be happy to take a look.”
I swallow down another surge of panic. And embarrassment. Clearly, I’ve been presumptuous. My emergency obviously isn’t his. “M-Monday?” I stammer. “It’s just … I was going to work on my dissertation this weekend. And … Fisher?”
“Yeah?”
“Everything is on this laptop. If it’s fried, my life is ruined.”
There’s another beat of silence. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he says, in a tone that suggests he already knows the answer to his question. “But you have your files backed up, right? Cloud? Portable hard drive? Something?”
“I’ve been meaning to, but I just … never got around to it.”
Yet another pause, this one long enough that I actually pull my phone away from my face to make sure we haven’t been disconnected.
“All right,” I hear him sigh when I put it back up to my ear. “Bring it by my house.”
“Thank you thank you thank you.” I slur the words together in my relief.
“I’m at 804 Elm Street.”
“Oh, hey. We’re practically neighbors!”
He makes no acknowledgment of my observation. “Just give me like an hour, OK?” he says.
Maybe he’s got to do the mad clean-up rush to make his place presentable? Though that seems improbable, given what I know of the man.
When I set out on foot fifty-eight minutes later, I quickly realize we are not neighbors. Number 804 is on the opposite end of Elm Street, on the other side of town. It’s still a walkable distance, of course, because nothing downtown is that far apart.
But Fisher lives in a neighborhood too expensive even for most of the professors.
Only higher-ups, like the Dean of Students, can afford to live here: two blocks square of enormous, early nineteenth-century homes, all meticulously restored.
And 804 Elm Street? Well, the only house in this part of town that’s larger is the one that belonged to founder Joab Grantham himself, and it’s now a museum.
Probably shares this place with a bunch of other guys, I tell myself as I climb the wide stone steps and ring the bell.
“I’m really, really sorry about this,” I blurt out as soon as he opens the door. “I just—”