Chapter Seven #3
I tell him more about my teaching job and how academia has become a customer service industry, with mandates to please the students rather than educate them.
How my students knew that while I never budged on a grade, they could complain to Carl and he’d give anyone an A+ “to avoid the hassle,” tacitly reinforcing that I was the problem, not the student who never came to class or who thought the Enlightenment was when Benjamin Franklin tied a key to a kite in an electrical storm.
Then there were the unbearable department politics.
Being ostracized by the impenetrable boys’ club while managing the constant stream of administrative labor they were all too important to do, until teaching and research became a fraction of my job.
Dylan seems far more content listening than he does talking, so I don’t overedit the way I often do around my family or coworkers, or especially the way I do around dates, most of whom get through a one-hour coffee meetup telling me all about themselves without asking a single question about me.
It’s nice, letting off steam while also reinforcing my decision to quit my teaching job, a choice that still nags at me as my future looms without direction.
We’re scraping our plates when Dylan notices my empty glass and offers me a refill.
I politely decline, even though I’m enjoying the warm flush the first glass has painted across my skin and the way my body relaxes into the old wooden chair beneath me, with my circular thoughts a little quieter, a little less anxious, a little kinder to myself.
“You sure?” Dylan asks, the bottle still raised.
“Yeah. Apparently, when I drink too much, I hug people and vomit gushy compliments.”
“Let’s at least avoid the vomiting.” He smiles a little as he tops off his own glass, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, the suggestion of dimples in his cheeks, and a gentle creasing of the skin beside his eyes and bracketing his mouth.
I like the creases, even while I understand the appeal of his early book cover photos, but those images seemed so polished, so manufactured for mass consumption.
This is the real Dylan Sterling. And I’m still drawn to what’s real.
We clean up together, with me washing and him drying.
I put space between us, conscious of his pattern of stepping away whenever I’m too close, but by the time I’m scrubbing the final pan, the space is half of what it was when we started the dishes.
My feet have remained firmly planted, since I’m parked at the sink, so I allow myself to at least consider the possibility that Dylan is okay being close to me, as long as I don’t take him by surprise.
“Thank you for dinner,” he says as he hangs up the dish towel, the last pan safely tucked into the cabinets, the table clear, and the counters as close to sparkling as they’ll ever get.
“Maybe we can do it again sometime?” I suggest, bracing for a thanks but no thanks.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he looks around the room, though what he’s looking for, I have no idea.
“I’m not much of a cook,” he says.
I manage not to laugh. I kind of figured, given his two-ingredient pasta dinners.
“Neither am I,” I say. “Doesn’t matter. It’s a bit of company. That’s all.”
“I’m not much of a handyman, either.”
“Oh-kay?” I frown, confused by the non sequitur.
“And I don’t have a full-time job. One with a steady income.”
“You think I’m asking you to pay for dinner?”
“I think I should contribute something.” His neck reddens.
His hand follows, wrapped around his flushed skin as though he can hide it from view.
“I got used to living here. Alone. Figured it wasn’t a big deal.
The place was empty. I paid the utilities.
Took care of emergency repairs. The front door.
A first-floor window. The boiler. I wasn’t putting anyone out.
Now I feel like a freeloader. Especially when you offer me cookies or make me dinner.
So, well, if you want me to go . . .” He trails off like he can’t finish the suggestion.
Like he’s too afraid that if he does, he’ll fully manifest the idea, and I’ll say yes.
And while I still find his body language and facial expressions largely opaque, I can tell with complete certainty that he doesn’t want to leave.
I also know with complete certainty that I don’t want him to leave.
Our cohabitation is confusing and often frustrating, and it may never evolve past this nebulous stage of not-quite friendship with an occasional dash of one-sided lust, but without him, I suspect the tenuous line between alone and lonely would vanish completely.
“I still want to find the outlines,” I say.
“Until we do, how about lending a hand more often? Not rewiring the electricity or refinishing the floors, but simple things we can do together. The yard needs work. The contents of the attic need sorting. I’m dying to remove some of the ugly, mildewed wallpaper.
Replace old fixtures. Maybe even work up to demoing the carriage house or dealing with the boat. But only what you have time for, okay?”
His shoulders relax as he drops his hand, sliding it back into his pocket.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
We exchange a nod and a smile. Then he gestures for me to head out first, turning off the lights behind us and following me upstairs, where we both pause on the second-floor landing.
“Thank you again for all of your help today,” I say.
“Thank you again for dinner,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“Same,” he says.
“Good night,” I say.
“Sleep well,” he says.
I scratch my collarbone.
He drums his fingers on the banister.
Then we part ways and head to our separate rooms.