Chapter Twenty-Two
Bernie
“Please tell me you found something,” I ask Pru as I dig a chip into a big bowl of guacamole. It’s another Friday, but this time it’s just us, the couch, and snacks. I’d asked Pru to use her Google skills for good and find me dirt on a certain engineer turned faculty.
Pru snickers behind her laptop.
“It’s not funny,” I say, shoving the chip into my mouth.
“It’s kind of funny.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“My friend, I love you but I’m not the one looking for skeletons in someone’s digital closet after dry-humping him on my couch.”
I lean back into Pru’s couch with a sigh.
“I’m not telling you anything anymore. Let’s talk about you. What’s got you so–” I wave my hand in her direction. She’s anxious and clearly waiting for something to pop-up on her computer.
“Oh, you know me, just living my best life, working and reading monster porn.”
Laughing, I sit up for more chips. I haven’t been brave enough to venture into the world of tentacles, but Pru’s into it. “Have you heard back on your article submission for Women’s Studies in Communication ?” Pru recently wrote a systematic literature review covering the last thirty years of research on romance and women’s fiction. When we were in our graduate program, she focused on gendered communication in sex education curriculum, but recently, she’s taken a hard turn into investigating how romance novels have changed with the increased access to self-publishing.
“Nothing yet, but it’s only been a month. Still feeling positive.”
“It took my Studies in Higher Education article almost a year and a half to get through publication.”
“True.” Pru continues to click through whatever she’s looking at on her laptop. “By the time I hear from editors, I’ve basically forgotten everything that I’ve written. It kind of works out because the critique doesn’t feel as personal.”
Amen to that.
“What else is going on?” I prod.
“Well, still trying to avoid getting shoehorned into too much fucking service.”
“Committees?”
“Why are there so many committees, and why does having a vagina mean that everyone thinks I should join them and be the person that takes notes?” she laments.
As an assistant professor, Pru’s time is technically ‘protected’ to help her be successful in the pursuit of tenure. While she is evaluated on research, teaching, and service, being at a research university requires publication in academic journals. Publish or perish and all that.
During grad school, we were told over and over to be cautious with service because, in the end, if being on a committee means the difference between two journal articles a year versus three, it could hurt your career in the long run.
“I don’t know, my friend. My work is basically all committees and meetings.” As a staff, my role is more flexible, changing with my department’s needs.
“On the bright side, my undergrads are surprisingly great. I was nervous to take that honors class, but so far, so good. They’re a little needy about getting feedback and way too worried overall about their grades, but I love how much they engage in class. And they actually do the reading.” She says the words absently, gaze fixed on the screen.
“That’s good?” I try to sound enthusiastic. Teaching is not my thing. We were required to teach at least once in our doc program, but I didn’t raise my hands for any other opportunities. I just don’t have the patience for undergrads. My current focus is trying to publish enough to make up for the gap in my postdoc.
“You should reach out to my department head for teaching opportunities,” she says like she’s reading my damn mind. “You’d be great at methods, maybe even stats because of all your postdoc work.”
I shrug and reach for more chips. “You know most methods are taught by track faculty. They don’t usually hire adjuncts for those positions.”
“True, but our stats teacher is going on sabbatical next fall and there might be an opportunity to get into the pool.”
“Hmm, maybe.” Sipping my water, I watch Pru. She’s huddled in the corner of her own L-shaped couch, knees up, with her laptop open, blocking her face.
“You sure you’re doing okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just refreshing the status on my IRB application to see who it gets assigned to.”
“And why would that matter?”
“Trust me, it matters.”
“Why?”
Pru snaps her computer closed. “Because some reviewers are assholes who can’t divorce their personal opinions about certain subjects when they review applications. So they send you correction after unnecessary correction until you just want to give up and quit the whole research thing and become a baker that lives on a sailboat and is abducted by a sea creature that is very creative with his tentacles.”
Blinking slowly, I open my mouth to reply then close it. “Okay…” I roll my lips carefully between my teeth and raise my eyebrows.
Pru sets her laptop on the table and leans forward to get a chip. “It could happen.”
“Sure, it can.”
“Whatever.”
“Tentacles?”
“Yep.”
“All right. Well, we all have different dreams. Wanna tell me more about the modification requests?”
Pru sighs and opens her laptop again. “I had a lot of problems with the IRB for the fieldwork I did last semester. The guy that was assigned to my application kept asking me to add information about the content of the source material that was outside of the norms for literature or communication studies.”
“Why? I ask, genuinely curious. What would be the issue with studying romance novels?
Pru runs her fingers through her hair and reopens her laptop. “I think he was trying to block my work because he thinks romance is too explicit.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. The Honorable James-fucking-Richardson dragged the process out for almost a month. So, I’m nervous he might get assigned to my new application.”
“Have you met him?”
Pru throws her hands up in the air. “No! I can’t even find these people’s offices. Seriously. And he wouldn’t meet with me last time.”
This guy better watch out. Prudence Landry is definitely an act now forgiveness later, kind of woman.
“Anything I can do?”
“I might need your literature review skills if I have to make the case that IRB is trying to suppress my research because it involves human sexuality.”
I nod and pick up my phone to send myself an email to dig into it for her. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s a literature review.
“Well, it’s like seven on a Friday night. If you haven’t been assigned, it’s probably not going to happen until Monday. Wanna watch a movie?”
“Yes, something with girl power,” Pru agrees before snapping her laptop closed and placing it on the coffee table.
“ 9 to 5 it is.” I pick up the remote to find it. Pru groans but doesn’t stop me. 9 to 5 has become my comfort movie after my breakup. Something about kidnapping the boss and holding him captive while running the office like you want sounds like bliss. Or, spoiler, maybe it’s the part where he disappears in the end.
“I don’t get it. Do you want to be Violet, Doralee, or Judy?” Pru mumbles over the opening credits. I almost feel bad that I’m making her watch this movie again—almost.
“I don’t know. You?”
“Doralee, obviously,” she says, getting up on her knees to look behind the couch.
“Why Doralee—is he still back there?” I laugh. Pru’s cat, Samuel Clemens, is less of a people person than I am.
She tries to coax him from his hiding spot before finally answering me. “Yeah. I think he might come out soon. Anyway, Doralee is the best because, one, her clothes are the most fun, two, she’s played by Dolly Parton, who is a national treasure, and three, she’s the true hero of this movie. She gets propositioned and not only turns the guy down but overpowers him, ties him up, and gets the other ladies to agree to kidnap him and keep him hostage. Underrated character.”
Pru dances her fingers along the edge of the couch to bring out Sam. He growls. A small part of me has genuine fear for Pru’s hand.
I nod considering her words. “She really is a badass.”
“Truth. You want Chinese?”
“With chips and guac?”
“Are you here to tell me how to live my life?”
I snort and watch an orange paw dig into the fabric next to Pru’s finger. “Nope.”
“Good.” She sweeps her phone off the table and orders food.
I snuggle into the couch, relaxing. I needed this. Being with Pru is such a good reminder of all the things I have .
Friends are really the unsung heroes of our lives, filling the gaps when needed and being there when things feel desolate. Besides the aftermath of the conference in June, I haven’t felt that way in a while. I feel…okay. Settled into my life in a way that I wouldn’t have thought possible a year and a half ago. I’m still angry about everything with Stephen, but I have a plan and it’s working. Kind of.
It’s been almost two weeks since I woke up on my couch with Ash.
I don’t fuck my friends, sunshine. I don’t want to be your friend. I want to be your everything. I want all of you. His words cycle in my mind—when I try to sleep, when we share my office, and when I try to sweat out all of my frustration on my bike.
He sets my body on fire and makes my heart ache with his sweetness. Being so patient with me, giving me enough space to figure out if I’m brave enough to leap.
The reality is it’s never possible to know everything about a person. You just have to believe you know enough to trust what they say. I thought I had that with Stephen, but in the end, I couldn’t anticipate the decisions he made that blindsided me and changed my life.
Can I trust Ash? I’m surprised by how much I want to.
In the end, what have I got to lose? I know what rock bottom feels like, and I survived it. Maybe relationships are just like submitting a proposal. When you prepare the application, you can’t help but think ‘Am I good enough?’ ‘Are my ideas worthy of the money I’m asking for?’ but then you upload it and hit submit, adrenaline racing through your body. The thoughts telling you again and again that all this work was for nothing are at war with the reality that you did it. You submitted it despite the little niggling voice that tells you you’re not good enough.
I glance at Pru, sliding my phone out of my pocket. She’s not paying attention to me. She’s into movie two: her comfort watch this time, Witches . Sam has decided to grace us with his presence and lies on her chest. Really like a third of her body since he’s a monster of a ginger cat. I’m not sure what’s more alarming, that Witches is a kids’ movie or how intently Sam is judging me when I pick up my phone.
Bernie: Hi
I know, I’m a brilliant conversationalist.
I will little dots to appear, but it’s also late. Ash has been in Boston all week, working from his office there. From what he said before leaving and the little snippets of texts I’d received throughout the week, it sounded like he had a new client presentation he wanted to attend in person.
Ash-hole: Well hello.
Bernie: How was the pitch?
Ash-hole: How was the pitch? That’s what you’re going to go with?
Alright, so maybe this wasn’t going to be simple as I thought.
Bernie: You don’t want me to ask how your work is going?
Ash-hole: I’m not sure this is what I envisioned your first text since June would be. It definitely wasn’t - how was the pitch?
Bernie: Fair enough.
I wait and watch the ellipses appear and disappear. One minute, three minutes, five minutes. He’s certainly put himself out there for me over the past few weeks, I admit it’s my turn to take some risk.
Bernie: I’ve missed you this week.
Ash-hole: You have?
Bernie: Yeah. My office is too quiet without you.
Ash-hole: It’s the lunches isn’t it?
I laugh a little, and Pru looks over at me.
“Finally,” she grumbles and returns to Angelica Huston tearing her face off. I decide that she does not deserve a response.
Bernie: You’ve caught me. I miss your hummus.
Ash-hole: I make it myself, you know.
Bernie: I thought you might. Will you share the recipe?
Ash-hole: Baby, if hummus is all I’ve got going for me I sure as hell am not going to just go sharing my secrets.
Bernie: I think you might have more than hummus going for you.
Ash-hole: Oh yeah?
Bernie: Yeah, you also have a really big…
Ash-hole: …
Bernie: repertoire of other recipes.
Ash-hole: Ah, yes. The internet is handy that way.
Bernie: So the pitch?
Ash-hole: I’d rather talk about how you’ve missed me.
Bernie: I miss the dinners too.
It had felt like we were living in each other's pockets before he went back to Boston. He joined me for two of my rides and brought over dinner so we could work on what suddenly became our puzzle. We spent hours in my living room hunched over our laptops, searching for engineering firms to reach out to as a potential partner for the grant.
He never tried to initiate anything physical, but God did I want to. Maybe that was the point; he let me stew in a mess of my own making until I realized how good it could be.
I don’t think something is missing from my life. That’s not how I want to view my life after my breakup. But I do think Ash adds something to my life that I’m not sure I want to let go of. I stare at my screen before hitting the message icon and changing his name.
If I want to move forward, I don’t need a constant reminder of the past.
Ash: Hmm.
Bernie: I was wondering if maybe I could take you on a date when you get back.
Ash: Oh? A date?
I turn my back to the TV and draw my knees up to my chest. For someone who’s chased me so hard, he certainly isn’t making this easy.
Bernie: Yeah, I’d love to take you out to dinner.
Ash: As a friend?
I grimace and stare at my phone.
Bernie: Not as a friend.
Ash: Can I think about it?
A strangled laugh escapes me, but I don’t look at Pru. Figures. Ash might be sweet, but he’s not a pushover.
Bernie: Touché. Honestly, this played out a lot better in my head.
Ash: How was it supposed to go?
Bernie: I would say hi, you would tell me how your pitch went, I would then congratulate you on getting a new client with some steamy phone sex and then I tell you in post-orgasmic bliss how I have feelings for you and want to date.
I grip my phone until the case cracks, my body pinpricking with anxiety. I can’t believe I just typed that. But it’s the truth. I want him. I want to believe him.
When you hit the submit on a proposal, you have to put it all out there. There’s no such thing as a pre-qualifying round, it’s full-throttle. This is my absolute best effort, and that’s why you should pick me.
My phone buzzes, and I sit up.
“Umm, I think I’m going to go home,” I say, staring down at the screen
“You do that, B,” Pru mumbles.
I give her a quick hug and risk my life by patting Sam before grabbing my bag. “Thanks for putting up with all my shit,” I tell her.
“You’re worth the hassle.”
I rush out her door before swiping my phone up to answer.
“Hello?”
“Did I interrupt something?”
Shivering at how husky his voice sounds, I walk quickly to my apartment. “No, I was just at Pru’s.”
“You were trying to seduce me without being able to follow through?” he grumbles and I laugh, pushing my door open with a hip and sliding out of my shoes.
“You sound sleepy.”
“It’s like 12:30, why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Movie night.”
“Ah.” I hear sheets rustling and imagine him rolling over onto his back, bedding framing that big hot body.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“I wasn’t totally asleep, just resting.”
“Hmm.” I hold the phone between my shoulder and ear before unbuttoning my pants and sliding into bed. I remember talking to my high school boyfriend on the phone late at night. The rush of hearing his voice in my ear in the dark, imagining what it would be like for him to be next to me, eyes wide and every sense alert for the tiniest sound in case I got caught.
“What are you doing, Bernie?”
“I’m just getting comfortable.”
“Hmm.” More rustling, and I strain to track his movements on the other end. “I’m glad you called.”
“You called me,” I remind him.
“I’m glad you texted. I missed you,” he graciously amends.
Breath wooshes out of me. I didn’t realize how badly I needed the confirmation that I hadn’t made him wait too long. “We talked yesterday, but I miss you, too,” I whisper.
Ash chuckles darkly on the other side of the phone. “Well, sunshine. Aren’t you going to ask me how my pitch went?”