Chapter 2
MILE TWO
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?
Harkey’s subdued happy hour crowd becomes more boisterous as I sit beside Miles. After we grabbed fresh drinks at the bar, we joined some of his fellow professors who escaped the English department’s mixer. Some I’ve met through Catherine or interactions through students of theirs.
As an assistant disability services coordinator for Pemberly, part of my job is assisting disabled students with needed accommodations.
At times, this requires me to advocate, alongside the student, directly with the professor.
Some professors are easier to work with than others.
Edward, who blathers on about how the social media app, BookChat, is responsible for the downfall of literature, is one of my least favorite professors to deal with.
Miles’s hot breath caresses the shell of my ear as he leans close and whispers, “Not sure why his drawers are in such a twist, I rather enjoy some of those BookChat books.”
“Me too,” I breathe.
“I bet you do, gorgeous.” He tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “Especially the spicy ones.”
The charge of his gaze fixed on me zings through every nerve ending.
Even though my limited vision and the bar’s dim lighting don’t allow me to see his face, I know his eyes are on me.
The crackle in the inches between us confirms it.
It hums in my ears like a siren song pulling me deeper into crush-drunk waters.
This is it! The way Miles leans close and how he keeps touching me telegraphs he’s feeling this as much as I am.
Tonight I will transition from that “friend” he sometimes kisses to the woman who will, perhaps, invite him home with her.
It’s been a while since I’ve had sex, but thanks to my erotic audios and the spicier books I read, I know more than just the general mechanics.
“We’ve not yet discussed your audio porn fetish. It’s almost too much to know someone as sweet as you may be a depraved little vixen.” He runs his fingertip up my bare arm.
Yep, this is happening. Fuck Garrett and his sanctimonious judgment that I’m pathetic. Men like Miles Calloway, with an entire Reddit thread on the university about him being the hottest professor on campus, don’t flirt with pathetic women.
“I’m not that sweet,” I say, lifting my glass to my lips and taking a long, slow drink in an impression of someone cool and aloof.
It’s all bluster. Internally, I am freaking out.
In practice, I am as sweet as he teases, but in theory, I am depraved in the ways I’d let this man ruin me.
Need prickles beneath my skin in anticipation of my daydreams becoming real.
Since I took his arm, leaving behind Anker and Garrett before they headed out, Miles’s flirtation has amped up.
“Perhaps you should educate me then?” His fingers draw slow circles against my bicep.
“I…” The breath whooshes out of me.
As much as I’m channeling this temptress persona, I’m out of my depth.
Even the preamble to our two tipsy make-out sessions didn’t ooze with this sexual chemistry.
Not to mention, Miles is clear-headed. The scotch he nurses is technically his second and a half, since most of his second one currently lives on my nearly dry skirt.
“Calloway says you’re off to New York tomorrow,” Edward says, the ice of his drink clinking as he gestures with his glass. “I love the city in the fall. Are you going for business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure. I’ll be in town for the marathon,” I say, picking up my soda glass.
“You’re running the marathon?” He releases an incredulous laugh.
“Is that so unbelievable?” I tilt my head towards where he sits beside me.
“It’s not. It’s just… You’re… Umm…” he coughs and shifts in his seat, “…How does a blind person… Uh… Do you do it with a cane?”
Despite the annoyance now festering beneath my skin, I know he’s not trying to be rude.
It’s clear he just doesn’t know. Most people don’t, unless they’re in community with disabled people, or every four years when the Paralympics are held.
Then it seems like everyone is suddenly an expert on adaptive sports.
“Jenny’s brother is running the race, not her.” Miles loops his arm around my shoulder. “Our Jenny is more the Broadway show kind of athlete.”
“Oh. That makes more sense,” Edward says. “Wait… How do you do Broadway?”
Okay, maybe he is being rude. I narrow my gaze at him. No wonder Catherine complains about this guy and his insistence that good literature hasn’t been published since the seventeenth century.
“Here’s where the riffraff jetted off to,” a woman says, pulling the table’s attention towards her. Her posh English accent is shaded with playfulness. “You cads deserted me at a pageant for the dullest professor masquerading as a department mixer.”
“It’s every professor for themselves at those things,” Miles says, turning away from me and toward the voice.
Situations like this are always awkward.
Non-visually impaired folks can follow who’s talking and recognize familiar faces.
If I’ve not been around someone enough to imprint their voice into my auditory memory, I tend to be at a loss.
Right now, I have no idea whose talking and what’s happening.
Smiling, I sip my soda as the ping-pong conversation of familiar and unknown voices bounces around me.
“Where are my manners? Apologies. We’ve not met. Kayla O’Leary.”
The beat of silence at the table is interrupted by Miles clearing his throat. “This is Jenny… Jensen Larsen.”
“Sorry.” I cringe. “I didn’t realize you were addressing me.”
“Sorry… She’s blind,” Miles says.
Heat crawls up my neck. I’m not sure if he’s apologizing to Kayla, to me, or about me. Most of the time when we’ve hung out in a group setting Catherine, Anker, or Garrett are present, and can clue me in on the people landscape. This is the first time he’s witnessed this fun blind girl party trick.
I let out a nervous laugh. “I’m blind…. Technically, legally blind. It’s like permanent beer goggles… Minus the beer.”
“Ha! Funny…” She chuckles. “I was worried I’d failed you or something.”
“Jensen isn’t a student. She works for the disability office on campus,” Miles explains.
“She does look young enough to be a coed. Look at that baby face. You’ll have to share your secret with me.”
Baby face… Great! My mouth tightens. My round face, dimples, and button nose may have been adorable as a kid, but it doesn’t help with the seductress vibe I’m going for.
“And here I thought Calloway over there was living up to his roguish reputation and robbing the coed cradle with you. You’re quite pretty, Jensen,” she says.
“Uh…thanks…” I shift in my seat.
Like any woman, I’m ripe for self-doubt about my looks.
My physique is definitely on the plump side.
I use a lot of product to smooth down my thick brown hair which frizzes at the mere mention of humidity.
The only thing I’m ever confident about is my shoes and, ironically, my hazel eyes.
They may not work well, but they are the only part of my body prone to compliments.
“Jenny doesn’t look that young.” Miles chuckles. “We’re also just friends.”
Gut-punch. While I am very much aware of that fact, it still stings. In those two words—just friends—all the hope spurred by the sexual tension between us tonight evaporates. How quickly the delusional tumble back to reality.
“Which of you turncoats will buy me a drink for deserting me at the mixer?” Kayla asks.
“I got it. Take my seat.” Miles slips out of the chair beside me.
And just like that, the last flicker of hope is extinguished.
Kayla replaces Miles beside me, shifting the last flirty hour to a few minutes of get-to-know-you chattering.
The Austen scholar is a visiting professor from Oxford.
Unlike Miles who moved here with his American mother and English father at sixteen, Kayla grew up outside of London.
After a brief exchange about how she’s finding California versus the UK, I settle back into polite smiles and nods as they volley between various literary debates and complaints about colleagues.
It’s not at all how I saw the night going.
I should be home, drifting asleep to an audiobook.
Instead, I ditched my brother and Garrett for a chance to flirt with Miles, only to just sit here while he chats with someone else.
Stupid Garrett. This is his fault. If he’d not been himself, I’d be home now.
Would I? I nibble on my lower lip. How many times have I lingered behind at happy hours with Catherine for the chance to talk to Miles? God, he’s right. I am pathetic.
“I’m going to go to the restroom,” I say, sliding off the seat and unfolding my white cane.
“Shall I join you and we gossip about this gaggle of literary miscreants who think Henry James is superior to Charlotte Bronte?” Kayla coos.
I bat the air. “I’m good. Thanks, though.” With a nod, I head toward the restroom.
It’s sweet for her to offer. Kayla seems nice and is the only one who’s at least attempted to include me in their English department crossfire conversation. Right now, I just need a little respite from it. Peopling while blind can be a lot at times.
The louder the bar gets, the more difficult interactions are for me.
It’s hard to follow the conversations and know when to jump in and when not.
Twice I’ve answered questions that weren’t meant for me, or remained silent until someone said my name after a question came with a long pause because I didn’t know they were addressing me.
It’s easier when I’m with people who know to say my name when they’re addressing me in large group settings.
I should mention it, but besides Miles, I don’t really know these people.
Explaining blind person etiquette with each interaction is daunting.
Not to mention it sometimes leads to people just not engaging at all.
They don’t know what they don’t know. I can hear my father’s warm voice in my head.
So much of my life is spent in situations where I either teach people how to interact with me or miss out.
For the last hour, I’ve played spectator to my life versus participant.
I have two choices: I can leave or go back out there—really go back out there.
Jump into the fray of their conversations and tell them, “Hey, can you say my name when you’re addressing me, so I can follow the conversation? ”
Not to mention, I had intentions for tonight. Miles may be distracted by his other colleagues—mostly Kayla—but I can get us back on our flirty path. I hope… It makes sense. She’s charming, witty, and radiates a confidence I could only dream of.
“Stop dreaming, start living.” I stare at my fuzzy image in the bathroom mirror. “You can do this. You’re not pathetic. You’re whatever the opposite of pathetic is.” I wiggle my hips just a bit to pump myself up.
Grabbing my cane, I head back to the table. Determination builds with each step.
“Hey,” I say, returning to the now quiet table.
“Hey. I was just about to head out, but wanted to make sure you knew,” Edward says.
“O—kay.” I lift one brow.
“Since Kayla and Miles headed out while you were in the restroom to make a ten o’clock start time for that darts tourney at the pub down the street, he asked me to let you know and see you home.”
“They left? Together?” My heart sinks.
“Yeah…”
My entire body audibly sighs at that. No doubt my posture resembles a deflated balloon. So much for his “I’ve got her” that he promised Garrett and Anker earlier. Not that I need an escort home. I take the bus all the time. It’s just… I’m just disappointed.
Edward shuffles and coughs. “Should I pull my car around or…”
“Thanks, but I’m going to take the bus.”
As a woman—especially one with a disability—I am extra cautious about my safety.
Too many people try to capitalize on the opportunity, and with my limited vision, I’m often at a disadvantage.
Even with the self-defense workshop Catherine and I took last year, I have a policy not to get in a car with a man I don’t really know.
That includes rideshares and random English professors from the university.
“Alright… I’m going to settle my tab at the bar. Goodnight.”
I offer a polite nod before scooping up my blazer and purse. Leaving the bar, a shiver runs up my spine from the sharp difference between the balmy inside and the cool November night air. The bar’s muffled music quiets as I walk toward the bus stop down the street.
Locating the bench, I take a seat. Besides the distant laughter, it appears I’m the only one at the stop. Slipping my phone out of my purse, I pull up the bus schedule. My screen reader’s robotic voice reads out the schedule, letting me know the next bus comes in thirty minutes.
“Awesome.” Annoyance sighs through me.
This night just keeps getting better. While I’m grateful to live in a city with public transportation, it does mean I’m at the whim of its schedule. I should be curled up in bed all warm and cozy with an audiobook. Not sitting on a bench. Cold and alone.
Brow furrowed, I dig into my purse. “Damn it, where are my earbuds?” My mutter comes out whiny.
This night just goes from bad to worse. I spilled a drink on myself. Argued with Garrett. Ditched him and Anker to flirt with Miles, who left me at the bar for another woman. Serves me right to not be able to distract myself with an audiobook. Instead, I get to stew about my poor decisions.
“What are you doing here?”
Blinking, I look up. “What are you doing here?”
Fuck my life! Tonight just got worse…