Chapter 8 That Counts as Taking It Slow, Right? #2
“Yeah, no, I’m thinking a proper date might actually be nice.
So.” There was a brief pause. “I’m thinking we hang out, we take things slow.
And hopefully that means if you end up having to ditch me the next day to head back to the States, it’ll be easier.
Because I’m not very good at…” He muttered something.
“Was that casual texts? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that, Paul, if you could just repeat…”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“I didn’t know nice Canadian boys had casual sex. I thought you hooked up one time and then asked her to marry you and live on the maple sugar ranch.”
“Did you say maple sugar ranch? A ranch?”
“You know. A big open space with trees.”
“An open space, with trees. Do you know what the defining quality of open spaces is?”
“Okay, okay.”
“So does that sound okay? Not that we couldn’t…I don’t even mean we couldn’t go to bed. I just want to be cautious. I’m not sure how else to do this.”
I took a breath. “We can try.”
“Okay, then if you’re free tomorrow…”
I glanced out the window. “The weather is supposed to be terrible, right?”
“Yeah, but we could go to a museum, maybe? There’s a place called The Rooms. Lots of interesting stuff, usually. Art gallery, archives…”
I could suddenly picture it: Paul wandering around an archive talking about history trivia, and I loved it. I wanted every minute I could get, especially if we got to hold hands for some of it. Maybe this was just like a high school romance, in the worst possible way.
“Archives?” I said.
“I know it doesn’t sound—”
“I want to visit the archives with a history teacher.”
“You’re being sarcastic.”
“No, I’m completely serious. Because you’re going to have a lot of deep feelings about fishing licenses in the 1800s.”
“I actually do have strong feelings about the history of fishing licenses.”
I grinned. “Is this where you take your students?”
“Every year. I can give you my whole lecture if you like.”
“I’ll insist.”
Paul picked me up and drove me through the rain to The Rooms, a museum and cultural center up the hill near the center of town.
We spent half the day there, wandering around, having lunch, and looking at exhibits on indigenous culture and local art.
I coaxed Paul until he went into teacher mode, which involved providing neat mental lists of facts interrupted by bouts of boyish enthusiasm.
“I mean, St. John’s is the oldest English-speaking city in North America. Discovered in the 1490s, founded in 1583. The pilgrims were twenty-five years later than that.”
“What’s the oldest non-English-speaking city?”
“If you mean continuously inhabited, I believe that is Cholula, Mexico, which is twenty-five hundred years old. Showoffs.”
Teacher Paul was different than Improv Paul.
In improv, he was free, occasionally cocky, a bit sexual, and very witty.
As a teacher, he bounced between funny and intellectually serious.
He could quote a movie or dive into an analysis of the province’s poverty levels and supply chain problems. I liked both versions of him: the one who could go into film noir detective voice and the one who could explain why bottom trawling was harming coastal communities.
And then there was the one who had kissed me like he wanted to keep doing it forever.
“So why did you decide on teaching?” I asked.
“That took some time.” Paul told me he had grown up in a little town where his father had become a mechanic after he was injured in a fishing accident.
“We had four generations of fishing, mining, and logging,” he said.
“Newfoundland’s greatest hits.”
“And I was sure I was going to do the same myself until my dad got injured on his boat. Kind of took the shine off it when you realized you could lose the use of your left arm.”
“So you decided to become an actor?”
“No. First I discovered the video rental shop.”
“They still have those?”
“Where I lived? It was the most exciting place in town.” Paul grinned. “I took out every single video until I had to get a job there to cover the costs.”
“What was the movie that really hooked you?” I asked.
“It’s cliché, but I was a huge James Cameron fan for a few years,” he said. “So it was the first Terminator.”
“I knew you were a romantic.”
He laughed. “That is a very romantic movie. He traveled through time because he fell in love with her photograph.”
“Oh, a lot of men have fallen in love with women through photographs.”
“I can’t believe you’re implying that Kyle’s love for Sarah Connor wasn’t pure. I mean, you have seen it, right?”
“Oh, I’ve seen it. ‘In the few hours we had together, we loved a lifetime’s worth,’” I said, quoting the film.
Paul looked at me, surprised, for a long moment.
“Anyway,” he went on quickly, “I convinced myself that I wanted to be a movie star, but looking back on it, my favorite films were always historical. And Indiana Jones. So it makes sense I circled back to history teaching once I grew out of thinking I was going to be an actor.”
“You’re a good actor, though,” I said. “I’ve seen you on stage.”
“Not good enough. In four years in Toronto, I booked three whole commercials and two whole plays. And I spent one memorable summer playing a talking lobster at a children’s amusement park.”
“There better be video evidence.”
“There was, but I had the people who took it eliminated. A tragedy for their families, but it had to be done.”
“Then I’ll expect a live performance.”
“Only during sex.”
I cackled, and he grinned.
“I got my teaching license while taking care of my father after he got sick. I could do some of the coursework remotely, which helped. And then I finished the licensing and got a job.” He shrugged.
“There need to be more male teachers. The boys especially need it. So I feel like I’m part of the solution to a problem. ”
“Indiana Jones is your role model, huh? Do your female students ever write I love you on their eyelids?”
He smiled. “If so, I politely ignore it.”
“I would have been completely in love with you if you were my teacher,” I said.
He looked away again for a moment. “So can I make you dinner? My place?”
I nodded. He leaned over and kissed me, lightly, and then immediately swore.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just spotted a student. Aidan Johnson, the little bastard.”
“They can’t fire you for kissing someone, right?”
“No. I am just about to get non-stop questions about you through at least November.”
“Just tell them I was a hooker. That’ll settle them down.”
As soon as we were inside his apartment, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, and he leaned me against the doorway, hips against mine.
“So taking it slow means…” I asked quietly.
“Making out. Definitely. Come here.” He pulled me toward the sofa where we’d had improv practice. “It’ll be like high school.”
“This is hotter than anything that happened to me in high school,” I whispered.
He crawled over me, knee on one side of me, leaning over to kiss my collarbone. “I can’t believe the boys weren’t all over you.”
“You haven’t seen my sister. My first boyfriend only asked me out because she said no. Of course, he didn’t tell me this until after we’d been dating for three months.”
“Unacceptable. I’ll have him assassinated.”
Paul was kissing down the front of my shirt, now, and both my hands were on his shoulders. I was afraid to talk again, afraid to stop the path that we finally seemed to be on. It was so easy to kiss him.
He leaned back a moment later, his eyes dark rings of brown. The look in his eyes was too much for me. I looked away.
“So did you do a lot of this in high school, then?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I was terrified of girls, so I put a lot of effort into being polite.”
“A good Canadian boy.”
He nodded, smiling a little.
“And what would happen if I asked you to be very, very impolite?”
He groaned and pushed me back against the sofa cushions.
I hadn’t expected him to be like this: intense, utterly focused.
I found that my hands were gripping his shirt, wanting to pull him closer.
I could smell his faint scent of soap and pine trees, his body against mine, our breaths starting to sync up faster and faster.
I could hear him muttering my name into the shell of my ear, one of his hands tracing along my side. I could hear the sound of the doorbell.
We both sat up. Our breathing was too fast, too messy.
“One second,” he said lightly, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t move.”
He walked to the door and looked out through the peep hole. He glanced at me, his expression shifting.
“I’m sorry. Hold on a minute.”
It was in his face. I knew something was wrong as he stepped outside, and I tiptoed toward the window.
His mother again? I wanted to see what she looked like.
The rain had turned into a blustering sideways wind, and when I leaned forward to look outside, I could just see a blonde woman standing at his door in a billowing trench coat with a plaid lining.
She looked beautiful and wind-tossed, like she was in an advertisement for a high-end British clothing line.
I could see that Paul was talking to her, though only his shoulder was visible. She was nodding, speaking earnestly, nodding again. Then she ran a hand through her hair and laughed.
I leaned out of sight behind a curtain.
It was his ex-wife. I knew it, somehow. It was something about her expression, and everything Lisette had said about her. I didn’t want her to see me here, in case Paul decided to get back together with her. It was like I had already cast myself as the Other Woman.
I had to remind myself that Paul was not married. I was not doing anything wrong.
They only talked for a few moments, but I sat very still, waiting for it to be over.
I listen to the opening and closing of his front door, a wrestling against the wind.
I turned around. At least he was alone, I thought.
At least he hadn’t decided to introduce her to me.
That would have been more than I could handle.
“And this is my friend Abby, up from New York. Lisette’s friend, really. ”
“Sorry,” he said.
“Who was it?” I asked, like I didn’t know.
“Patricia,” he said quietly. “Trish.”
“Ah, okay.” I sounded casual, didn’t I?
“I’m sorry,” he added, a strange expression on his face. “I didn’t know she was back in town.”
Of course she just got back to town, I thought. It felt faithful to the narrative of my life that I had foolishly tried to deviate from. “Is she back permanently or…?”
“It sounds like she’s not sure. But probably. I should…” He shook his head.
I nodded. “So it didn’t work out with the other guy?”
“I don’t think so. I need to talk to her more. I’m sorry, Abby. This doesn’t…”
He trailed off. He leaned against the wall for a moment.
“I’ll go,” I said, quietly, rising. “It’s okay. You want to go talk to her more. It’s okay.”
“No, no,” he said. “Not right now. I can do that later.”
I remembered what he’d said about trying to be polite with girls in high school. That’s what he was doing now. He paced back and forth and then moved toward the kitchen.
“Tea? Coffee?” he said.
“Tea would be nice.”
Paul nodded. He looked toward the window, his mind elsewhere.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked gently.
“No. There’s nothing to say.”
I watched as he walked around the kitchen making the tea. This was a test. If we were friends, he would talk about it, but after what had just happened between us, he wasn’t sure how to find his footing again.
“I’m being quiet, aren’t I?” he said after a minute.
“Understandable. I can go. I actually just ordered a Lyft, and it will be here soon.”
“Are you sure? No. Abby. I can drive you.”
“I’m sure. I think you need a moment to yourself.”
He walked over, put his arms around me and squeezed once. “I’m just distracted. You deserve better than this.”
“Paul, it’s okay. Whatever is going on with us, I’m your friend, too.”
“I know.” He gently kissed me on the lips. An apology kiss. It was the first one I’d received from Paul, but I knew what apologies tasted like; I’d gotten enough of those. Then he walked to the door and grabbed his coat. He looked back. “I really like you, Abby.”
Oh, no.
“I like you, too,” I said flatly. He had been worried about his own heartbreak, but it would be mine that got smashed up, in the end. Today, tonight, tomorrow. Soon.
“Right, then…I need to—I’ll call you soon. I promise.” He smiled once more.
Promise? Oh, double no. He was promising to call? Soon? I’d be lucky if I ever heard from him again.
“Well, my Lyft is almost here, so…” I waved my cell phone. I hadn’t ordered a Lyft, but he wouldn’t know that.
He nodded once, then opened the door for me to go, and shut it slowly behind me.
At that moment, racing downhill through the gusts of wind among the sloping streets, it hit me again how much the city of St. John’s looked like parts of Brooklyn. At the moment, they felt like exactly the same place.