it wouldn’t have been a match made in heaven. But it seemed probable enough to allow me to put pressure on some people here.”
We are gazing at the cottage again, and I briefly debate whether I’m going to regret giving in to the impulse that makes me say, in a sportscaster’s voice: “Aaaand yesterday we heard that Giles ‘The Brains’ Cleveland is talking to Stanford Cardinal, oooh, that’s going to mean trouble with his home team, the Piping Plovers, they won’t like that at all, not to mention his fans—question is: can they top the Cardinal’s offer? Stay tuned; we’ll keep you posted! And here’s the latest on Cleveland’s transfer to Stanford Cardinal: it’s all off! Seems he doesn’t want to leave the East Coast after all!”
He looks so lovely when he laughs! I’ve made him laugh; he’s laughing out loud, and I know that he would never laugh like this if he didn’t like me.
“It’s not that I didn’t want to leave.” Now he is no longer laughing.
Wait, what? Why?
“But then you bought a house,” I manage, hoping that this is an innocent enough comment.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have. Andrew! Toby! Come here! They think we’re going for a swim. Toby!”
I wish I could go on asking, but I can’t.
“Well, would you mind not selling it till I can afford to buy it off you?”
It was meant to be just a joke; but when he looks over at me, surprised and curious, I realize what else I have said. And I’m actually okay with that.
“So…a decade, do you think?” he teases me, but gently. “Or am I insulting you by saying it’ll be a decade till you can apply for a job at Stanford?”
“I told you, I wouldn’t move to California,” I remind him. “Too far away.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right. But maybe you’ve moved too far away already?”
“By coming to Ardrossan?”
“By not staying in England.”
“Yeah, maybe. Giles?” My heart is beating high in my throat.
“Yes?” He is very quiet.
“Why won’t you take the department chair?”
My question surprises him, but I don’t see the shutters going down. He looks down at his boots, gives a spurt of self-deprecating laughter, shifts on his feet.
“I can’t tell you that.”
I think he almost did tell me, nonetheless.
“It’s getting dark. I better be on my way.” I am sad, suddenly, and I don’t want to be. I made myself better, pulled myself out of the dumps. I don’t want that spoiled.
When I get home I feel strangely woozy. Sleepy, drugged, almost, with oxygen, lulled into physical tranquility by several hours’ pedaling. The small, bright, sizzling restlessness in the middle of my stomach has not disappeared, though. I put the kettle on and have a melancholy cup of tea on my sofa while I’m filling the bath tub with hot water and orange-scented foam. In a little while I start glowing from the inside, and my skin begins to tingle. I undo the zipper of my anorak, which I haven’t taken off yet. Then I undo the zipper of the cardigan I’m wearing underneath. It feels sexy, undoing zipper after zipper. So I undo my jeans as well. A glimpse of belly, the skin still gratifyingly taut. My breasts, what I call my BBTs—barely B-cup tits—seem gratifyingly large, but that’s because I’m about to get my period. Maybe that’s why I shouted at Cleveland. Pre-menstrual tension. I put the mug down and clasp my naked breasts in my palms. The nipples pucker and harden into little crimson hillocks; it’s been ages since I’ve touched myself. Why don’t I do that anymore? It’s bad enough that nobody else is touching me; I should at least look after myself a bit more. I’ve been too busy, that’s all. Too tense.
I look down at my breasts and recall the image of Ciaran’s blond head pressed between them. Huh, no. I guess a girl can say that she’s over a guy when the idea of having sex with him is no longer distressing but merely boring. I try another fantasy, a newer one. I imagine myself on another sofa, the sounds of the lake wafting in through an open window. My anorak undone, my cardigan undone, my t-shirt pushed up over my breasts and a mouth suckling me…soft, silky, silver hair between my fingers…gray-dappled green eyes full of tender amusement…large, sensitive hands on my skin…I shift in my seat to pull my jeans a little further down over my hips.
When I hobble into the bathroom, pants round my knees, the