“I figured.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to iron my shirts.” Joe smiled. “You want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Mary said.
“And that’s why you’re crying?”
“It’s so stupid. I hardly know you,” Mary said, fishing for a handkerchief.
“But you do.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You missed me, didn’t you?”
Mary nodded. “I guess I did.”
“And now I’m here. How do you feel?”
“Better.”
“So, no need to cry,” he said.
“I don’t cry because I’m sad. I cry because it’s a small victory to be happy. I don’t need much. I cried when Lady de Bourgh called me. I cried when my father didn’t have a stroke. And I cried when Mrs. DeMatteo said she was going to read from my play. And yes, Joe, I cried at the sight of seeing you again.”
“Because I make you happy?”
“I don’t know you well enough to say that,” Mary said. “Please don’t take offense.”
“I came back to class to tell you that I wasn’t going to take this class anymore. And I thought I could just text you, but that seemed like a cold option. And then I said, what is it about this girl? The first time I saw you, I was intrigued. And it took me a long time to approach you because you were always surrounded by people. Actors. Other playwrights. And I saw that they wanted to talk to you—to be near you—not that different from what I was feeling. And then I went on the portal and read your play. If you ever tried to hide who you are and what you feel, you’d be a failure. Your play describes something we all experience when we love. And I had to come back and tell you that.”
“Well, I’m grateful. Thank you.”
“And I wondered if you could go to dinner with me after class. Nothing fancy. Pizza.”
“I’d like that.”
“We could skip class.” Joe smiled. His straight white teeth and full lips were like the moon, clear and bright. The sun was setting over Greenwich Village. It was just dark enough to see the moon—and him.
“I can’t. Mrs. DeMatteo is using my play in class.”
“So we stay.” Joe took Mary’s hand. “This will be fun.”
Mary’s hand in Joe’s felt right. She didn’t know what to be happier about—her play or Joe Tarantello or the possibilities of what might be. She wiped away a tear and called it a wash.
CHRISTMAS PUNCH
Mary centered the punch bowl on the side table. Slowly, she filled it with a mixture of cranberry juice, seltzer, and fresh orange slices from a crystal pitcher. She placed the glasses on hooks around the top of the bowl. The silver ladle rested on a doily next to the punch.
“Fancy,” Mr. Bennet said. “I’ll sample the Bennet way.” He scooped a cupful directly from the punch bowl and took a swig.
“How is it?” Mary asked.
“It needs vodka,” Mr. Bennet said.
“You’re not allowed to drink.”
“It seems to me the people in this world who most need to drink alcohol are the very people not allowed to imbibe.”
