“Laundry, groceries, that type of thing?” I asked. I was about to nod my head that I’d be interested, but was stopped by his head shaking and the holding up of his hands.
“No. No. Nothing like that. I have a cleaning person who does all that crap.”
“Oh. What then?” Maybe my Mae West comeback wouldn’t have been far off base after all. Maybe he was looking for a different sort of “help.”
He motioned to my vacated chair for me to sit, which I did. Then he sat in Jane’s empty seat, turning his body toward mine. “For a long time now, I’ve been writing my second novel.”
“Okay?”
He rubbed his chin again, a look that was so “introspective professor” but on a young, hot face.
“Well, actually, not so muchwritingmy next novel, asworkingon it. More like jotting down lots of notes on several different ideas I’m toying with.”
“I’m assuming that’s just part of the writing process?”
He shrugged, and looked forward, to the front of the classroom. He seemed kind of surprised by the role reversal, looking at the desk that he often leaned on as he lectured.
“I guess,” he said. “I don’t really know what the writing process is. Or whatmytypical process is.Follyjust poured out of me. No notes, nothing. It was just a story I had to tell. This one…has not been…effortless.”
“Well, no. I imagine most novels aren’t. You’ll probably never have the experience you had withFollyagain.”
His shoulders slumped, and he put his elbows on the little half table part of the desk. “That is the conclusion I have come to.” He looked over at me with an embarrassed smile. “And it took me five years to figure that out.”
“Better late than never?” I lamely offered.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“I mean, it’s not like you’ve passed your prime. You’re still only…” I checked myself. “Late twenties? You haven’t even hit thirty yet, have you?”
He’d turned twenty-eight on October third. Unfortunately a day I didn’t have his class. Not that I would have brought it up or anything, but I thought maybe somebody in the class would have seen it online or somewhere and said something.
“Nope, not thirty. Only twenty-eight.” He looked to the ceiling. “God. Thirty in two fucking years.”
“It’s not exactly seventy.”
He shook his head and laughed a little, then looked at me. “You’re right. This might be a good arrangement. Don’t let me wallow, Ms. O’Brien. I tend to be a bit of a self-entitled prick at times.”
“Then you’re in the right place,” I said, waving my arms, encompassing all things Bribury.
An actual, full-bodied, laugh came out of him. A rich, deep sound that made my breath catch just a tiny bit, though I was very careful not to show my reaction.
“Yeah, pretty much,” he said. “So, I need to get my notes together. I’ve been rather…lax these past five years in organizing them in any way.”
“Are they all electronic? On your laptop or something?”
“Hardly any of them. And there are boxes and boxes. I had them all shipped to the apartment the college provided for me for the year. I sublet my place in New York, so I wanted them all here. Plus, I thought I’d have lots of time to work with them.”
“And you haven’t because of the class. I get it.”
“Well, yeah. But, if I’m honest, every time I open one of the boxes to get started on it, it all feels, I don’t know, daunting or something. And I panic and shut the boxes up.
“I even brought a few of them to my office in this building, thinking maybe that would help.”
“And it didn’t?”
He shook his head. “Nope.” He turned his whole body to face me, the slope of the desk lifting the flap of his sports coat, showing off his white, cotton oxford beneath. “What I’m looking for is someone to go through all the boxes, organize the notes by the different novel ideas, and then transcribe them all into an outline format for each of the books.”
“Books? Plural?”
