After Tyler left, I stayed in the parking lot. Hunger clenched my stomach but when I thought about returning to my apartment, standing alone in the dim kitchen light, I didn’t want to go. So I sat in the car for a long time, doing nothing.
CHAPTER 5
“Here.” Safie passed me a wooden spoon and pointed toward the stove. “Stir that.”
The tomatoes bubbled in their juices, pinking from the butter. A burst of oregano hit my nose. Beside me, Safie bent over the counter, coaxing paper-thin slices from a purple onion. The kitchen window above her framed the last ruddy light of the fading autumn afternoon.
“This was a good idea,” I said. It was a Friday. At Safie’s insistence, we’d ditched work and come to her place to cook an early dinner. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you,” Safie said. “I hate eating alone. Did you make up your mind about the Friedmans?”
“No,” I grumbled. “I don’t know.”
Elaine and Robert Friedman were campus figureheads. They’d been teaching in Sawyer’s Anthro department since the 1980s, arriving fresh from Fulbrights. They’d become famous—well, academic famous—for their joint research on an isolated community in the Brazilian Amazon. Despite attempts by larger and richer schools to lure them away, the Friedmans had stayed loyal to their Ohio enclave all these years. Every fall toward the end of October, they hosted a party at their gigantic house. They served beer Robert brewed in the basement and complicated dishes seasoned with spices Elaine smuggled back from their travels. It was by invitation only, a rotating guest list of senior stalwarts andjunior faculty deemed worthy. Safie, of course, scored an invite every year. (She thought out of white guilt; I thought, sure, but with some real affection thrown in: Everyone loved Safie.) This year, Stephen got invited and wanted me to come along. We’d argued about it—there was something about showing up as a plus-one, without an invitation of my own, that felt a little degrading. I knew I was being unnecessarily difficult, but I guess that’s what being difficult is.
“It’s just a party,” Safie said. “I don’t see what’s the big deal.”
“It’s not a big deal. So why does it matter if I go?”
Safie laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just sometimes forget you’re the kind of person who would say no to a party on principle.”
“I’m not a kind of person. I’m just not thrilled about giving up a weekend to kiss ass and chitchat with a bunch of work people.”
Safie turned from her chopping and looked at me. “I’m sure it’s not intentional, but when you say things like that, you sound like you think you’re better than the rest of us.”
“I didn’t mean—” It was a shitty thing to say. What had gotten into me? I’d been cranky and out of sorts for weeks, picking little fights with Stephen, avoiding my parents’ calls. And now this, with Safie. “I’m sorry.”
She waved the knife in her hand, dismissing it. “It’s fine. But it would probably make Stephen happy if you went.”
“Did he say something?”
“No, it’s just a guess.” She held a pepper grinder toward me. “Now this.”
I twisted and watched the tiny flecks disappear into the sauce. Maybe Safie was right. It didn’t really matter if I wanted to go or not; I could do this for Stephen. We hadn’t had a proper date in awhile. I kept claiming work, which was true enough—I was scrambling to get ready for the Fall Fest lecture—but then why did I feel like I was lying?
The day of the party, I waited at the curb, the collar of my coat pulled against a bite in the air. I needed to sort my Thanksgiving plans—a few warm, swampy days in Florida could be a nice break. Stephen pulled up and I jumped in, almost landing on a bouquet of flowers. I picked them up and lowered my face, the hothouse sweetness bursting at me.
“These are nice.” Maybe he felt bad for pressuring me to come along. “What’s the occasion?”
“Oh.” Stephen glanced between me and the flowers. “They’re for Elaine and Robert.”
Elaine Friedman greeted us at the door, wrapped in a bright and flowy caftan totally out of place for autumn in Ohio. Looping strands of ceramic beads and painted wood circled her neck. She looked like someone from SoHo who’d spent a year throwing pottery in Taos.
“Stephen, Stephen!” Elaine took his cheeks in both palms, the jewels of her heavily ringed fingers sparkling against him. She turned his face side to side, as if inspecting her firstborn home from war. “I am so delighted you’re here. Robert can’t wait to see you.” It turned out Stephen had grown up going on family fishing trips to the same lakeside town in eastern Michigan where the Friedmans spent their summers.
“Elaine, this is Mark Lausson. And these are for you.” Stephen motioned toward the bouquet he’d insisted I carry in. I’d forgotten it, pressed to my side.
“Aren’t freesia just perfect?” she said, lifting the flowers (apparently freesia) from me. She barely touched the bouquet; it seemed to float between the fretwork of her fingers. “And Mark, what do you do?”
“He’s at Sawyer,” Stephen said, and I thought I heard a catch in his voice—like he was embarrassed that nobody at Sawyer knew who I was. “In English.”
“Really? We’ve never met, though. Is this your first year?”
“Second, actually. Somehow, they let me come back.”
