I turned over in bed, exhaling.Can you both like being taken care of and resent it at the same time?was a question I should note down to discuss with my therapist.
Although I knew exactly what she would say.Of course you can, Sadie. Why do you think you said what you said to Chess?
I checked my phone again, but I already knew there would be nothing there.
First day was INTENSE, I texted her. I know you need some space, but would love to talk about it when you’re ready. I love you so much xx
On the other side of the barricade, Jonah started snoring – not loudly, but gently, a comforting low rumble. I put my phone down and let it lull me to sleep.
Mock Tweed Jonah was back at it again the next day, showing me some more completely unsuitable rentals over breakfast, being deliberately obtuse about which building on campus we needed to go to for the school meeting, and never once mentioning the fact that I had woken up sprawled across the pillow barricade with one of my hands on his arse.
I let him do it, taking the bait he was strewing behind him like breadcrumbs. It was a good distraction; from our terrifying workload, from the fact Chess hadn’t responded, and from the factthat I couldn’t help but notice he had agreatarse – something which was absolutely, positively none of my business.
It was starting to wear on me though, after, unable to face the cupboard, we spent two hours sitting in a campus café doing some more work on the pedagogical plan for the four (four!) units we were going to be co-lecturing. Some of the points he made about our approach to the Romanticism unit were valid (he was right, for example, that hanging a week on the scandalous exploits of nineteenth-century actor Edmund Kean would be a good idea, even if he was best known for performing Shakespeare), but others were low-key nonsense. ‘We absolutely do not need more Wordsworth,’ I snapped at him, as we packed up to head over to the school meeting. ‘We’ve got the preface toLyrical Ballads, as well as “Expostulation and Reply” and “The Tables Turned”. That’s plenty.’
‘One, no it isn’t, how are you going to teach Wordsworth without teaching “Tintern Abbey”?’ Jonah held the café door open for me. ‘Two, why did you insist on putting in his two most annoying poems?’
‘He’s an annoying man! And because they perfectly express that whole books-are-shit-learn-from-trees-you-stupid-bitch thing that’s at the heart of all his work.’
‘It is not—’
‘Don’t, Fisher. It’s been fifteen years. I’m not prepared to relitigate “To Joanna” with you.’
It should have been a sign for him to back down, but he didn’t. ‘I can’t believe you’re resisting the opportunity to put our origin story on the syllabus.’
‘To Joanna’ had been the subject of our very first fight, back when we were both first-year undergrads. Jonah had argued that it was a deeply romantic poem about a man trying his best to immortalise his mortal beloved by carving her name into a rock, a morelasting tribute than anything that could be captured in print. I’d argued it was the mansplain-y musings of a very pretentious man who couldn’t deal with the fact a woman had laughed at him when he took her on a walk and basically had an orgasm at the sight of some trees.
Neither of us had given ground. Further years of study had made me slightly more sympathetic to Jonah’s reading of the poem (NB:slightly), but at the time, he really had been being a bit of a Wordsworth himself – something which had obliterated the initial thought I’d had, the very first time I’d ever laid eyes on him.
He’s cute.
I quickened my pace. Suddenly, I was thinking about his arse again, and all the hairs on my arms were standing on end, and I wanted to make it to the meeting before the blush that was starting to creep up my body made it somewhere visible.
I escaped to the bathroom as soon as we found our way to the conference room where the School of Humanities pre-semester meeting was being held, splashing water on my face and glaring at myself in the mirror. ‘Get it together, Shaw,’ I whispered at my reflection.
One of the toilets flushed. I adjusted a couple of my bobby pins and smiled politely and – I hoped – professionally at the petite dark-haired woman who emerged from the stall.
‘Hi,’ she said, smiling back in the mirror as she washed her hands.
Then she blinked. ‘Sadie Shaw?’
Shit. Was I supposed to recognise her? ‘Yes. Hi. Um—’
‘You don’t know me, don’t worry. I recognise you from the photo they sent around when they announced you were the new hire. I’ve read some of your articles.’
She dried her hands on a paper towel and then held one out to me. ‘Julia Scott-O’Connell. I’m in History.’
‘Sadie – Lit Studies – but you obviously know that.’ I shook her hand. ‘I’m flattered you’ve read me. I didn’t know my work would appeal to a historian.’
‘I do a lot of work on histories of love, histories of sex, things like that, so I’m very interested in your work on romance.’ Julia paused to touch up her lipstick in the mirror, a dark burgundy colour. ‘I was delighted when they announced your hiring. I’m one of the co-leads on the interdisciplinary love studies research network we have here. You should join.’
‘I would love to,’ I said, slightly surprised. ‘Thank you.’
Julia smiled at me again. She was one of those people with an innate warmth to her smile, the kind of sparkle in her eye that translated into charisma. ‘You’re welcome. Shall we get out there? If you sit with me, I’ll give you the lay of the land.’
And just like that, I – the reigning queen of liquid love, of bonds tied loosely – had seemingly made a friend.
The school meeting was taking place in a conference room, chairs arrayed in rows in front of a lectern. ‘You know Sofia, right?’ Julia nodded to where Professor Vargas stood, chatting to two men in suits. ‘The Head of School?’
