One
Have you ever been in a situation where you took a step back, looked around, and said to yourself, “How did my life become one big cliché?”
Maybe that isn’t the right word. Trope? Might be more appropriate, although I guess that’s just a literary synonym for cliché. One I’m more familiar and comfortable with. But what can I say? I’m a literature professor. Or rather, I teach ENG 247, ENG 205, and ENG 204 (Women in Literature, Early British Literature, and Modern American Literature respectively) at a local community college and lecture to a sparsely filled room of late-teen and early-twenty-somethings that are either half asleep or paying more attention to social media feeds than Milton’s juxtaposition of God and Satan in Paradise Lost. Then these students, who would rather be making duck lips in selfies, turn in research papers based on Masterpiece Theater productions of Jane Austen’s work.
Take a deep breath, Ashleigh.That’s better.
So how did I find myself in the kind of situation that would soon send Hollywood knocking on my door for the rights to turn my life into a blockbuster romcom? (Or maybe not, because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this plot on the big screen a time or two already.) I’m so glad you asked, because the answer is simple: My loving, caring, I’d-do-anything-for-her sister, that’s how.
There I was, grading yet another paper in which a student mixed up the characters of Willoughby and Wickham (come on, guys—they aren’t even in the same book!), lounging back on my couch, feet tucked up under me, my favorite flannel pajamas with pink flamingos keeping me cozy, and the cap of a red felt pen dangling from my lips as I scratched through an improper use of ‘your’, writing out the rule that the contraction of ‘you are’ is ‘you’re’. Yes, I’ve been called a grammar Nazi, but these things drive me bananas. Don’t even get me started on ‘there’, ‘their’, and ‘they’re’. Anyway. Suddenly, my phone rang and vibrated a little jig across the top of the coffee table.
Throwing the stapled report onto the table with a disgusted huff, I picked up my cell and glanced at the name on the screen before answering it. “Claire, thank you for saving me. I was about to ink a sea of blood on a student’s midterm.” Although, maybe it was Jeff Tinkham who was really saved…at least temporarily. Jane Austen’s characters still needed to be avenged.
My sister chuckled. “What did they do? Mix up Charlotte and Emily this time?”
That would get them kicked out of my class without a second thought. The Bronte sisters deserved more respect. “Wickham and Willoughby.”
“Well…” She drew the word out. “You have to at least admit that the characters’ names sound similar, and they were both scoundrels, so it isn’t so much of a stretch that someone could—”
“La, la, la, la. I’m not listening.”
Claire laughed again. “Okay, okay. I give.”
I stretched my legs out across the couch and used the arm as a backrest. “So, how’s it going?” A grin teased my lips and slipped into my voice. “How’s Noah?”
My sister had been dating Noah Abrams pretty seriously for the last year, and I loved him. For her, I mean. They were both seniors at the University of Washington, so I had them over regularly for home-cooked meals. That also gave them a place to do laundry that didn’t require a sack of quarters and an afternoon in a stinky dorm laundry room.
Noah hailed from Texas and had the cutest little drawl, which made my baby sister swoon. It was adorable to see them together. Think Jane and Mr. Bingley. Both of them so even-tempered and happy and oh-so gooey-sweet.
“He’s good.” I could hear her blush over the phone.
Yes. That is actually possible.
“That’s kind of why I’m calling,” she continued. “You see, he wants to propose—”
I launched forward. “He proposed? Oh, Claire, I’m so happy for you! Mom and Dad are going to freak when they hear—”
“Ashleigh!”
I jolted at the volume with which she screamed my name. Had she been trying to get my attention?
“I said he wants to propose, not that he had proposed.”
Ummm. If there was a difference, how did she know about it? “Okay…” I kind of thought Noah was more of a romantic and would have surprised my sister with a ring, but I guess they were going about it in a more logical way?
“The thing is, he needs to get his dad’s permission first and—”
“Wait. Isn’t the guy supposed to get permission from the girl’s father, not his own?”
“If you’d stop interrupting, maybe my explanation would answer your questions and save you some breath.” She sounded seriously flustered.
“Right. Sorry. Continue…” I drew out the last syllable because doing so was fun, and I considered it my job as a lit professor to make words fun.
She cut me off with a sharp clearing of her throat. “Like I was saying…” She paused, daring me to fill the empty silence and break my promise.
It was oh-so tempting, but I resisted.
When I didn’t give in to an outburst, she continued. “You know Noah’s dad. Being in the spotlight as a televangelist, Ken Abrams wants to meet the family his son would be marrying into. His reputation is so closely tied to his message and image that Ken Abrams is cautious. He doesn’t want anything in his life to potentially be a stumbling block to other believers.”
