More to the point, why do I care how big he is? I should not be thinking about him that way. I should not be thinking about him at all.
Even if I’m supposed to be helping him get the McPherson Fellowship, I shouldn’t be thinking about him.
I have enough on my plate without adding in this nonsense.
On impulse I use my car’s interface to pull up Liz’s number and I call her.
“Yeah?” she answers on the second ring.
I don’t even greet her. Instead, I start with, “Even if I wanted to, this isn’t the time to get involved. Not with anyone.”
“It’s never the time,” she answers without missing a beat, as if our conversation never ended. “That’s the thing about being a single woman in your thirties. It’s never the right time. There are so many reasons not to get involved.”
“So you agree with me? This isn’t the right time. I’ve got enough on my plate.”
“I didn’t say that. What I meant was, okay, so it doesn’t seem like the right time. It’s never going to be the right time. You think a year from now is going to be better? It’s not. Especially not if you get the kids. But I’m not talking about starting a long-term relationship. That’s why he’s perfect. Have a fling. You’ll never see him again.”
“You don’t know that. I could run into him a hundred times a year.”
“Why would you run into Colton Solimar a hundred times a year? I know you’re not a baseball groupie.”
Oh for . . .
For a hot minute there, I’d forgotten Liz and I were talking about two different people.
“I wouldn’t,” I say quickly. “Of course I wouldn’t. I was just being hypothetical. You know. In case Colton Solimar doesn’t get recruited by the pros or whatever and ends up getting his master’s here. In whatever field jocks get degrees in. Hypothetically.”
I pull to a stop at the light outside my neighborhood and, since I’m stopped anyway, bang my head on the steering wheel a couple of times.
“Are you okay?” Liz asks.
I sit up. “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“Well, you’re doing that weird rambling thing you do when you’re upset. Plus, I’m in the car next to you and can see you banging your head on the steering wheel.”
I exhaled sharply with a breath that ends on a burst of laughter.
“Yes. I’m okay,” I say. Pulling on all my reserves of chill and all my years of experience speaking in public to sound less like a crazy person. “I just have a lot on my plate right now.”
“Yeah, that’s like the fifth time you’ve said that.”
The light changes and I drive on to the main thoroughfare of my neighborhood. In my rearview mirror I see Liz’s Prius change lanes behind me so that when I turn onto my street, she’s there, too.
My neighborhood is a few miles from campus. It’s a collection of midcentury ranch-style houses built when the university first started expanding. It’s not trendy or cool like the turn-of-the-century bungalows closer to campus. Here, the lots are too small for builders to tear down and rebuild. It’s mostly faculty and staff—all the grunt workers. Liz lives a few blocks over. What was once a garage has been converted to the third bedroom, so I pull into the driveway as Liz parks on the street.
I climb out of my car quickly. If I make it inside before Liz can grill me more, the animals will distract us both.
But Liz can move surprisingly fast for a woman who spends her days reading.
“What is up with you?” she demands.
“Nothing,” I insist.
“This”—she waves a hand at my general appearance, or maybe my demeanor. It’s hard to tell—“isn’t like you.”
I slide the key into the lock and open the door to the expected barrage of barking. I hold the door wide and gesture to my house and then back at myself as I walk in.
“This is exactly like me. I’m a mess and a half. I’m unorganized. I’m a flibbertigibbet. You know that.”
