“We’re not meeting now,” I said, blinking away my shock; that class was forty people large. I would never have expected him to recognize me. Suddenly, I became aware of my state of undress, my thin, oversize sleeping tee, my magenta satin bonnet. He seemed to notice too, because he cocked his head to one side, regarding me more closely.
“Well, for your reference, my name’s Ezra,” he said. Then finally, he turned on his heel, making for the door. Before his hand closed over the handle, however, he looked at me over his shoulder and tapped his head. “I like your sleeping hat.”
My pillow bounced against the closed door, and behind it, I could hear Ezra laughing.
Our interactions beyond that had been entirely out of my control. If I sat down at a library table to study, I would look up to find Ezra sliding into the seat across from me, emptying his backpack like we’d planned to meet. He invited himself to my previously lonely lunches in the cafeteria or to my quiet afternoons reading on grassy knolls on the quad and attempted to coax me into breaking into the campus observatory. When someone tried to get credit for my contributions to a discussion in American Lit, Ezra would adjust his slouch, throw up his hand, and say, insouciantly, “I think Jo just said that.”
I had no choice about whether Ezra Adelman was in my life. If I closed the door on him, he would simply ram it open again.
Just as he was attempting to do now.
“I’m sorry, Dr.B, but you’ve got to take them,” Raymond said, grinning up at me sheepishly.
“You are so annoying,” I said through clenched teeth, staring at the unglazed white vase full of pristine blue hyacinths. Apology flowers, from the one person I knew pretentious enough to still communicate in Victorian era floriography. Nestled within the blossoms, a small card with Ezra’s elegant handwriting in dense black ink:I’m sorry. Talk to me please. And don’t get mad at Raymond. He’s a good kid making an honest living.
“I told him to add that part,” Raymond quipped, raising his phone hopefully. “Sorry, I have to send him proof of receipt. Do you mind?”
“How much did he pay you this time?” I asked, flipping him off for the picture.
“Two grand,” Raymond said cheerfully.
I scowled. For someone so desperate to pretend that the twenty-four-karat-gold diamond-encrusted spoon lodged in his throat was a mere silver one, Ezra sure loved to test the limits of what his money could buy.
“Ask for more next time,” I said. “The price of breaking my boundaries has got to be higher than that.”
“Got it,” Raymond said, not even playing at contrition. “Just promise to keep your man in the doghouse, okay? If you keep this up, I might be able to pay off my car this year.”
“He isnotmy man,” I hissed, storming off.
It would have been easier for me if he had been. Mourning a relationship that had only ever existed in my head was not bad-bitch behavior, and yet here I was, mooning over a man who had never really been mine. If only I’d been braver. If only, nine years ago, when I first felt this stirring in my stomach, I’d told him what it was so he could turn me down for good. I would have moved on, saved time, never caught myself in a position where drawing boundaries between us could inspire nightmares.
Balancing the vase on my hip, I opened up our text thread for what had to be the hundredth time today. Ezra had sent me messages after the party, but his most recent one, sent twelve hours ago, had replayed in my mind like a bad pop song.
Fine, Jo, I get it. You need a little space. I understand that, and I’ll give it to you. But don’t think that means I’m giving up. I love you. I know you love me. No matter what, we’ll be okay.
I jammed the up button on the elevator, squeezing my eyes shut as I waited for it to arrive. I was so tired of Ezra’sI love yous, so undefined that they’d become almost meaningless. “You mean like a sister?” I’d asked him once, out of frustration that I had delivered as a joke, and he’d laughed, shaken his head, and curled his pinkie finger around mine.
“Like something that doesn’t exist,” he’d said. “Like a part of my soul, maybe.”
Suddenly, the vase in my arms felt heavy. I resisted the urge to throw it against the wall. Instead, I scrolled to a different thread, a newer one. Mal’s.
Unlike Ezra, Mal was naked with his intentions. I’d asked him to get dinner, and he’d responded, minutes later, with a place, a date, and a time. When I agreed, he said:Great! It’s a date,as if to confirm what he’d rightly assumed. It was refreshing, to be wanted the way Mal seemed to want me. It made me want him too.
The elevator arrived, and I typed out a text as I stepped in.
I’m going to bring your book to the date. Don’t act too embarrassed when I ask you to sign it.
It took Mal approximately three seconds to respond.
Mal: Jesus. Don’t do that.
Mal: In fact, don’t read it at all. I don’t want you walking around thinking I’m my characters or anything. I’m not nearly as suave as they are.
I like that you aren’t suave,I said honestly. I was used to the kind of man who could charm a room with a smile, the kind who had a guy who could arrange out-of-season flowers in an artisanal porcelain vase on short notice. The kind of guy who could tell you he loved you while simultaneously waltzing around with the person who had once poured spoiled milk down your back in a middle school cafeteria.
I realized, suddenly, that I was furious. Not with Ezra, who had never lived in a world in which he couldn’t have his cake and eat it too, but with myself. Why had I deprived myself of this, of the little thrills of a budding dalliance, of sending a text and twiddling my thumbs as I waited for a response? Why hadn’t I indulged the way Ezra always had?
Mal responded, sweetly, the way he always did, with aYou do? I’ll lean into my awkwardness then,and I made up my mind then. I would not call Ezra back. I would not think of him at all.
