Rude.Humiliating. Tacky. Embarrassing.
“He fell asleep!” I relay the facts to my sister, who likely has me on speakerphone with Zennie.
“Oh my god, that’s so fucked up, Cade,” Kat commiserates, a visceral pop in the background tells me they’re having a bottle of wine. I’m half tempted to crash their night and get drunk with them.
“You’re kind of Rachel right now,” Zennie notes, and to that, I bob my head, even though tonight’s call isn’t FaceTime. “Remember when she wrote that long letter to Ross and he fell asleep reading it?”
I scratch at the end of day stubble coating my jaw. “I understood the reference.” I sigh. “I am Ross, because I am a professor.” I pause, not wanting to be the whiny female character. “If I’m Ross, you’re Monica,” I tell my sister.
Kat snorts. “You’re both Monica and Ross. I’m… not even on that show.”
She never likedFriends, and yet she saw enough of the show to make sure I know I’m both the uptight, type-A, high-stress sibling as well as the tries-too-hard, awkward intellectual sibling.
Lovely.
We trade our TV banter for an update on the wedding planning, and they tell me about the cake they decided on, that the band is selected, and table linens have arrived. Before we end the call, Kat takes over, and asks, “hey, you never told me, what did his review even say?”
I shake my head, staring at the muted TV screen where a commercial for some injectable drug plays. “I don’t know.” She advises me to read the peer review, then Zennie comes on the phone and asks me a few questions about the book she’s reading and I agree to buddy read it with her, and go through any content issues together. We end the call, and I get to my feet and start digging through my bag until I spot the folded, crinkled papers with black ink seeping through.
Just the sight of them has my irritation spiked, and my heart licking at my ribs. Snatching it up, I go back to the couch, still in my work clothes, and flop down. This is something stupid I do. I try to act nonchalant about things that make my heart race, even when I’m alone in my house. I don’t like the word stupid, but this behavior of mine, along with a few others, is stupid. I’m so used to stuffing uncomfortable moments down, shielding myselffrom my own deepest internal thoughts, not allowing the world to see any cracks in my facade.
It’s tiresome.
Carefully I unfold the papers, and the bottom one sails to the floor. I reach between my feet, and pause, seeing he hasn’t written a single word on the second page, which is littered with questions about my technique, the curriculum, the students' engagement, and planning.
Not. A. Word.
It makes no sense why Noah would be this way.
I look down at the first page, largely expecting to find it the same way.
But it’s not the same.
On the first page, he’s written one, singular sentence.
You’re hot when you’re going deep on Literary Theory.
I read those nine words approximately one hundred times. The noise of the bustling city around me fades away, the man delivering takeout to my neighbor downstairs is loud but I can hardly hear his thumping fist. My coffee pot dings, and the dishwasher hums.
But I can’t hear any of it because my pulse is kicking, my heart is pounding, and the noise in my brain is so overwhelming, I can’t even think.
All I can do is reread those words, and try desperately to hear them in his voice.
You’re hot when you’re going deep on Literary Theory.
Wafflingbetween an immature joke or something more, I arrive at the annex with no clearer understanding of why Noah wrote that peer review yesterday. And while hiding under the massive stack of unshelved books at the library sounds like a fucking delight, I can’t.
I share an office with the man.
Not to mention, the back of my neck itches at the idea that my peers have not yet reviewed me. I’ve drank all of my first coffee and am popping off the plastic lid on the second when the door swings open and a damp haired Noah saunters in. He drops his leather crossbody on the ground, and nods his chin toward me.
“Morning, man. Have a good night?”
I toy with the idea of pretending everything is fine, and that he didn’t call me hot and sleep in my lecture, but I just can’t. There are already way too many things under my rug, there’s really no room for one more.
“Why did you write that?” I waste no time, there’s no soft preamble, nothing. “What if someone saw that? What would they think?” I shake my head. “Are you going to answer me?”
I hate that he’s got this passive smirk on his face, likehe’s privy to a joke being played on me or something. I hate it. And I hate how heat curls around my ribs at the sight of him. I hate how bumps raise along my arms and down my chest when his cologne hits my nervous system.
