Page 77 of Just Like the Brontë Sisters

Chapter 50: Skylar

Even after two caipirinhas I was still miserable, gnawing on an egg roll while Mitch and Magda conversed in Spanish. Magda laughed uproariously at some joke that was so over my head it may as well have entered the stratosphere.

I was drowning in loneliness and my only life-preserver was to think about literature. I thought about how when Jane Austen and the Brontës wrote their novels, they had to hide their “female” concerns away, into the dark and vague nooks of their prose, because if they couldn’t appeal to a general (i.e. male) audience, then how would they ever gain respect or notoriety? I sat there, positive that I also had to hide, just like Jane, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. If I were to show my true feminine heart, surely Mitch would deem it too common, too much like juvenile chick lit compared to Magda’s more mature and sophisticated literary fiction. After all, she understood the male mind and how to manipulate it.

“I’m going to bed,” I announced after an hour or so. I stood from the couch, dusting fortune cookie crumbs off my sweater.

“But it’s not even ten,” Mitch said.

“I’m tired.”

I walked away before either of them could respond. I went upstairs to my room, a sigh of relief escaping my lips as soon as I closed the door behind me. Thank God. I would stay here all night; there was no way I was getting up with Bijou for a 3:00 a.m. feeding. Let Mitch do it and we’d see how he felt after staying up late drinking with Magda.

No sooner had I changed into my nightshirt when I heard a knock. I opened the door a crack and peeked through. Mitch stood there.

“I came to say goodnight,” he said.

“Not necessary.” I aimed to shut the door, but his hand jolted out and aborted my mission.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “You barely said anything all evening.”

“Because you and Magda spoke Spanish the whole time!”

He stepped towards me, opening the door, and filling up its frame. “Not the whole time. But I’m sorry. I miss speaking Spanish and Magda is my oldest friend. That’s just what we do.”

I jutted out my chin, meeting his eye, signaling that I didn’t forgive him, “How long is she staying here?”

“That depends on you. It’s your condo, after all. How does three days sound?”

My conversation with Mom this afternoon seemed years ago. It was unfathomable that Mitch knew nothing of my plans to give him everything. “I guess I can’t really say no.”

“Thank you, Skylar.” The corners of his mouth gently pulled into a smile as his eyes turned hazy with affection. “Hey, what were you thinking about all evening as you sat there, moping on the couch?”

“I wasn’t moping.”

His laugh was like whiteout, erasing the smudges and misplaced words from my dark emotions and making them light, easy to understand. “Okay, whatever you say.”

I glanced down at my oversized nightshirt, suddenly aware that I wore no bra underneath, and what’s more, my bare legs were exposed. “I thought about literature.”

His eyes crinkled as his smile relaxed. “Really?”

“Really.” I hesitated momentarily, fearful to trust him after this disastrous evening, but he stood there, gazing at me, like he understood me completely, like he accepted my quirky mind and damaged soul. “Mitch, do you ever feel like you’re a fictional character, like your story is still being written? Because I do. I feel that all the time, and then it’s like anything is possible.”

Mitch took a breath so deep that his broad shoulders sagged. I was conscious of his long-sleeved thermal shirt, of how multiple trips through the washer and dryer must have softened it, and how rewarding it would be to touch it, mostly because I’d also feel the warmth of his skin emanating from underneath.

“I guess I always feel like anything is possible. I know that it is.”

“What do you mean?”

He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “I experience stuff… like Jo Beth…” his voice quietly trailed off until silence relaxed over us both.

“What about Jo Beth?” I whispered.

Mitch squeezed his eyes shut and I got the sense that when he opened them, he hoped to see someone besides me standing in front of him. “Nothing,” he stated. “Just me being crazy.”

A panic button pushed inside me as words from Jo Beth’s final voice mail came whooshing back. Mitch is insane…I can’t trust him…He CANNOT be a good father to my baby.

I stepped back and put my hand on the door to shut it. “You should probably get back to Magda,” I said. “If you need linens for the couch, they’re in the hallway closet.”