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My window screen is just a few wires held together by holes; I’ve counted eleven mosquitos and six crane flies bouncing sluggishly around the cracked ceiling fixture over my musty-smelling bed.
Avery insisted our rooms were nicer than the ones he gave the students. I wonder just how bad they must have it and why I let the lunatic drag me away from the well-worn path between my apartment and my office.
He ambushed me at work last week, begging me to come teach his students professional interview skills. “There are some brilliant young people this year,” he cajoled. “You need an intern next summer, right?”
“What the fuck would I do with more free time?”
“Come have dinner with me? Join a badminton league? Try speed dating?”
I glared at him over my paperwork. “Atticus Finch himself could ask me for an internship and I wouldn’t take him.”
“I’ll bet you anything that one of them will catch your eye.”
“Is there a form of the wordnothat you recognize?”
“Oh.” He perched innocently on my desk. “So you accept my bet.” Too late, I realized the logical trap he sprung around me.
“I don’t take bets.”
“Because you know you’ll lose.”
“Avery.”
He practically bounced out the door, instructing me to pack plenty of outdoor clothing.
“What’s the prize for winning the bet?” I called after him, and he stuck his head back through the door.
“The only thing you care about: the knowledge that you were right all along.”
Joke’s on him; I don’t own any outdoor clothing.
Digging in my bag, I pull out my voice recorder and slide onto the floor, leaning against the bed. I started recording myself in law school to organize my thoughts. In the years since, I’ve amassed thousands of hours of audio. My emotionless voice, rambling on and on in a never-ending stream of consciousness, pretending someone’s listening.
“I’m just north of Ithaca,” I say, pressing record, “in some godforsaken defunct summer camp, sharing one roll of toilet paper with Avery.” I study the faded rug under my ass, yellowing beige with ugly blue flowers, and pick at the loose strands. “There was a town on the way here, Hollis or Hollin or something, a little tourist trap. Avery told me to stop there and try some gravy dumpling monstrosity they’re supposedly famous for. I saw it from the highway and I figured what the hell. Why not be spontaneous for once?” I pull on a loose thread and watch the pattern unravel completely.
“The first thing I drive past is an antique store, one of those restored barns with the dog sleeping on the front step. I actually thought for a minute, with every fiber of my being, that Colson was in there, looking for that last pitcher he needed for his glass collection. He’d come out and lean on the car and saycan’t you at least try to look like you’re having fun? I couldn’t get away fast enough.” Propping my head back against the bed, I close my eyes. “God I hate it here.”
I never delete anything, but I jot down the time stamp so I can sort it separately from my work notes. The sky is a dark denim color, just past sunset, and I’m miles from sleep. Pulling on a jacket, I venture out into the twilight. Every direction looks the same, so I pick one at random. Out here, with the crickets and the coy evening breeze brushing my face, I catch myself thinking about him. Jonah.
Never in a million years would I have pegged him as a law student. Filthy and wild, mud crusted in his short, scrubby hair. Eyes wide as we both wondered for a moment if the other was going to ruin our professional reputations by saying something. Of course neither of us did.
Pushing my hands deep in my pockets, I stop and look around at all the identical dark trees. I’m already lost. Fucking hopeless.
“Can youtryto hit the goal?” someone yells to my left, beyond a row of thick bushes. A second later, a muddy soccer ball drops out of nowhere to land at my feet, bouncing off my shoes.
“Ow. Shit. Fuck.” Jonah Scott crashes straight through the undergrowth, tangled up in the dense branches. “Where the hell—”
He stops abruptly, bare feet balanced on a mossy root, and rests his hand on one hip and his stump on the other, breathing hard, his white t-shirt clinging to his sweaty chest. He studies me for a moment, then glances down, picking burrs out of his gym shorts. “Hi, Mr. Freeman. Professor Freeman?”
“I’m not a professor.”
His bright eyes return to mine as his lips quirk into a grin. “Understood.” When I don’t say anything, he takes a big step closer and snags the ball at my feet, rolling it up his leg and tucking it under his arm. “Sorry if we almost decapitated you. Elliott misses the goal on purpose to make me run so I’ll get tired and shut up. Do you want to, uh, join?”
“Do I want to what?”
He spins the ball up onto his finger, showing off. “Play soccer. Can you goalie? We’ll wait for you to get changed.”
