AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She’s far too young for me.
Except . . . hearing her story, watching the way she handles herself—she may only have a few years on my students, but she has lived twice their lifetime in experience. Either she doesn’t feel young to me, or she makes me feel young. I’m still not sure which statement is truer. All I can say for certain is that we connect in a way that makes those differences disappear.
The only thing that’s perfectly clear in all of this is that she regretted it nearly as soon as it happened, and that she would very much like me to turn my attention elsewhere. Like to Leigh.
Even a couple of weeks ago, this would have appealed to me. But the more coaching Paige has done on how to win over Leigh, the less interested I’ve been in succeeding.
It’s a quandary. Since Monday night, I’ve been clear on who I want. But since about three minutes after I figured it out on Paige’s sofa, so had she: not me.
I’m sure she has reasons. Some of them I can even guess. It would be awkward if things didn’t pan out since we’re next-door neighbors. It might confuse Evie. And the age gap must cross Paige’s mind.
The question is how to proceed. Her reasons are all good ones. Certainly it’s already awkward with her fleeing into her house carrying full trash bags simply because I’ve exited my house at the same time.
I suppose the most logical play here is to follow her lead and pretend that our kiss was part of her coaching.
That mind-blowing, reality-bending, gut-tightening, fire-starting kiss.
Yes, well.
Coaching. All part of the coaching. It does allow us to put the moment at a distance. It means I should continue pursuing Leigh, even if I’m not quite sure Leigh realizes that’s what I’ve been up to.
Perhaps she does. We’ve spoken more this week than we have the entire year, and I feel comfortable enough with her that I don’t forget basic conversational skills anymore.
That’s why on Friday, at 5:40 PM, I pull on the black button-down shirt Paige ordered me to buy and tuck it into the waist band of my flannel gray slacks. She’d sent me photos of acceptable shoes, and I slide on something called “Chelsea boots” in black. I check my reflection. It feels on par with my usual slacks and sweaters, so I’ll have to take her at her word that this is a makeover.
The thought gives me an idea. This is an opportunity to nudge us back into safety. She won’t be home until after six based on her normal schedule, so I take a picture of myself in the full-length mirror and text it to her captioned, “Project: Makeover Update.”
HENRY:Have I gotten this right?
A long pause follows.
PAIGE:Nailed it. Leigh won’t know what hit her.
HENRY:I will not hit her. I will not even hit on her. But I take your meaning.
PAIGE:Have fun at the party. I expect a progress report.
That reply comes back far faster.
I leave dinner for Cat and reverse carefully out of my driveway since the weekend light-lookers have already begun their slow crawl down Orchard.
White cardboard boxes flank either side of Paige’s yard, courtesy of Connie. She’d embraced the food pantry project and run with it, and now, in addition to these boxes, more sit at either end of the street and on the intersecting street partway down. Each has a large QR code taped to the side for people to donate directly to the food pantry if they haven’t brought nonperishable goods.
I hope she updates us with the totals. Based on the traffic queuing, I suspect the pantry will be able to do a fair job of tending to its neediest congregants.
I park on campus and make my way to the art building. The faculty party is being held in one of its galleries, and although I arrive exactly on time at 6:00 for the event, I’m still the only other attendee besides the dean himself.
We chat for a few minutes about the students this semester and the direction of the anthropology classes in the future, potentially even looking at expanding it into a full major. These conversations are easy for me because it’s a subject I’m interested in, so perhaps that’s why I’m fairly relaxed when Leigh walks in. That, plus a glass of wine.
She’s stunning in cream slacks and an icy blue sweater. It all accentuates her Nordic goddess vibe. And yet, my mind immediately contrasts her with Paige’s soft sweater and leggings the other night. Leigh’s angles are the type of look fashion designers create for, and indeed, she’s quite beautiful. But it rather pales against Paige’s earthy, easy sensuality, the curves that speak of her motherhood. The inviting softness. The . . .
“Hey, Henry. You look . . . good.”
I smile at Leigh’s compliment. It sounds simple, but her tone injects it with a layer of meaning I don’t miss. This is exactly what Paige coached me for, but now that I’m getting the reaction I wanted, I find the moment falling flat.
Still, I repay it, telling her that she looks lovely.
“It won’t be too long before we’re strangers,” she says. “I can move offices in January, the week before school starts. I’ll be out of your hair.”
