Austensibly Ordinary (22 page)

It was a stop-motion video, starring my very own Jane Austen action figure (the hem of her white dress was stained pale orange as a result of an accidental spill), and the grin that broke over my face at the idea of this never faltered for the entire minute and a half of Austen antics.

He'd paired her with a G.I. Joe action figure, and together they conspired to send coded messages for secret missions while saving the world from bad romance. It was hilarious. But at the end, I could feel the prick of tears and a lonely lump of uncertainty in my chest. Ethan really was my K—nobody got me like he did; nobody could save me from myself like he could. But I couldn't afford to be as flippant as Gypsy Jane because it was impossible to know if that would be enough.

Somewhere along the way, it seemed that my search for the perfect guy had been hijacked. And not just by Ethan over Sunday-night Scrabble—by me. I'd seen too many people grow apart, reinvent themselves, get bored, and change their minds, and it was spooking me. As a result, I wore my insecurities on my sleeve, second-guessing every romantic prospect. Very recently that had come to include Ethan. I wanted forever, with a guarantee, and I was determined not to settle for less. So what did that mean for Ethan and me? I didn't even know what was going on with his life right now, let alone his past, so how could I predict how it all might change in the future?

Closing the e-mail, careful not to cry, I blinked away potential spillage, pushed back from my desk, and went to get a bottle of tea from the vending machine, figuring it was more respectable than my regular Orange Crush. I should at least try to give the illusion that I was a grown-up.

I left Jane to fend for herself, resting a proprietary hand on a bruised green apple, and she was still there thirty minutes later when parents started arriving.

Mostly the evening went as expected. I gave the same unrehearsed mini-presentation six times and introduced myself to a hundred or so parents who came out to see just what it was we were teaching their precious babies. Things got interesting during my fourth-period class meet-and-greet. I'd just finished speaking to Raj's father about his son's sudden fascination with the Bollywood versions of Jane Austen's novels when Piper approached with her parents in tow. As she was introducing them, I felt a little click of recognition. I'd seen her father before—recently. It wasn't five seconds before I realized where: stepping into the Driskill as I'd been rushing out, in a hurry to distance myself from the ghost-hunting geeks . . . and Jake. And then again, slipping into an elevator as I'd watched from the mezzanine stairs. I smiled, on the verge of making the connection, when I noticed that the woman standing beside Piper, with matching green eyes and wide smile, was not the woman in the clingy coral number he'd been ushering possessively into the hotel. Mental math done, I fought to keep my expression from betraying any suspicion that I'd caught Piper's dad cheating.

There could be other explanations. I couldn't think what they might be, but that didn't eliminate the possibility that they existed. . . .

I swallowed, blinked, and lifted my chin, conscious of all of it.
Keep calm and carry on.
Piper's dad seemed awfully conscious of it too, but I powered through, chatting away with Piper and Mom, all while Dad eyed me suspiciously, as if expecting I might rat him out at any moment. It was painful. And as they moved away, I realized how very tense I'd been with the uncomfortable effort to ignore a stranger's secret. I smiled and imagined the adult beverage I'd be enjoying in less than an hour.

During the fifteen-minute rotation scheduled for my off period, I started packing my things to enable a quick getaway at the end of the night. I had my head tipped down behind my desk when I heard my classroom door click shut. I glanced up, relatively certain it was Ethan, and was rather shocked to discover that it was Piper's dad, back again. My heart fluttered nervously as I imagined an awkward confrontation, and I took a swig of tea, hoping to look relaxed. I almost choked on it.

“Hi!” I started, hoping my smile looked winning and unthreatening. Wishing his did too. “Back again?” Well played, Cate. Golden.

He didn't respond until he had his hands planted on my desk and he'd leaned his stocky, football player's body in to speak in a lowered voice.

“Why don't we skip the bullshit?” he demanded. I felt, suddenly, as if I were in the crosshairs, caught in an appalling attack of bad manners. “I'd have sworn it didn't register, but obviously it did. Your poker face sucks.”

Then came the second click. Both our heads swiveled around to see who it could be. This time, it was Ethan. And the way he looked now, I had no trouble imagining him in the role of a secret agent.

He walked forward casually, but I could tell he was wound tight.

“I can't argue with the statement—just how it was made,” Ethan said calmly. “And I can tell you that it's unlikely—if not downright ridiculous—that Ms. Kendall has not been truthful with you.”

“Who the hell are you?” Piper's dad demanded, pushing himself up off the desk.

“Mr. Chavez, foreign language teacher. And you are?”

“Talking to Ms. Kendall alone.” My name might as well have been a slur. “If you don't mind.”

“But I do,” Ethan said, coming close and then leaning back against the whiteboard running along the side of the classroom, crossing his ankles, seemingly completely relaxed. That made one of us. My heart was tripping along at a frantic pace, and my lungs had switched off a couple seconds ago.

Señor Bad Manners was silent for a moment, and then all bluster. “Okay.” He glanced back at me. “Fine with me. You're both in it, then. I am a deputy superintendent of this school district, and the two of you can consider yourselves under investigation. You want to get into my private affairs—I'll get into yours!” He jabbed his finger, first at Ethan, then at me. I snapped back as if struck; Ethan didn't even flinch. “Get your skeletons ready for their closeups. And enjoy your jobs while you have them.”

He said all this in a hard voice, with a maniacal glint in his eye, and I could only stare in shock as he swept past Ethan and out the door, leaving it to bang on the wall in his wake.

“Shit!”
I heard Ethan bite off the curse before looking at me and demanding, “What the
hell
was that?”

“A whole lot of crazy,” I said, half-distracted in wondering if I actually had any skeletons worth digging up. Other than Gypsy Jane—and she wasn't exactly buried.

“Seriously, Cate, what did that guy want?” Now it was Ethan who was leaning over my desk, and the recent confrontation was edged out of my mind by a little impromptu fantasy. I blinked at him and looked away, focusing in on the carryall that still sat, half-filled, on my lap.

I shook my head in disbelief. “It was nothing. He knows I saw him go into the Driskill last week with a woman who is not his wife.” I shrugged and rolled my eyes. “So he's a pig. I don't care—other than as it affects Piper, who happens to be in my fourth-period class,” I clarified.

“Well, obviously
he
cares.”

“So he's a prick. I still don't care. As pathetic as it may be, I don't have any secrets. He can damn well bring it on!”

Ethan stared hard at me, and the silence between us was like a roar.

“Wha—?” I started, shaking my head in confusion. And then I got it and slumped back, a little deflated, in my chair. Ethan did have secrets. Big ones.

I opened my mouth, unsure what might come out of it, but was saved the trouble of any response at all. The door was suddenly pushed open and voices swept in from the hall—free period of Parent Night was over. Ethan pushed himself off my desk, and with his mouth in a thin, angry line, dodged incoming parents to make his escape. I stared after him, overwhelmed with a feeling of stunned shock.

What just happened here?
The entire five-minute episode had been utterly surreal. Was I truly facing investigation? Could my job honestly be in jeopardy? Could Ethan's? All because I'd been a pushover for Courtney and refused to be one for Ethan. I never would have recognized Bad Manners if it hadn't been for the ghost hunting, and if I hadn't pushed for answers . . . and benefits, Ethan might not have been so quick to come to my defense. Although, knowing Ethan, he still would have. Was this my fault? I preferred to believe it was the fault of Piper's overly ballsy father, but Ethan did seem a little ticked with me.

Maybe if I put my head down on my desk and whimpered pathetically, all of these students and their parents would want to disappear. . . . Crap. That was no good. It would probably be played to my disadvantage in the investigation: “Ms. Kendall shirked her obligations to parents during Parent Night.” So I would smile and silently curse Bad Manners with all the dirty words in my repertoire, and then I'd go find Ethan and assess the damage. Maybe set things straight.

Or maybe not. Thirty minutes later, I'd fulfilled my responsibilities and gone in search of Ethan, but he wasn't in his classroom, the IT room, or even the computer lab. I texted him, got no response, and finally checked the parking lot for his sensible hybrid vehicle. Upon ascertaining that it was missing, I decided he'd gone off grid. No way was I going to chase him back to his house. It was possible he'd gone to check in on his other life. I would not be interfering.

I would go home and see what Gypsy Jane had to say about all this. Maybe I could convince her to make a little ghostly appearance in honor of Bad Manners, perhaps during a crucial moment of one his Driskill visits with the hussy . . . scare the crap out of him. Probably not the way she had imagined putting her talents and ghostly existence to work, but judging from her novels, she was quite a fan of the comeuppance. I wouldn't rule it out.

If she did put in another appearance, I hoped I'd handle it better this time.

 

I
let my hand go limp and tipped my head back against the couch cushions, utterly spent. I barely even wanted to think it for fear of jinxing myself, but honestly? I kinda wanted a little break from all the secrets. I clearly wasn't cut out to be a secret agent, and I seriously doubted my capacity to handle a “beyond benefits” relationship with one.

 

 

I felt the familiar churnings of guilt that seemed to glom onto every aspect of my relationship with Ethan, but I plowed on. I hadn't even heard back from Jake, so there was no guarantee I'd even be engaging in any guilt-worthy behavior.

 

 

I tried to resist my gaze straying through my bedroom door and my thoughts straying two nights back, but it was impossible. My willpower is woefully nonexistent when it comes to sexy men, particularly geeky, sexy men . . . with glasses . . . and irresistible flashes of charm. . . .

I forced myself to stare hard at an electrical socket to get back on track. And realized that I'd never confronted Gypsy Jane about her Monday-night haunting. No time like the present . . .

 

 

I smiled ruefully to myself and tossed the pen onto the table, sparing a longing glance for the Dum-Dum bowl and its still-buried burner phone. Feeling like I should occasionally get something out of that bowl, I pulled out a cherry cola lollipop, unwrapped it, and popped it in my mouth. I was too wound up to try to sleep yet, and the absolute last thing I wanted to do was grade papers, so I unearthed the key to the journal and turned until I found where I'd left off.

 

 

While my eyelids fought to the bitter end, I eventually had to concede defeat and save all subsequent entries for another day. I'd pulled out the key, shrunk the journal, and was sliding it, out of habit, under the couch when it occurred to me that perhaps I'd had a little visitor while I'd been otherwise occupied.

Flipping to the relevant page, it was clear that I had. All she'd left me with was

 

 

I could only assume that the “s” hanging by itself was meant to be attached to the “surprise.” Evidently, I hadn't been as accommodating as a certain someone would have liked. Beyond that conclusion, this latest snippet had me stumped. It could be sheer exhaustion that was boggling me, and with luck I'd figure it out in the morning, but it was far more likely that I wouldn't, seeing as Gypsy Jane had made a habit of stumping me on a regular basis. Things might just have to play out on their own.

 

Wednesday went relatively well, considering Tuesday. I dressed normally (if possibly a bit more conservatively), acted normally (minus the Orange Crush), and tried hard to exude normalcy and respectability, despite having been recently threatened with joblessness and gifted with some nebulous life advice from an author the world considered dearly departed, but who was, in some ways, alive and kicking.

I didn't particularly care for surprises, unless they involved gifts . . . or cake. The discovery of a journal channeling the spirit of Jane Austen had been an exception, but I'd been reconsidering my position for days. Cake never gave me any trouble. Gypsy Jane, however, liked dishing it out on a regular basis.

What was the purpose of getting a little prophetic advice if it merely hinted at surprises? Unless you were Alice Cullen, life was full of surprises—that wasn't exactly a news flash. And it didn't help me with Ethan, Jake,
or
Bad Manners, whose nickname I was seriously considering switching to Big Shit.

When my free period rolled around and I still hadn't heard from Ethan, I went looking and found him holed up behind a posse of computer screens in the IT room. Judging by the intense look on his face, he wasn't doing a kitty puzzle.

“Hey,” I said, my voice sounding shy and uncertain.

“Hi,” he said patiently, his face shuttered, his hands still on the keyboard in front of him.

“Everything okay? Want a Coke . . . or an Orange Crush?” I was kidding, but it wasn't obvious that he noticed.

“I'm drinking water.” It figured. Not fortified water, or flavored water, just water-water. Probably straight from the drinking fountains.

“Okay, so . . . I just wanted to remind you of tonight's little barbecue get-together at my mom's house. You still up for it?”

His gaze shifted away from me to the computer screen and as I watched, his eyes tracked back and forth across the screen. Three seconds passed. Eight. He didn't make eye contact again for thirteen seconds.

“What time?” he asked, clearly making an effort to be polite.

“Six-thirty,” I said shortly. Then added, “Just bring your charming self,” before stalking off.

I felt a little petty after that. He definitely had more at stake than I did. I assumed. What did I know about the lives of CIA agents? Only what I'd learned from the USA Network. As a peace offering, I dedicated my afternoon to making a chocolate layer cake with buttercream icing, Ethan's favorite. I also switched out of my lacy underwear into a pale blue cotton set. In the interest of comfort . . . and on the off chance there might be benefits. Naughty benefits.

I was, in fact, regretting that moment of weakness when Ethan stepped through the back door. Mr. Carr hadn't shown up yet, and Mom had just stepped onto the patio to fire up the grill, so for the moment, it was just me and him. And a truckload of awkward. Funny that a brush-off should be more potently awkward than sitting astride your best friend in white cotton underwear.

He'd brought a bottle of wine and proffered that first, perhaps as a peace offering of his own.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, turning to set the bottle on the counter. “Is the wine a substitute for your charming self?” I teased.

When I turned he was behind me. In fact, his body had me trapped against the counter. I'd just heard a truck door slam, so there was a good chance Rodney had shown up. I crossed my fingers that they'd be flirting and chatting at grillside for a few moments, but I'd definitely need to disentangle myself soon. I'd promised myself I'd resist Ethan, no matter what, but I hadn't counted on him being
pressed up against me.
That wasn't playing fair, so as far as I was concerned, all bets were off.

I looked up at him as he lifted his hand to cup the back of my neck. He gave me two long seconds to refuse. I didn't.

I was tentative first, feeling my way. Nobody had reviewed the code of conduct with me for situations like this. On the one hand I felt like I should balk at this offer after Ethan's standoffish behavior recently, and on the other, I had no self-control whatsoever. I'm pretty sure Ethan wasn't keeping score, so it was an easy decision.

Two more seconds and I was up on the counter with him between my legs, and we were kissing like he was freshly back from a tour in the Middle East. I couldn't stop my fingers in their urgent quest to be everywhere at once, and I could feel my lips chapping against the stubble already shadowing Ethan's face, but I couldn't resist him. My mind was lost to everything but him.

It was actually the oven timer going off right beside us that had us springing apart, and me off the counter, my legs nearly buckling under me. Ethan caught my elbow until it was clear I'd rallied.

I'd been feeling particularly flushed and had attributed it to my reaction to Ethan, but evidently part of it could be blamed on a four-hundred-degree oven. But with nothing in the oven, we were left to assume that Mom had set herself a preheating timer . . . and she would shortly be in the kitchen.

Much as I felt like I should be looking anywhere but at Ethan, I ignored my own instincts and stared up at him, wanting to assess the impact of our impromptu make-up session. He didn't look flustered the way I felt flustered, but he definitely looked affected. It occurred to me that I could ask him what he thought about the journal's supposition that he was my Knightley. I suspected it would be rather fascinating to watch his expression when faced with that news. But I decided to go for show over tell—if nothing else, it was a way to get him upstairs.

“You want to come upstairs after dinner? I want to show you something. In the journal.” My thoughts were already tripping me up.

Ethan stared down at me with a twinkle in his eye that I read as optimism that he was “getting some.” I didn't disabuse him of the notion; I merely wondered if I had a matching twinkle.

“Can you pour me a glass of wine while I see if I can figure out what goes into the oven?” I asked, moving toward the refrigerator. I found some sort of Saran-wrapped casserole but, given that it wasn't readily identifiable, I wasn't enthusiastic about sliding it into a hot oven. “You want a beer?” I asked, holding a bottle in Ethan's direction.

“Okay, I'm stumped,” I said, trading the beer for my glass of wine. “It looks like we're going to have to break up Mom and Rodney's romantic little tête-à-tête beside the propane tank if we're ever gonna move dinner along.”

He moved with me to the door and stepped out right behind me to witness something so utterly bizarre that I simply stood gawping.

Mom was lying across the patio table with apparent disregard for the effort I'd gone to in setting the table, not to mention hygiene. Silverware was askew, napkins had flown off the table and were now caught in the shrubbery, and as I watched, two plates slid off the table to crash and scatter on the pavers below. And that wasn't even the unbelievable part!