Love Show (12 page)

It would be my last winter of walking across the long, cold
campus from the parking lot to the newspaper office. While there were things I
would miss about Northwestern, the weather wasn’t one of them. My phone
vibrated in my pocket, and I reached down, hoping to see Jack’s name lighting
up the screen. But it was just Andrew.

Does 8 still work for dinner tonight?

I made a frustrated noise in the
back of my throat. I'd forgotten. I typed out a response with my frozen
fingers:
Maybe 8:15? Meet you at the newspaper in 5.

“Hey,” I said breathlessly when I
reached my office. Andrew was waiting patiently, thumbing through the draft of
tomorrow’s issue. "I just have to talk to Justin for two seconds and then
we can go."

“Sure, no worries."

He was in khakis and a button down.
I was actually wearing sweatpants. “You had somewhere nicer in mind?”

He looked at my outfit hesitantly.
“Yeah. I made reservations at Mill House. Is that okay?"

One of the most elegant and
expensive restaurants in Evanston. I nodded once. “Sure. Um. Great. I’ll just…”
Mill House was the sort of place you went with your parents. If your parents
were super uptight.

As if to make a point, my phone
vibrated and I glanced at the screen.

Jack.

Is skydiving against the rules?

I raised my eyebrows and began to
type back.

“Change?” Andrew finished my
sentence.

I looked up. "Right. Sorry.
I'll change. I just, five words with Justin, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Take your
time."

I crossed the office to Justin's
computer.

“What’s up?” I asked. “Attribution
issues?

"Yeah, sorry," he said.
"So, I have this on-the-record quote from an athletic coach who said I
couldn't identify him by name or by what sport he coached. He said I could say
he was a head coach of a varsity team, but no other identifiers.”

"This is on the budget for
2014?" I asked. They'd recently diverted several million dollars earmarked
for the football team to programs that would impact the student body.

"Yeah," he said. "I
think it's critical enough that anonymity is okay here."

I read it over quickly:

"The administration is trying
to send a message. I'm not going to name names, but there've been repeated
attacks on our program from administrators across the board—everyone from
admissions officers to academic deans. The university refuses to acknowledge
how important we are to alums. This happened before, in 2007, and it damaged
the football program and that, in turn, damaged the endowment because alumni
giving went down in 2008. It's not good policy to use the athletic budget for unfunded
programs in the college."

I shook my head. "You can use
everything but the first two sentences. He’s telling us the administration is
trying to send a message, but if he won’t back it up with anything specific and
he won’t put his name behind it, we can’t run it. He can’t just editorialize on
the situation anonymously.”

"Yeah. Okay," Justin
said.

"And point out the fact that
there was a financial crisis in 2008," I added. "And that giving to
universities across the country went down."

"Yeah," Justin nodded.
"Good point." He cut part of the quote and we both scanned the
article again to see if it still made sense.

“I think that looks good,” I said.
“I’ve got to run. Text me if anything else comes up.”

“I will. Thanks, Hadley. Have fun.”

“Thanks!”

I hustled back to Andrew.
"Sorry, ready?"

He nodded. “Let’s go.”

I followed him down the stairs and
pulled out my phone to text Jack:
Skydiving is totally legal
.

Excellent
.
  You in?
Saturday?

I bit my lip.
Sure.

I slipped my phone into my pocket
and walked out into the bitter chill to Andrew’s car. He drove a fancy, new
Range Rover. His dad was some kind of oil magnate—something Andrew would never
tell you, but Google quickly would.

He turned on the heat and I
shivered.

"I feel like I haven't seen as
much of you lately," Andrew said, driving towards my apartment.

"Really?" I asked. “I’m
at the newspaper office like every day.”

"I know, but you used to come
to the bar nights. I don't think you've been to one all year."

I smiled. "I'll come to the
next one."

He parked next to the apartment
building. "You should. They're fun."

"I'll come," I promised.
I glanced at the time. "I'll be quick. Promise."

Andrew nodded. "No rush."

I jogged upstairs quickly, trying
to think of something to wear to Mill House.

The lights were on in our apartment
and I heard the TV blaring as I kicked off my sneakers and walked in.

“David,” I shouted. “I need help.”

There was a loud crash as I tossed
my keys on the table and I shrieked in surprise. David was shirtless and he
looked petrified and I could see Ben Mitchell hiding behind the couch. A movie
was playing.

I hope he hurt himself,
I
thought uncharitably.  I caught my breath. “Jesus, David, you scared me. What should
I wear to Mill House?”

“Hadley,” he said in a small voice.
“Um, I thought you were at the paper?"

I glanced at Ben. “There’s a person
on the floor.”

Ben got to his feet. He glared at
David. "You said we'd be alone."

“She knows," David said,
sounding tired.

“She
knows
?” Ben said
explosively.

“I don’t care, I’m not going to say
anything, and I’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement if you’re going to get that
worked up about it,” I informed Ben icily. I turned my attention to David who
still looked completely startled. “Mill House, David. Focus.”

“Black dress, leggings, boots. That
knit dress. With the bow. Long-sleeved. Are your parents in town?”

“No," I said.

“When did she find out?” Ben asked
David. I didn’t like his tone of voice. It was astoundingly accusatory.

I really should have given Jack Ben’s
name when he offered to run him over.

"She won't say anything,” David
said softly.

“She’d better not,” he muttered.

Was that a
threat
?  “Trust
me, I have better things to do than talk about your sexuality, Ben,” I said.

“Hadley!” David exclaimed.

I walked to my room. I put on the
exact outfit David had suggested: a long-sleeved knit dress, soft black
leggings and black boots. I looked in the mirror, put my hair down, grimaced,
and put my hair back up. There wasn’t much I could do about my hair. It liked
to lie limp, and I didn’t have the patience to encourage it to behave in any
other way.

Ben and David were talking in low
voices when I emerged, twisting my hair into a low bun.

“I’m really sorry,” David was
saying. “I swear. She’s the only person who knows. Okay?”

 I was really starting to despise
this kid. I’d hated him ever since he hit David, but now he was moving into
full-blown enemy combatant territory.

“Who is taking you to Mill House?”
David asked cheerily.

“Andrew.”

He smiled. “Aw, that’s awesome,
Hadley.”

I looked at him curiously. “Yeah,
it’ll be nice to get out of the office for a while.”

"So, you're not seeing Jack
anymore?"

"What?" I asked.

David raised his eyebrows.
"You're going on a date with Andrew Brenner, right?"

"It's not a date. We're
talking about some special issue in February." I exhaled. "For
Valentine's Day."

"
Riight
," David
said. "At Mill House."

I looked at him. "No, no, no. You're...you're
confused. It's
Andrew
. It's for the
newspaper
.”

David chuckled. “You can’t be
serious, Hadley. He’s taking you to Mill House.
That
is a date.”

“It is not a date.”

"I bet you twenty dollars he
tries to kiss you."

"I’m going. It’s not a date,”
I said, opening the door. “Goodbye.”

I took a deep breath in the
hallway. I was going to dinner with Andrew. A meal. Nothing more. Nothing less.
We would talk about the newspaper. That was it. Definitely not a date.

The night winds off the lake blew
ferociously as I walked to the car. The hair I had pushed behind my ears flew
wildly. I felt Andrew watching me as I opened the door and pulled it shut.

“Sorry,” I said.

“No worries. You were fast.” He
smiled. "You look really pretty."

Shit
.

We were the youngest people at Mill House. By a decade. At
least.

A chic, dark-haired waitress scrutinized
our driver’s licenses when Andrew asked for the wine list. Andrew ordered a
bottle of wine expensive enough to impress her. Or maybe it was to impress me.
I couldn’t think of one good reason why he should do either.

He’d seen me behave badly all year.
He’d seen me yell at copyeditors and nearly burst into tears when I hadn’t
slept enough. I didn’t need a $200 bottle of wine to like Andrew. I’d liked him
from the start. I just didn’t
like
him like that.

David’s delusional
, a part
of my brain whispered to me. But another part was putting together puzzle
pieces I had wondered about before. The way he was always asking if I wanted to
hang out or seeing if I wanted to have lunch or coffee to talk about the paper.

When we'd kissed last year, I had
said it was a mistake. I had apologized. I had told him that I would never do
anything to threaten our friendship. He had just nodded his head in agreement.

But, ultimately, he had agreed with
me. He didn’t have to agree.

So, it wasn’t a date.

"What do you like here?"
I asked. "I haven't been since parents' weekend freshman year."

He smiled. "Yeah, my parents
love this place. Get the truffle pasta."

I raised an eyebrow. “Where is
that?”

“It’s one of their specials. It’s
amazing. Just trust me.”

I nodded and closed my menu.
“Sure.” I took a sip of the wine.

“How is it?”

I only knew enough about wine to
know that I didn't appreciate it. “It’s really great.”

He smiled. “I'm glad you like it.
It's a white burgundy. One of my mom's favorites."

"Very cool."

I looked around the restaurant
uncomfortably. He didn’t seem to have anything to say. I cleared my throat
awkwardly and fiddled with my place setting.

“So, what do you normally drink?"
he asked.

"I don't know, honestly,"
I smiled. "Whatever's available. So this is a real treat."

"I would've thought you knew
more about wine."

"Really? Why?"

"You grew up so close to
Napa."

I lifted my shoulders haplessly.
"Yeah. I don't know. I guess you'll just have to be the expert tonight."

He laughed. “Fine be me.”

"So." I cleared my
throat. "Valentine's Day issue."

“It's a good idea. Juliet Robinson
came up with it. You know Juliet? She does the local news roundup and campus
crime report?"

I nodded. "Of course, she’s
really good."

"Right?" Andrew said.
"Anyways, people don't read her articles. She did an article about sexual
assault on campus in September. It got like 22 hits on the website."

I exhaled. "So, the
alternative is writing about Valentine's Day?"

"It’s just changing the
packaging. Love, sex, and relationships on campus. All the stuff that nobody
talks about after freshman orientation like date rape and safe sex. We can make
it personal. Juliet has spoken to a bunch of different people who said they'd
be willing to write about their experiences."

I sighed.

"It's a good idea, Hadley.
What’s your problem with it?” he smiled.

"It’s a newspaper," I
said. "Our job is to cover the news. It's not to be advocates for social
change or to celebrate a holiday. I mean, Andrew, come on. It's like doing an
Easter issue to draw attention to the plight of factory farm animals.”

He grinned. "Except for it’s a
secular holiday and the victims aren't factory farm animals but fellow
students. And Valentine’s Day is a relationship holiday. It’s not a stretch to
do an issue that deals with relationships.”

I opened my mouth and then closed
it. I sipped my wine. Andrew smirked and I sighed.

"Listen, I know you hate
Valentine's Day," Andrew said.

"I don't hate it. I think it's
stupid," I said. "I also think my mother's kitten Priscilla is stupid
and I adore her. And I'm not saying we should cover these issues. We should.
But we shouldn't use sex and the color pink to package them."

"Valentine's Day is not just
about sex."

"Yeah, it's also about pink.
And flowers. And chocolate. And teddy bears. None of which are newsworthy.”

He laughed. “You’re such a cynic.
You don't think it's at least a little bit about relationships?"  I took
another sip of wine and Andrew reached for the bottle. He refilled my glass and
then his.

I shook my head. "It's not at
all about relationships. It's about sex. You and I have a relationship. David
and I have a relationship. Juliet and I have a relationship. And Valentine's
Day isn't about any of those relationships. It's about relationships between
people having sex with each other. Or between people who want to have sex with
each other.”

Andrew gave me a small smile.
"You really think that's the only difference?"

“Yeah. Otherwise people would marry
their best friends all the time,” I said.

"Some people do.”

"Do what?"

"Marry their best friends.”

I shook my head. “The whole thing
is antiquated. Marriage was a social construct to protect property and ensure
that women with children weren’t abandoned. It doesn’t make biological sense.
It made social sense before the advent of birth control, but now it's basically
a moot point. It's on the decline: marriage, relationships, all that."