Lucy Wagner Gets In Shape (A Romantic Comedy) (7 page)

“Well, he may need a ride,” Will adds thoughtfully. “Or some chinos. Let’s call Old Navy!”

Finally, we continue on our way down the lake, and Will starts whistling the banjo song from “Deliverance”, and, weirdly enough, I don’t think I’ve been so happy in weeks. Months. Ages. I hated being irritated at Will, but now I’m not…and I hardly ever think about Paul anymore…and I’m off to a job interview a few weeks. For the first time in a long time, I finally feel like my life is getting back on track.

***

Holy crap, these heels feel like they’re made out of crushed razor blades. But I can’t think about that now—as I “click-clack-click” down the tiled hall, I’m focused on my worry for Will, who is holed up in his office having a bit of a nervous breakdown. When I popped my head in twenty minutes ago, he was chewing on a “chip-clip” fastener (I already anxiety-ate the entire bag of Cool Ranch Doritos it was originally fastened to), listening to some kind of Indian Bollywood music and playing Grand Theft Auto on his computer. I decided to give him a few minutes to get himself together, but now it’s show time.

“Hey, Fishy. Let’s get a move on.”

Today is Will’s tenure talk. That’s when a professor who’s up for tenure gives a talk about his research and teaching, and basically “sells” himself to the college. The talk is geared towards the senior faculty in the department, but everyone is invited—faculty, grad students, members of other departments. Basically, anyone who’s looking for a glass of lukewarm punch and an hour to kill can sit in. But still, everyone dresses up and acts quite formal, which makes it even more nerve-wracking for the candidate.

Although I am a good six or seven years away from such a career milestone, just seeing Will go through it is seriously freaking me out. People outside of academia don’t really understand the tenure process. They think you teach somewhere for a while, and then you get a job for life. Sometimes that’s the case, but it’s so much more complicated than that. You spend years slaving away as an assistant professor, but if the senior faculty don’t like you, or feel threatened by you, or are still pissed about that day you stole the covered parking space by the coffee bar, they can vote you out. No questions asked. And denial of tenure isn’t like being passed over in a job interview—it’s major news. It’s like the Scarlet Letter (minus the sex)—you’re damaged goods, and nobody else wants you.

So, it’s fair to say that Will’s under a bit of pressure right now.

“Yes. Okay. I’m ready.” Will has removed the chip clip from his mouth, and I can hear his stolen car crash on the computer as he abandons the controls.

“”C’mere,” I say quickly, and he obeys, seemingly in a nerve-induced trance. I reach up to straighten his tie, and brush some nonexistent dust off the shoulder of his blazer. Then, I take a few steps back and give him an exaggerated once-over. Honestly, he looks quite handsome. “I think you’re ready, Grasshopper. Remember, wax on, wax off.”

“Have you ever even
seen
Kung Fu?”

“No, but read they’re going to make a movie about David Carradine’s life, and, you know…how he died.” I whisper the last part in a confidential tone.

“Gross.”

“Sorry, sorry. Eyes on the prize.”

“Please stop talking in motivational catch-phrases,” he snaps, and I shut my mouth quickly. Not that I’m a sadist or anything, but it’s kind of fun seeing Will so wound up. Under normal circumstances he is the most relaxed person I’ve ever met. It’s like meeting a whole new side of him—a side that is now gnawing on his own thumbnail like a starving beaver.

“Stop that,” I murmur, slapping his thumb from his mouth. Will looks a bit chastised, and I feel a pang of guilt. “Now come on, Jeff’s got your stuff set up on the computer. There’s a good crowd…” I see Will’s eyes widen. “I mean, pretty good. Not great. Mostly friends.”

We get to the teaching theater and Will goes up front to get his materials together. I join Jenny near the back of the room, and we both give him a “thumbs up”. He squints at us and gives a surreptitious thumb back, and then old Dr. Northrup is introducing him to the crowd.

For the next hour, I am mesmerized by Will. I mean, completely floored. I’ve seen him teach before, but mainly in graduate seminars, where the students actually do most of the teaching, and the professor just kind of sits back and oversees the proceedings. But Will is really
on
today, and he’s brilliant! He’s invigorating, and insightful, and he can make a talk on the implications of institutional bias on parliamentary behavior…
funny
! I feel a little tremor go down my spine, and settle in the pit of my stomach. I know it’s because I’m so proud of him. When I look over at Jen, she’s studying me, with a very weird look on her face. Very weird.

“What?” The talk is over, and Will’s chatting with some members of the audience. Everyone is laughing and backslapping, even Dr. Lance, who’s usually about as animated as a snail.

“Nothing.” But she’s got a sneaky little smile, and I know something’s up.

“Bullshit it’s nothing.” But I don’t even care, I’m too busy pushing her shoulder excitedly. “Wasn’t he fantastic? God, that was just brilliant. Did you see Brightman
laugh
? Honest to God, I thought I was hallucinating for a second. And Dr. Avants asked him three questions.
Three!
”

“Who the hell are you?” Will asks incredulously. “Who the hell are
you
? You’re one of the two girls taking me out to get plastered this afternoon. As in, right now. I mean it. Now,” Will insists, picking up our purses from the floor and shoving them into our chests impatiently. We make our way to The Duck and order a bucket of beer. The place is pretty empty, since it’s only four o’clock, but by the time the after-work crowd starts filing in, we’ve all got a nice little buzz going.

“So, do you think Lance will call tonight?” I ask. Immediately after Will’s talk, the faculty met and voted on Will’s tenure bid. They’ve already had his packet for a week, and everyone has had a chance to look over his publications and student evaluations. Although today’s talk might have swayed one or two votes, the decision about Will’s tenure was probably made long before today. Now all we have to do is wait for the call from Professor Lance, who is the head of the tenure and review committee.

“I dunno, I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to sound too eager.”

“Geez, Will, what’s wrong with sounding eager? Your entire future is on the line here!” I’ve had a few beers, so I say all this rather dramatically. The bartender shoots me a suspicious glance. It’s one of those “will I be kicking her out of here later?” glances.

“Wow, thanks.” Will says dryly.

“Sorry.” I start peeling the label off of my Bud Light. “I’m sure he’ll call tonight. Does he have your cell number?” And now I’m obsessing.

“Girl, leave him alone,” Jen laughs, and we all try our best to relax. And by ‘try our best to relax,’ I mean drink beer until Jenny and I are belting out old New Kids on the Block songs at the top of our lungs, and Will is hugging the beer bucket against his cheek, chanting “shut up, shut up, shut up.”

Around nine o’clock, Dax comes to join us, and after we scarf down two Hawaiian pizzas, we call it an early night. Will and I make our way to the shuttle stop—he can actually walk to his place from The Duck, but he sits with me on the bench while I wait for the bus. We’ve sobered up a bit since we ate our pizza.

“You don’t have to wait here with me, you know. You must be exhausted.” I’m studying him under the harsh light of the shuttle canopy—his tie hangs limply around his neck, and the stubble on his chin makes him look even more rumpled. There are dark circles under his eyes.

“Of course I do.”

“No, you
think
you do, because your mother filled your head with antiquated notions of chivalry in a male-dominated social structure.”

“Yes, that must be it. I’ll leave you to it, then.” He gets up to leave, and I let forth a giggle and grab his arm. I really don’t want to wait for the bus alone in the dark.

He relents easily, and then we both freeze when his cell phone begins to ring.

“Hey, Rich.” It’s Dr. Lance. I knew he’d call. There’s a bit of silence, and Will turns away from me, sticking his finger in his free ear to hear better. It seems like Dr. Lance is doing all the talking. Will’s nodding, but hasn’t really said much. I can’t tell what’s going on. Is this good or bad? Shit.

“Tuesday sounds good,” Will says finally, and now I’m really confused. What? What about Tuesday? This is driving me nuts.

“All right, Rich, will do. Thanks.” Will hangs up, his back still facing me. I realize that I’ve been chewing my bottom lip painfully.

“What?” I practically shriek. “What’s Tuesday good for? A celebration? A ritual killing?”

He finally turns to face me. “A meeting over at the Provost’s office. Apparently I have to be there when he submits my paperwork for tenure.”

“Omigod! Omigod!” I jump up like a Jack-in-the-Box and fling myself into his arms. Hugging him close, I bury my face in the crook of his neck. He holds on to steady me, his bottom hand on the small of my back, his top cupping the nape of my neck. “I am so happy for you,” I squeak into his shoulder.

After a moment he pulls back and looks into my eyes seriously. I’m still cradled in his embrace. And then he leans down and kisses me. Just like that. It’s so soft; it’s not even really a kiss, just two pairs of lips brushing each other, tiny touches that almost fail to register. God, this can’t be happening, can it? We’ve had too much beer.

Finally, he lifts his head from mine. His eyes are wide. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“S’okay,” I whisper back. And then I reach up and pull his lips back to mine. Harder this time. I hear his sharp intake of air…sense his mouth opening…feel his tongue reach to touch mine. They are very happy to meet each other.

One thought hits me out of the blue: He’s not like Paul at all.

He’s so much
better
.

Go figure—sweet, goofy Will, all arms and elbows and gangly charm--It’s
his
kisses that make my knees weak; make my nerve-endings zing; make the blood rush to all the important parts in warm waves of pleasure. As we come up for air, I realize that I’ve slipped my hands under his blazer, and my palms are gripping his shirtfront like two vices. I pull back abruptly—kind of like ripping off a band-aid.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“S’okay.” We stare at each other for a long moment. It looks like Will wants to say something, but we’re interrupted by the squealing brakes of the shuttle bus as it comes to a halt in front of us.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Luce.” He gives me a shaky grin, and somehow I end up on the bus, although for the life of me I don’t remember climbing the steps or sliding into my seat.

Chapter Eight

To Do:

Seriously, I need to stop thinking about Will. We had a long talk on Monday at work, and he totally agreed with me when I told him our bus stop kiss was a huge mistake. I mean, we can’t screw around, we’re best friends. Certainly it was the alcohol that made us act so foolishly. And the excitement of Will’s tenure success. And the fact that both of us are without partners at the moment. I mean, let’s face it, we’re both probably just…horny.

So, that’s over and done, and it’s a
huge
relief. I mean it. I feel so much better now. So much better.

Then why can’t I stop thinking about him? It’s probably because I’m embarrassed. It kind of feels like the day I walked in on my brother while he was getting out of the shower. Well, strike that. It kind of feels like I walked in on my brother getting out of the shower and
enjoyed
it. Not my real brother, of course--I mean Will.

Well, shit, you know what I mean.

Anyway, the important thing is that I’m feeling much better about the whole situation. In fact, I’m not in the least bit nervous about seeing Will this afternoon—we’re going biking, and I really hit the jackpot at the sporting goods store this morning—I got some great biking shorts that actually have pads in the butt (I’m going to tell everyone they are for comfort, but I really bought them because I have a flat ass, and they make my booty look healthy); some super-cool biking gloves; more tanks; and some biking shoes with the clips that keep your feet on the pedals. I am going to look so dope (in the good way).

I’m getting ready to leave for the bike shop when the doorbell rings. I’m intrigued, because my doorbell never rings. I open the door and see Paul, looking
delicious
in a mossy green button-down and dark-wash jeans. It takes all my strength to hate him when he looks this good.

“Oh…hey.”

“Hey, Luce. Laurie called me earlier, we’ve got an offer on the condo. Have you got a second to sit down and look at it?” He waves a manila envelope in my face.