Winter Jacket: Finding Home (30 page)

Despite the words that had tumbled from her lips, pre-orgasm, she now looked mildly embarrassed by what had transpired.

I stood up on unsteady legs. My knees were sore and would probably be bruised later. “Do you want to get dinner later?” I asked. “Maybe a movie?”

With capable hands, Hunter carefully re-tied the drawstring tight around her waist. “I don’t want you to think I only used you for sex, but I’m not ready to start dating again. I’m kind of enjoying being single.”

“Is that so?” A cold chill shot up my spine.

“I love you, Ellio. That hasn’t changed.”

I felt my face crumple and a lump formed in my throat, too large for me to swallow down.
Don’t cry,
I told myself.
Don’t you fucking cry.

“But …” I knew there had to be a But.

“But,” she continued, “maybe you were right about us meeting too soon. We got so serious so fast, and you were my first relationship with a woman.”

“And you don’t want me to be your last,” I guessed.

“I never said that,” she frowned deeply.

“So sex is fine, but dinner is off-limits?” I couldn’t help the sudden edge to my voice. This was the second time she’d done this to me—had sex but then rejected my attempts to reestablish a relationship.

“Please don’t be angry,” she bargained. “You have to understand that I never expected you to come back. I thought I’d lost you to Hollywood, and I had to get used to that reality.”

“But I’m back,” I declared.

“For how long? Until you get bored of teaching again and start looking for your next adventure across the country?”

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” I huffed in mutual annoyance and despair. “I’m back. I’m here. And I want you, Hunter.”

“I need time,” she said.

I didn’t want to fight, especially not in a hospital utility closet.

“I’ll give you time,” I said. “But don’t expect me to wait around forever.”

The words were an empty threat. The hand-drawn picture of a red hermit crab and a cuttlefish on the ocean floor felt heavy in the back pocket of my jeans.

I’d wait.

When I returned home later that afternoon, I drew myself a hot bath, fully intending to sulk and feel sorry for myself. When Troian called mid-soak, I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, not even my best friend, but despite my misgivings, I answered the phone.

“Hey, what’s up?” I asked.

“We wrapped up shooting your episode today.”

“Oh, yeah? How did it turn out?”

“Jackson and I still have to cut it together, but I’m feeling pretty good about it.”

“Good. I’m glad.” 

Even though I still believed leaving California had been the right thing to do, I couldn’t help the nagging guilt that I’d left before my episode had wrapped. But I’d told Troian I would give her until December, and I’d followed through on that promise.

“Do you want me to send you the director’s cut when we finish it?” she offered. 

“No. I can wait until it airs. I like surprises.” Besides the pilot, I hadn’t watched any other episodes. 

“Why do you sound so echo-y?”

“You’re on speaker phone, and I’m in the bathtub.”

“Gross.”

“Don’t start with me,” I sighed. I poked at the reddish-purple marks on my knees.

“What’s got you in a mood?

I bit out the name that still gave me butterflies: “Hunter.”

“Are you still mooning about what happened at the coffee shop?”

“No. We … I went to see her at the hospital for lunch. We sort of hooked up.”

“How do you ‘sort of’ hook up?”

“Well, it was one sided. And in a hospital supply closet.”

“Kinky,” Troian remarked. “So why are you pissed?”

“Because that’s all it was—a hook up. She doesn’t want anything more from me. When we finished, and I asked if she wanted to go out to dinner or see a movie later, she said no. That she’s enjoying being single.” Even now the words left a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Didn’t your mom ever teach you about the cow who gives away her milk for free? She’s jerking you around. I thought you were smarter and stronger than that,” Troian scolded.

Troian’s words stung because they were true. “I’m not going to visit her anymore,” I said with stubborn resolve. “She knows how to find me, and she knows I want a relationship. The ball’s in her court now.”

“She knows she can have all the fun she wants and you’ll still be waiting around for her when she gets bored of the single scene,” Troian countered.

“I’m not
waiting around
,” I bristled.

“Have you been on a date since you guys broke up?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve been busy—first at the studio and then planning your wedding and now transitioning back to life here and getting into a teaching groove.”

“I’m hearing a lot of excuses.”

“Okay, so I haven’t been on a date.”

“And why not?”

“Because that means I’m trying to move on. I don’t want to move on. I want Hunter.”

“I know you do. And I’m not suggesting you move on, Bookie. Not exactly.”

“I’m not having a one-night stand.”

Troian’s laughter rattled through my phone’s microphone. “You’re assuming you have any game left to even accomplish that.”

“I haven’t been out of the game for that long,” I sulked.

“Before your little closet rendezvous, when was the last time you got laid?”

“Your wedding night.”

“Gross. Don’t go there.”

“I’m serious,” I laughed despite the context of our conversation. “Hunter came back to my hotel room with me.”

“How am I just hearing about this now?” she exclaimed.

“There wasn’t time. You were on your honeymoon.”

“You still should have told me.”

“It wasn’t important at the time.”

“If you want Hunter back sooner, rather than later, you’ve got to let her know you won’t wait around forever, that you’re not some chick to be at her beckon call who’ll jump back into a relationship with her when she’s finally ready to be a couple again.”

I rubbed at the bridge of my nose. “And how do you propose I do that?” I could pretty much guarantee that I wasn’t going to like her idea.

“Jealousy, my friend. Parade around some young hot thing where Hunter will be sure to see you.”

Yup. I was right. Troian’s ideas were the worst.

“I’m not going to drag someone else into this. Plus, it’s totally manipulative and someone’s bound to get hurt.”

“When did you turn into a responsible adult?” Troian chuckled.

“Who knows.”

“Don’t you have some hot friends you can buy a drink for at the bar, or go for a walk with in front of the hospital where Hunter works or her apartment?”

“On the off-chance that Hunter sees us and then assumes it’s a date? This sounds like a lot of planning and a lot of stalking.”

“Are you saying Hunter’s not worth a little bit of effort? Don’t get lazy on me now, Bookie.”

CHAPTER Nineteen

The e-mail address in my inbox was a name I didn’t immediately recognize, but the message inside was from Dean Merlot. Her administrative assistant had sent out an invitation to a start-of-the-semester dinner hosted at the Dean’s house. After what had happened in my living room, I wasn’t anxious to see Jessica Merlot again, but I couldn’t avoid her forever; there would be faculty meetings and even just the random run-in on campus. Better to get the awkwardness out of the way right away.

I RSVP’d to the event and bought a bottle of merlot to dinner—a detail that I hoped would unravel any early evening tension. I had thought about reaching out to Emily or even to Thad, a fellow associate professor in the English department, to see if they wanted to carpool to the Dean’s house, but more so than my concern for the ozone layer, I simply didn’t want to show up by myself. There was strength in numbers.

It turned out that Dean Merlot didn’t live very far from me. I had purposely bought a house within walking distance from campus and she had done the same. Her house, however, looked far more extravagant and elegant than my bungalow. The red brick home with white columns and shutters was a colonial revival so large that I couldn’t imagine only one person lived there. A holiday wreath with a red bow still hung from the front door. The evergreen hedges at the front of the house, situated beneath twin picture windows, were perfectly manicured. The ground was still covered in snow, but the walkway up to the house had been cleared with a layer of rock salt to take care of any lingering ice.

The lights were ablaze inside Dean Merlot’s house, but as I stood out on the front stoop, I couldn’t hear the sound of voices mingling beyond the closed door. I pulled up the invitation on my phone to make sure I’d gotten the time right, but I’d arrived right at the time indicated on the e-mail. Not even the hurry up and waiting of Hollywood had been able to break me of my discomfort over being late. I knocked on the front door and waited, clutching the bottle of wine in my free hand.

The door swung open and Jessica stood on the other side of the threshold. “Elle,” she greeted with a warm smile. “Welcome.” She leaned in, and I momentarily froze. Her lips brushed the side of my face in cordial greeting. “Come on in,” she said, leaning back.

“Thank you.” I stepped across the threshold and into the warmth of her home.

The front foyer was small for how large the rest of the house was. We stood in a confined space. Directly in front of me was a painted white wooden staircase. To the left was a formal living room with stiff-looking antique furniture. Just beyond that was a formal dining room, complete with a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

“Your house is pretty fancy,” I remarked.

“It’s actually the university’s. It’s a little much, I know,” she smiled tightly. “Work has been too busy for me to find someplace of my own yet.”

“Hasn’t it been a year already?”

“Like I said, work keeps me busy.”

“Am I early?” I openly worried. Soft music filtered through the air, but conspicuously missing was the sound of other people.

“No, you’re right on time—a trait I hold in high esteem.”

“But where’s everyone else?”

Jessica’s features scrunched in confusion. “Who?”

“Everyone else,” I repeated. “Where are the other professors?”

“The other …” Jessica trailed off. “You thought this was a dinner for all faculty?”

“The e-mail came from your secretary. There was an RSVP date.”

Jessica’s cheeks hollowed. “I’m probably too formal for my own good. It’s fine,” she dismissed, her body becoming rigid. “You don’t have to stay.” She turned on her heel and click-clacked away in her stilettos, leaving me standing in the foyer, still in my winter coat and with a bottle of wine in my hands.

“Jessica,” I called after her.

She disappeared through a white swinging door, giving me no other option but to follow after her.

On the other side of the door was a gourmet kitchen. Beyond the appliances and countertops and cabinets was a sunken informal dining area.

Jessica was pulling a glass casserole dish out of the oven when I walked into the kitchen.

I announced my presence with a question whose answer was obvious: “You made dinner?”

Her head snapped up. “I’m not a terribly good cook, but there’s a few things I can make well.” She tossed the casserole dish onto an empty countertop. Two skinless, boneless chicken breasts were inside and looked like they’d been stuffed with something creamy.

I lingered in the doorway. Various pots and saucepans cluttered the stovetop. Guilt overwhelmed every other emotion; she’d obviously gone to a lot of trouble. “I’d hate for all this food to go to waste.”

“I won’t throw it away. It’ll keep as leftovers.”

“Are you rescinding my invitation?”

Jessica wiped her hands on a tea towel. “Of course not. But you shouldn’t stay if you think I lured you here under false pretenses.”

I honestly didn’t know what to think about the e-mail invitation. I’d have to look it over again when I got home.