She pulls me inside and closes the door behind her.
Decision made. My fling with Kimmy is over.
kimmy waits
Sunday, November 30, 10:07 p.m.
Why hasn’t he called?
I kissed him goodbye on Wednesday afternoon. I thought he would call the next day. Truth is, I hoped he would call Wednesday night after he landed. Or from the airport while he was waiting for his flight. That would have been amazing. But I wasn’t asking for that. No. All I was asking is that he call at some point over the weekend. Is that too much to ask? That the guy I’ve been hooking up with for the past month call me to wish me a happy Thanksgiving?
I’m lying on my bed, wearing a tank top and panties, sweating and staring at the ceiling. My flight landed two hours ago. I thought Russ would be here by now. The central heating is on full blast, so it’s boiling in here. I don’t mind the heat; I’m used to it from home. It was gorgeous in Arizona. A nice eighty-six degrees. Here it’s forty-two. My body is officially confused. And the Zoo feels like ninety degrees. I saw a guy wearing shorts and a tank top strolling through the hallways. I wonder if he’ll keep that outfit on all winter. The same weirdness occurs in Arizona. I’ll be wearing sandals and a minidress outside because it’s a hundred and thirty degrees, but I need to put on long underwear and a parka to go to the air-conditioned mall.
So far the cold in Connecticut hasn’t been so terrible. The gusts of air are refreshing. They make me feel alive. Like sex. Which it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting tonight. I left my cell phone on the entire time I was home so he could reach me. He could have gotten through while my mother was whining about how miserable her job is. Or while my father grilled me about whether I was wasting my time and money on getting an MBA. Or when I ran into Wayne and Cheryl together at the Rhythm Room and had to maintain a stupid plastic smile on my face.
It was the power-on cell in my purse that kept me sane, reminding me that, yes, there is something good in my life. The very possibility of it ringing was my reason for getting out of bed in the morning.
But now it’s Sunday night, and he still hasn’t called.
What does it mean? That he wasn’t thinking about me? That he was with Sharon the entire weekend? That he doesn’t want to see me anymore?
I feel sick and hot and nauseous. I open the window to fill my room with air so I don’t faint. Or cry. He doesn’t want me anymore. He’d rather be with Sharon.
What do I do? I need a new plan.
I pick up the phone and call him, but he doesn’t answer. What if he’s decided that he can’t live without her? That he’s going to transfer to the business school in Toronto?
The open window doesn’t seem to be helping the room temperature. What’s wrong with me? Why is my heart beating so loudly? I don’t understand why I want him so much. Yes, he’s hot and smart and serious, but so are other guys here. Why do I want the one guy who’s taken? Is it the challenge? Am I worthless if he doesn’t want me? Is it the way he plays with my secret ear spot?
I call his room again.
“Hello?” He’s back! Why hasn’t he come by if he’s home?
“Hi, it’s me. Can you come by?”
“I…um…” He’s stalling. Why is he stalling?
“Just for a few minutes, okay? See you soon.” I hang up before he can turn me down.
I open the bottle of red wine, pour two glasses, light two candles, turn off the lights and take off my clothes.
It’s all about strategy.
layla hits the books
Monday, December 1, 7:02 a.m.
I push open the heavy oak library doors, slightly astounded that I was the only one waiting for the security guard to unlock them. How are more students not taking advantage of the library’s extended hours? From today, the first Monday after Thanksgiving, until LWBS shuts down for winter holidays on December 19, the library will be open from seven until midnight, seven days a week.
The rolling of my bag’s wheels against the polished floor echoes through the empty atrium. I ride the elevator up to the fourth floor and head for my favorite cubicle beside the window. First I skim through the business section of the paper while I sip my coffee. Then I pull out my pencil case, Economics textbook, course pack and binder from my bag. I’ve already done all my reading for today, so I’ll start on tomorrow’s cases. First thing in the morning is my favorite time to study. It’s quiet and serene. Three-thirty is the most frustrating time. Too many people are here engaging in group meetings. My classmates often fail to remember that they’re in a library and that others are trying to study.
For the next twenty minutes I lose myself in Economics, until a large hand squeezes my shoulder.
“Mini-muffin?” offers the voice attached to the hand. I turn to see Jamie passing me a small brown bag. “The bakery down the street makes the most amazing mini-muffins. Have you tried ’em? You gotta try ’em.”
Don’t mind if I do. I peer into the bag and pull out two blueberry and one chocolate chip. “What are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?”
He peers at his watch. “It’s seven.” Then he gasps. “Oh, shit, is that seven a.m.? I thought I slept through the day. The muffins were my dinner.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“Always.” He winks and pulls up a chair. “What are you reading?”
“Econ.”
“Yeah? I hate Economics. I’m going to read OB. Do you happen to have your OB course pack so I can borrow it?”
I find it in my bag and hand it to him. “What would you have done if I wasn’t here?”
“They keep a few copies on the fifth floor.” He flips through the book with his thumb like it’s a fan, then gestures to my bag. “So, when’s the flight?”
“Ha-ha.”
“No seriously, why is your bag on wheels?”
“I like to have all my books with me for reference. No need to strain my back.” People should be kinder to their backs. They only get one. “How was your weekend?”
“Warm. It was ninety degrees in Miami.”
He doesn’t look like he just got back from Miami. He’s paler than I am. “Did you have fun?”
“Oh, yeah. My parents live in a retirement community now, so we partied hard. Played some shuffleboard, a little bingo. Had the early-bird special for dinner. Wild and crazy times. You?”
“I had a nice time. My sister and I have a place in the Upper East Side, so I went back there. I saw my parents for Thanksgiving dinner and some friends on Saturday night.”
“Bet you have a huge Thanksgiving bash, turkey and all the trimmings.”
Not quite. “My mother doesn’t cook much, and the maid was with her family, so we just went to Nobu. No big deal.” Not really.
“I make a mean-ass turkey,” Jamie brags.
“Yeah? Maybe I’ll invite you for Christmas dinner. Have you ever been to a Christmas dinner?”
He shakes his head. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Is there a Hanukkah dinner? What exactly is Hanukkah?”
He leans back, balancing his chair on its hind legs. “It’s the story of how one small jug of oil lasted for eight long days.”
“Do you get presents?”
“No. My parents are misers. You’re supposed to get eight presents, one for every day of the miracle. But my mother used to use it as an excuse to replace my socks. So I’d get eight new pairs.”
“That’s awful.” His balancing is making me a little nervous. He could easily teeter over any second.
“I know. My bubbe always gets me good presents, though. She once bought me one of those toy cars that you can drive around your house. You know what I mean? I bet you had one. Never mind. I bet you got a real car for Christmas.”
He must think I’m so spoiled. “Only twice.” He looks shocked, so I say, “Just kidding. Only once.”