Jane Air

His face looks at mine and I see a flash of something.
Sadness.
And I get it.
In that brief moment, I understand.
I think back to all the times I’ve overheard students and colleagues and strangers laughing about celebrity break ups, or discussing the names of children of people they’ve never met, or criticizing fashion choices or mocking personal lives. The covers of tabloids in the doctor’s office or a waiting room.
Thrown out of the house!
Pregnant and alone!
$400 million divorce!
Photos of men and women buying groceries, getting in and out of cars, walking their dogs, going to the gym.
Celebs! They’re just like us!
Except they’re not.
When we buy groceries, get in and out of cars, and walk our dogs, no one gives a shit. There are no cameras angling for an up-skirt photo, or camped out over night to follow us to the store, follow us as we drop our kids off at school or go on a date, laugh at our heartbreak or financial ruin.
And it’s all ok because they’re rich and we’re not.
They have money. They entertain the public. So they belong to the public.
Everyone knows what to expect, I’ve heard again and again. Everyone knows it’s part of the deal.
And maybe it is. Maybe that is the bargain. Modern day royalty, limitless money and houses and boats and diamonds and getting to be with, and be one of, the beautiful people.
In exchange for everything else.
For privacy.
For a personal life.
For the ability to walk down the street without harassment.
For making friends or lovers with the confidence that they love you for you, not who they assume you are, based on a job you did once.
Based on what they think you can give them.
I look at this beautiful man, the picture of masculinity, the face of a billion dollar franchise, living the dream, and I feel bad for him.
“You know,” I choose my words delicately, picking them as gingerly as if I were setting a dinner table with fine china, “this town is different. I’m not saying there won’t be talk or some staring at first, but Midnight is a good place. We’ll get used to you. You chose well.”
He looks at me, those silver screen eyes catching mine and my breath stops in my throat. A small flicker of something, maybe doubt.
Or humor.
Or hope.
He nods, small and slow and I feel like I am making contact with a wild creature, some forest-dwelling mountain lion who is seeing a human being for the first time.
“But why didn’t you download it?” I can’t help but ask. “Don’t you have wifi?”
“Internet’s fine,” he moves away from the door. “But I prefer books.”
I turn as he walks past me, pivoting my body to follow his shoulders. My eyes glance down a hallway. Empty. And towards another hallway.
Empty.
“Well, I get that.” I laugh lightly, trying to break the tension. “You’ve seen my office. But,” I look back towards the empty hallway, the bare walls, the empty floor, “books sure can take up space. You don’t seem to like to…” I flounder for the words, “have things.”
He laughs, a dark, hollow sound. “I’ve had things. Everything. More things than I could possibly want. More things than I did want,” he rolls his shoulders and rubs his neck with one hand and I want to run my fingers across this back, rub my hands across his skin and soothe his every worry. “And when I didn’t want them anymore, I realized I didn’t know what I did want. Until I do know, I’m not getting anything.”
That look again, slightly haunted, slightly sad, like a dog worried he’ll be hit.
But then he shakes his head and it’s gone. “Except for a few books.”
Dazzling smile, movie star good looks. “I am sorry I wasn’t prepared today. It won’t happen again,” he pauses, “if you’ll come back.”
I nod slowly.
There is a discomfort in me, a small voice telling me I have agreed to something far bigger and more important than just taking on a new student.
He stares at me. I reach into my bag, his eyes never leaving mine while my hand searches blindly through the contents of my mammoth purse.
I find it, the slim, straight volume. Paperback, but barely opened, still possessing that wonderful new book smell.
My hand shakes when I pass it to him, his eyes glancing with surprise at the title, then back to my face.
“Until your order comes in,” I clear my throat, “you can read this.”
He nods, reaching forward and taking the text gingerly from my hand. “My shipment should arrive on Friday.”
“Then I will see you Friday,” I breath out, trying my best to resurrect my professor face, my professor voice, “at which point, you will have read this and prepared a discussion on the depictions of masculinity and gender politics within the text.”
Another nod, those siren eyes bearing into mine. I force myself to breathe slowly, a long, deep inhale to prevent myself from fainting.
Good lord.
Piercing is apt.
Straight through me. Tearing through my lungs and taking my breath with it.
“Don’t,” I step towards the door, fumbling for the handle, “lose my book.”
***
“You got a text!” Jessica calls from the kitchen.
“What’s it say?” I ask, voice loud, as Penelope and I struggle to lift one of Kate’s priceless glass sculptures up and away from her mantel. She stands behind us, instructing our movements with brief grunts and sharp hand gestures. No words are needed apparently, and I feel an instant swell of pity for her many assistants.
“It says, ‘Heathcliff is a dick.’”
Penelope laughs before Kate’s disapproving tsk silences her.
“Poor Heathcliff,” Christine clucks from behind Kate. She stands, holding a hammer and nails.
“Who is Heathcliff?” Dory asks, her small form dwarfed by the massive painting we will soon be hanging.
“He’s a character.”
“Well, he would be with a name like that,” Christine says. Dory nods.
“No, he’s a character in a book.”
Penelope rolls her eyes as we move, slowly and in step, across Kate’s oriental and towards the kitchen table, enormous vase clutched between us.
“What are you, on a