Jane Air

old books. So I may have been ready to give it all up, but I had no back-up plan. There was never any time to build one.”
She shakes her head, sipping slowly from her cup. “But I got this position, here in Midnight, and I was so thrilled. I didn’t tell anyone for a week because I was worried I had imagined the whole thing. Or they were going to change their minds. So I kept it a secret up until my deadline for responding.”
“You know,” I move forward, bringing my elbows to rest on the table, “I moved to LA at 19. I had some success with a commercial or two in New York when I was a kid, taking the train in from New Jersey to audition on weekends. And I figured, well, hey, it can’t be that hard. I’m already making some money so it’s just a matter of time before I make more.”
“And, man,” I close my eyes, remembering those early years, two decades ago. “I shared this shitty one bedroom with three other guys, all of us trying to make it as actors, all of us waiting tables. And everyone I met was an actor, or trying to be. Taking classes. Going to auditions. Quitting day jobs when their boss wouldn’t let them go to an audition. Not paying the rent. At one point we had another guy sleeping on our couch. So there were five of us. In 400 square feet.”
“Wow.”
“And what’s crazy is, they were all really good. I remember going to one of their plays. And it was amazing. Dave, the guy in it, who was sleeping on our couch at the time, was fantastic. The audience lost their minds over his monologue. And I just sat there, in the back, thinking, ‘I’ll never be able to do that. I’ll never be that level of success.’”
“Where’s Dave now?”
“I don’t know. I never see him in anything. And we lost contact.”
“Maybe you should reach out.”
I shrug. “It’s hard. And…”
“What?” Those big, brown eyes staring at me. I realize I want to tell her everything. I want to open up, let her in, let her see me, in a way I haven’t let anyone see me in a long time.
“He’s better than me. He never made any money, and no one knows his name. But he’s so much better.”
She nods. No judgement. No condescension. No even a joke, or a reference to my wealth, as so many do. As if being rich means being immune to everything.
“In the last year of my PhD, there was this one guy in my department. Adam.” She grins and takes a swig of her coffee. “Total douchebag. Loud. Very confident. And not particularly bright. Like, I never thought he was some kind of genius, even though he clearly thought that. I used to stare at him, actually, when I knew he wasn’t looking, because I just couldn’t get over how impressed with himself he was.”
“Sounds like a great guy.”
“Well,” she points her little professor finger at me, “he teaches at Princeton now. Got the job straight out of the gate. Hadn’t even handed in his dissertation.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah, it was very cool. But it made me feel like an idiot. I mean, here I was, no job offer, and then this guy lands the holy grail of academic positions and I didn’t even think he was any good. So, not only did I feel like a loser who couldn’t get a job, but I felt like a moron who didn’t recognize his ‘genius’ when everyone else did.”
“He might not be a genius. Maybe he just got lucky.”
She shakes her head emphatically. “He’s not. I’m sure of it. If he’s a genius, then I’m a shoe. And he got super lucky. Adam.” She says his name with contempt, as though the sound leaves a rotten flavor in her mouth.
I like this side of her. Competitive. Funny.
“Are you saying I just got lucky?”
“No, no. Well, maybe,” she reaches across the table, patting my hand. Her skin is warm against mine. “Look, there’s nothing wrong with being lucky. And being lucky doesn’t mean you have no talent.” She pauses. “Except for Adam.”
I laugh. She laughs. We look at each other, comfortable in our conversation. I lean back in my chair, and I notice she is too. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this comfortable, this at ease, with a woman or with anyone else.
“I like you, Jane.”
She stiffens. The defenses go up. I can practically see them, these invisible shields closing around her like a suit of armor.
“I mean,” I reach across the table, but she pulls her hand back, “I think you’re cool. And very funny.”
“Funny?” Her eyebrows go up. “I’m not funny.”
“You’re hysterical.”
“I’m smart.”
“Funny people are smart. Although,” I tilt my head, smiling at her discomfort. Perhaps ‘funny’ is an insult to professors. “Not all smart people are funny.”
She nods at that. “That’s very true.”
“Adam probably wasn’t very funny.”
“Adam sucks,” she says, handing down the statement like a sentence.
“See?” I take a swig and point my empty cup at her. “Funny.”
“And professional,” she sits up. The defenses have lowered, just a bit, loosened around the edges perhaps, but it’s back to business. “Let’s talk about the book.”’
“I have thoughts on Heathcliff.”
“Don’t tell me he sucks.”
I grin again. My little professor does have a sense of humor.
An hour later, after I walk her to her car and watch her drive away, my phone buzzes. An unknown number appears with a simple, four-word message.
Don’t hurt my friend.
***
“Why?”
“Because he loves her.”
“Why does he love her?”
“Because…he can’t have her.”
“You think Elizabeth Bennett is playing hard to get?”
“No. I think Elizabeth Bennett is hard to get.”
She leans back in her chair and studies me. Lips pressed together. Arms crossed.
It’s hot.
And adorable.
“So why would playing hard to get make Darcy love her?”
I lean slightly closer, enjoying the way her breath catches when she feels me closing in. “The thrill of the hunt.”
“Do you feel,”