When It's Love (5 page)

I did.

After that dinner, Jake quickly became my everything, which wasn’t hard since I didn’t have anything else. We were inseparable in and out of school, and Jake was the one who first noticed the car that starting following me around towards the end of 12
^th
grade.

I wake up at 6:00 a.m. covered in sweat. I think I was having a nightmare, but I can’t remember anything from my sleeping hours, only that I had fallen asleep waiting to hear from Professor Sparling. Tiny and Little both start walking on me and purring, hoping for some attention now that I’m awake. “Cats, hang on,” I say. “Forgive me for being selfish, but first let’s see what’s in my inbox, then I’ll pet you.”

The cats are all over my computer before it loads. Each one is peering over a corner of the screen. If I weren’t so anxious, I’d think it was really cute. These cats are used to getting early morning attention from me, so it’s no wonder they’re all over the electronic intruder in the bed.

I know I need to be prepared for disappointment. Chances are that Professor Sparling has not written back. He was probably drunk last night when he emailed me. I bet it was all one big mistake and he has no idea how excited I was and how much it meant to me. I tell myself all of these things to try to soften the blow that will come if there’s no message from him. Still, I can’t help but feel giddy at the thought that there’s a chance of an email from him. A chance is so much more promising than no chance.

I want to text Henry, but I know it’s too early for him. I just want someone to be there for me if there’s no email and I’m crushed. I reason with myself, though, that even if there’s no message now, I shouldn’t be too upset. Professor Sparling might answer later in the day. He might reply tomorrow. Maybe he’s one of those writers who goes out to cabin retreats in the forest and disconnects from the world while writing. It could be weeks before he replies. I realize I don’t even know if Professor Sparling is staying in town over winter vacation. I don’t really know anything about him at all. One of the things we talked about in his class is the way that good personal writing can make you feel connected to someone, despite the fact that you’ve never met. Maybe that’s what happened to me when I read his book, Indebted, which is brimming with heartfelt sentiment. It was so easy to identify with the pain he described as his wife became more and more depressed. I couldn’t help but sympathize with what he’d gone through. Maybe that’s what happened to him when he read about my past.

I take a deep breath and hold it in while I open my inbox. “Yes!” I say as I exhale. A reply from Professor Sparling, and it’s more than one line long. He sent it at 1:24 a.m.

Dear Sydney,

You are probably fast asleep now, curled up in your blanket with your wispy blond hair falling over your beautiful face. Tell me what you like about me. What attracts you? Don’t be shy. I want to know everything.

Waiting Impatiently,

P.S.

He wants to know everything I like about him. Holy Crap! There is nothing I don’t like about him. How do I even begin to reply to this? I’ve had a million erotic thoughts before, and they don’t frighten me, but I’ve never written anything erotic. I can’t believe this is happening, and the step from pure fantasy to actually writing feels like a gigantic leap. Putting my licentious fantasies out in cyberspace is probably a really bad idea, worse than having a naked picture of yourself floating around the web. A body is just a bunch of parts, after all, but words can reveal who you really are. A shiver runs down my spine. Whatever I put out there is out there for good. There’s no going back. There’s no way to know how many times an email is going to be forwarded, or who is going to end up reading it. Before I dive into this, I have to force myself to admit that I understand what I’m getting into. And this is not just about cyberspace. This interaction can create a situation where I’m always worried Professor Sparling won’t reply. I could spend days on edge wondering what he’s doing, whom he’s with, and when, if ever, he’s going to reply. Then again, if I don’t respond to him, I have nothing. A voice in my head is screaming, DO IT. If only it were a little bit later in the day so I could get Henry’s take on this.

With a racing heart, I get up to feed the cats. I don’t even need coffee this morning because my whole body is alert and ready for anything. I decide to make the most of my nervous energy and start my reply because it’s pretty clear I won’t be able to think about anything else. I can always write my message, save a draft, and talk to Henry about it before I send.

Despite all my eagerness, now as I’m poised to write, I don’t know where to begin. A zillion thoughts race through my head, but none of them seem right. I make progress by telling myself to just obey the professor. He said, “Don’t be shy.” But just how forward does he expect me to be? It’s not like I don’t know how to be with a man, or describe what I like, it’s just been a really long time since I’ve had the sensation of strong arms around me and an erection pressing hard against my middle. I am ready for a reminder. I know what I want. Now the only task that remains is figuring out how to write it.

Dear Professor Sparling,

You have many physical attributes and I could go on and on about them – your eyes, your hair, your chest, your shoulders, your ass. The thing I like most about you, though, is not one feature or another. It’s the way you wake me up. When I think of you desire builds inside me and clouds all reason and judgment. You make me want to wear crotchless black panties, a short skirt, and a thin, white wife-beater without a bra beneath it, so my nipples are completely visible. You make me want to throw away my hiking boots and put on a pair of five inch stilettos. What I like best about you is that you make me come alive.

Sydney

I read over my email, amazed at the words that came out of me. I wonder if it’s too self-centered? I’m making it all about me and about how he makes me feel. I save my draft, and look at the time. Not even six minutes have passed since I last checked. It’s still way too early to get in touch with Henry. We have breakfast plans at 9:00, but he never gets up before 8:00. The time between now and then feels like an eternity. I suppose I’ll use the time to go to the basement and do some laundry. Nothing quite like freshly laundered sweatshirts …

Henry meets me at Kuki’s, the number one spot in Addison for bacon, eggs, and hash browns. Many mornings there’s a line halfway down the block to get in. Fortunately, there’s no wait today. Addison is like a ghost town during school vacations. Henry and I get a table for two at the front window, where we have a fantastic view of the empty downtown Addison street lined with soggy Christmas decorations.

“I can’t believe how deserted the town is today,” I say.

“All the more bacon for us, Syd,” Henry says. He shoots a wry smile my way.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything,” Henry says.

“But that smile of yours is so …”

“My smile is nothing more than an expression of my happiness that I’m here with you having breakfast.”

“Aw,” I say. “You’re so sweet to me.”

A waitress in a dull yellow dress with a white lace-bordered apron fills our mugs with coffee. Her graying hair is knotted in a tight, neat bun on the top of her head. “Good morning,” she says. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have two eggs sunny side up, a double order of bacon, and hash browns, of course,” Henry says.

“The same for me,” I say. All I’ve eaten in the last 16 hours is a rice cake with peanut butter. I am starving.

“Anything cold to drink?” the waitress asks. “We’ve got fresh squeezed juice.”

“Yes, please,” Henry and I say in unison.

The waitress walks away and I can’t contain my grin any longer.

“Sydney Morrison, you’re awfully gleeful this morning,” Henry says. “If you weren’t dressed like you’re about to go out and shovel snow, I’d even say you look sexy. You’ve got a sparkle in your eye today that’s very suggestive.”

“Do I now?” I say giggling. I’m still wearing the sweats I slept in. “Maybe I’ll break into Melanie’s apartment over winter vacation and borrow something fitted and revealing.”

“Melanie’s a ho-bag,” Henry says. “She’s got nothing on you but confidence. If you would just relax and look in the mirror you’d see that you’re a Barbie doll that, unfortunately, some kid decided to dress in Ken’s jogging clothes.”

Henry’s comment makes me blush more than a little. I keep my eyes on my mug of coffee, too shy to meet his. Without looking up I ask Henry if we can talk about the emails from Professor Sparling.

“Hell, yeah,” Henry says. When I raise my head I see that he’s leaning back in his chair. He’s wearing khaki pants and his legs are open a little bit too wide. His black fitted sweater shows off his stellar chest and shoulders. And his sandy blonde hair falls down past his eyebrows almost straight into his bright blue eyes. He is so handsome. I don’t know why he never dates anyone seriously. He does hook up with women frequently, and I’m sure they all adore him. He’s kind, handsome, and very rich. What’s not to like? Since we’ve been friends Henry’s had dozens of one-night stands. He’s never interested in more than that, though. As he always says, “I’m a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of guy.” I can’t really relate to that because I’m not into casual sex, and these past few years, I haven’t been into sex at all.

Feeling a little bit embarrassed, I start to fiddle with the napkin dispenser on the table. It’s stainless steel and red and looks like a little house. Nervously, I pull out a few of the thin, waxy napkins. Henry puts his hand on mine. “Stop,” he says. “Next you’re going to start emptying sugar packets onto the table like a three-year-old.”

I cross my arms over my chest and frown at Henry. I’m entitled to be nervous at a time like this.

“Now you’re pouting like a three-year-old, too. Let’s grow up and get to the juicy stuff already.”

Yes, the juicy stuff. I am definitely ready to talk about it. “Sparling is totally flirting with me,” I say in a whisper, as if I’m reporting something covert. “After the first email I wasn’t sure. But in the email he sent last night he told me to tell him everything I like about him, and not to be shy.”

Henry snorts. “Don’t be shy … that’s such a bad line.”

“You think?” I ask. “I sort of like the encouragement.”

“I think a man with his literary talents can do better than that.”

“So now you admit he has talents, eh?” I say.

I’m overwhelmed by the fact that he’s writing to me at all. I’m not about to judge the literary quality of his emails. I mean, seriously, most people don’t even use punctuation in emails. A complete sentence in email is the equivalent of a masterpiece.

“Well, whatever. I don’t care if he’s writing bad lines, Henry. I just want you to tell me if my reply to him is OK before I send it. I wrote a draft this morning.”

“I’m all ears,” Henry says.

“You promise you’ll tell me the truth?”

Henry doesn’t answer. He points to the waitress coming out of the kitchen with our orders. “Food’s here,” he says.

As the waitress reaches our table, I smell the food and it makes my stomach rumble. I am so hungry I almost forget about Professor Sparling for a minute. Who knew that was possible?

“Enjoy your meal,” the waitress says. “Let me know if you need more coffee.”

“More coffee would be great,” Henry says. “And we’re still waiting for our juice.”

“Oh dear,” the waitress says looking distressed. “I’ll be right back with that,” she says and hurries away.

I grab a crispy piece of bacon with my fingers and I’m chewing away before Henry has a chance to lift up his fork and knife. “Where are your manners, Miss Morrison?” he asks mockingly.

“I’m famished, Mr. Hart,” I reply. “Head out to your big estate if you want all that proper manners stuff,” I say sassily.

It’s true that I’m starving, but I also want to eat quickly so I can read Henry the draft of my message to Professor Sparling. I’ve started to worry that he’s going to think I’m too intimidated to write back.