Winter Jacket (10 page)

I
stuck the book in Hunter's direction, just within her reach. She stopped giving attention to Sylvia long enough to take the book in both hands. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, maddeningly adorable, as she read the back cover information.

"
The Bell Jar
is a masterpiece,” I explained, geeking out. "I'm letting you borrow my copy."

Hunter
looked up, eyes large and blinking. "Really?"

I never let people borrow books.
I wasn't a public library, after all. I also didn't appreciate getting books back in worse condition than when I'd lent them. But I selfishly realized that if I let her borrow the book, I'd have a reason to see her again. I didn't have to give it a second thought. "Really."

The tick-tock of the grandfather clock i
n my study filled the silence. "Did everyone leave?” she asked.  “Am I the only one left?"

I scratched at the back of my neck, once again aware of my awkwardness.
At least when I was gushing about literature I hadn’t remembered that we were alone. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry
,” Hunter genuinely apologized. “Not only does it look like I've been snooping, now I've overstayed my welcome."

My instinct was to tell her she could stay as long as she wanted.
I smiled instead.

Hunter
scratched between Sylvia's ears again. "I'm sorry, sweetie," she murmured, "but I've got to go."

If I had been
smoother, I would have found a way to convince her to stay longer. 'Don't go. It'll break her kitty heart,' I would say.   She'd admit she had no other plans that night and I'd suggest we take our conversation to the kitchen where I would brew a pot of late-night coffee. We could bring our filled cups to the front porch and we'd sit in the Adirondack chairs I'd recently purchased. I'd light a few candles—to keep the mosquitoes away, I'd explain—and I'd admire her profile, warmed by the glow of candlelight.

We'd start out with innocent remarks about the strange weather patterns.  It
had recently gone from Winter to Spring overnight.  I'd hear about her plans for the summer and her relationship with her family. When the coffee ran out, she'd notice the late hour. She'd thank me for the coffee and conversation, and when she handed me her now-empty cup, our fingers would brush against each other’s.

But I wasn’t that smooth and I wasn't a moral-free zone. Instead, I'd have to be satisfied with the prospect of seeing her again when she finished reading the book.
Maybe she'd be so impressed she'd ask me for other book recommendations. Maybe I'd see her periodically over the summer because of it. And maybe this would turn into a regular thing, and we'd meet for coffee to discuss the current book we couldn't put down. I wondered how she liked her coffee.

“Off you go,” Hunter coaxed Sylvia. 
With a disgruntled noise, my cat stood from her lap. It made a big show of stretching before hopping to the floor. I felt ridiculous for envying that ball of fur.

Hunter
stood from my study couch, the very place I'd graded several of her papers, and she brushed at the front of her jeans.  Sylvia had a talent for getting her hair all over everything, and it was currently all over the front of her pants.

"Second-guessing making friends with my cat?" I posed teasingly.

She looked up and met my gaze. Her eye contact was relentless. "I got a book out of the deal, didn't I?"

This girl's mood-swings were hard to keep up with. One minu
te she was bashful and unsure, and the next, staring me down with an unstated challenge and a charming smile. I wanted to know her better. I needed to figure her out.

I walked her from the office to the front door. She had brought a light jacket, but even though dusk had turned to night, it was still warm enough outside to render it unnecessary. She hung it over her arm instead.

"Thank you for hosting a lovely evening," she smiled graciously. “I had a nice time.”  It was like a switch had been flipped and she was back to being a Stepford wife.

"Did you drive?" I looked out the front to the cars parallel parked outside, lining either side of the street.

She shook her head and tucked some hair behind her right ear. "No. I walked here."

"It's late," I noted. "Are you okay to walk back alone?" Even though it was a very safe neighborhood, I still worried.

She bobbed her head. "I'll be fine. My apartment isn't that far away."

I nodded, remembering the walk-up
apartment where I'd given her a ride to once.

She clutched
The Bell Jar
against her chest. "Thanks again for the book." A small look of concern troubled her features. "How should I get it back to you once I've finished?"

I hadn't really thought that far in advance. "Um, just email me when you're done," I said. "We can figure it out then."

She ducked her head again. “Okay.  Have a good night, Professor.”

She
gave a short wave before leaving out the front door.  I stood in the doorway and watched her make her way down the four wooden steps and the concrete sidewalk that led up to my house.  She looked back at the house when she reached the street.  Noticing that I still stood in the doorway, she gave me a brilliant smile.  I felt my pulse quicken at the sight, and I quickly shut the door.

+++++
 

CHAPTER Five

I loved summer.  For as much as I enjoyed the winter months and the way the sun’s rays sparkled against snow that clung to naked tree branches, there was something about the scent of charcoal grills, the sensation of sunshine warm on my skin, and the feeling of gritty beach sand between my toes that never failed to put a smile on my face. 
In my part of the Midwest, summer was brief and mild, but I didn’t mind that temperatures rarely crept past 80 degrees Fahrenheit.  I’d probably melt like a snowman otherwise. 

During the summer months when I didn’t have to teach,
I liked to get out of the house every now and again during “work hours,” to shake myself out of routines. When I worked from home everyday, my cat Sylvia was usually the only interaction I had.  I refused to allow myself to become another sad, lesbian cliché.  

T
oday, I had relocated to Del Sol, my favorite coffee shop in the city.  Decades ago the building had been part of a factory of some kind, but after the industry had been pushed out of the area and the structure had remained vacated for some time, a locally-grown coffee chain had reclaimed the space and transformed it into a two-story coffee shop with a lofted seating area that overlooked the main floor.

The staff prided themselves on the designs they crafted on
top of wide-mouthed mugs of mochas and lattes and the limited menu was organic, sprinkled with local products.  It was trendy to be sure, and over the lunch rush things got a little chaotic, but on this particular Tuesday morning at just after 9:30am, I had scored myself a prime spot where I was guaranteed to be productive as long as the refills kept coming.

After carefully placing my ceramic mug and blueberry muffin on the table, I methodically pulled out a hardcover book and legal-sized notepad from my bag and set them on the table as well.
I was a little old-fashioned when it came to researching and writing. Whereas most everyone I knew took notes on a laptop, I preferred the comfort of pen and paper.  Admittedly it took longer, but I was a creature of habit and not the least bit superstitious. I'd published a number of journal articles over my young career, each of them having manifested from careful notes I’d taken by hand. I didn't see the necessity of breaking up my routine.

I pulled out my phone and found a playlist conducive to working. I only put in one ear bud, however; the faint background music in my left ear was just enough to keep me focused.  I had hardly submerged myself into my work when I heard a familiar voice.

"Professor?"

I looked up from my book and was surprised to see a former student standing next to my table.

"Hunter," I greeted, pulling my wits about me.  I tugged the solo ear bud out of my ear so quickly that it hurt. "How are you?" I asked, biting back a painful wince.

"I’m good, thanks," she affirmed, bobbing her head slightly. "And you?"

I pushed the hair out of my face. Normally when I read for research I pulled my hair back in a bun, but that morning I'd decided to leave it down. "Busy," I admitted. "Always busy. There's this myth about teachers getting their summers off."

She touched the corner of the open book splayed on the table and
twisted it clockwise to better examine the text. I thought it was a rather bold move to be so familiarly touching my things, but I pushed that observation to the side.  "What are you working on?"

I stared at her long, feminine fingers. Her nails were short, the cuticles manicured and pushed back, and a clear glossy polish coated the nails. "Just a paper for a con
ference I'm presenting at in the Fall."

“Oh, that’s all,” she laughed, mocking my modesty.

Charming.
That's the word that instantly came to mind when I interacted with Hunter. She had never been overly participatory in class, but in a one-on-one setting, she exuded a practiced confidence and sociability that comes from being raised by parents who treated you as an equal, as a peer.  I'd had plenty of polite students before – it was the Midwest, after all. But those had always been a deferential politeness. This was something different and altogether unnerving. This was unwavering eye contact and an easy laugh that reminded me of weekending at the Hamptons and croquet.  If laughter could have a socioeconomic status, Hunter's laugh was Old Money.

I couldn't help taking an indulgent moment to rea
lly look at her. Her skin was lightly tanned and her shoulder-length hair, now pulled back into a tight ponytail, was a shade lighter blonde from the sun. She wore a short white tennis skirt, revealing an alarming amount of toned skin that was, because of my seated position, unfortunately right at my eye-level. Her form-fitting light blue polo shirt made her grey-blue eyes even brighter, and the narrow sleeves hugged at the slight curve of feminine biceps.

"You play tennis?" I asked stupidly whe
n nothing else came to mind.             

She looked
confused.

"Your outfit?" I clarified, pointing to the ensemble.

She looked down at her clothes and laughed. "Right." She self-consciously wiped at her forehead and re-adjusted her thin hair band. "I just finished playing a few sets with my dad at the courts around the corner. Hence the sweaty mess."

I thought she looked perfect, but wisely kept that thought to myself. "Having a good summer so far?" I asked, finding myself un
characteristically making small talk with a former student. I hated small talk. If it had been anyone else I would have skillfully dismissed him or her after exchanging a few pleasantries, put my ear bud back in, and continued reading my book.

Hunter
nodded. "So far. I'm back home with my parents in the suburbs, so that's always a challenge."

I laughed. "I can only handle my own parents a few days at a time before we're at each other's throats."

              "My family is pretty close, I guess, but it takes a while to re-adjust to living under their roof after being on my own all school year." She fidgeted as she stood, touching the bottom hem of her mid-thigh skirt, and unknowingly pulled my attention from her face to slender, unblemished thighs.

I felt my face redden as explicit images
smashed against my brain of those thighs spread open for me on my office desk, and I threw my gaze to the tabletop instead. “Did you get into all the classes you wanted for next semester?”

Hunter
sighed.  “No.  There’s a waitlist for one of my biology classes.”

“You’re in the nursing program, right?”

Her frown turned into a broad smile and she nodded. “You have a really good memory.”

             
I shrugged. She didn’t need to know I’d memorized various other details about her. “It’s what I get paid the big bucks for.”

“I really like the book
, by the way.”

I knew exactly what she was talking about, but for some reason I feigned ignorance.  “Which book?”

“The one you let me borrow,” she supplied. “
The Bell Jar
?”