My Last Innocent Year(52)

I waited outside the Knotty Pine for a long time. Packs of students traipsed past me, some heading toward campus, others into town. A group of freshman girls walked by, all wearing a version of the same babydoll dress whether it suited them or not, and I thought about following them and seeing where the night might lead. But instead, I stayed where I was, watching the traffic light on Main Street flash from red to yellow to green and then, finally, to a steady blinking red, signaling that it was past midnight. I wasn’t waiting for Connelly, not exactly, but when he came outside—alone—I saw how it might look like I was.

“Isabel. Is everything okay? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Where’s Daria?” My voice was uglier than I’d intended. Connelly didn’t say anything, so I kept going. “What the fuck was that? You introduced me to her? Why couldn’t you just ignore me like a normal person?”

“Why would I ignore you?” He was calm, which infuriated me even more.

“Why? Do I seriously have to explain that?”

“Daria is one of Roxanne’s grad students—”

“Yeah. So you said. What I want to know—” The door opened and the bartender came out with a bag of trash. He gave us a look letting us know we were not the most interesting thing he’d seen all night, but still I waited until he was gone to continue. “What I want to know is if you’re sleeping with her, too.”

Connelly took my arm and pulled me down the alleyway that led away from Main Street. I liked the way it felt, him touching me in anger.

“Lower your voice, please. I told you who Daria was, and I have no reason to lie to you. I didn’t ask if you were sleeping with whoever it was you were hanging all over.”

“You saw me?”

“Of course I saw you.” He let go of my arm. “I watched you the whole time.”

“I’m not sleeping with him.”

“And I’m not sleeping with Daria. I’m only sleeping with you.”

I covered my face with my hands, felt my eyelashes flutter against my palms. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Isabel.” He placed his hand on my cheek. “If this is too much for you, we can stop. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Okay.” His voice softened. “Then we will find a way to make this work, whatever it is. Because what we have is extraordinary.”

Extraordinary. The word echoed in my head, finding every dark place and lighting it up.

He drove me back to my dorm, parking in the place where I’d seen Joanna and Tom fighting. I reached for him, but he kissed me on the forehead and made me promise I would go straight to bed. That night, I dreamed of him going back to his office where Daria was waiting for him, naked, a metal key hanging from a chain around her neck, but by morning, I’d already forgotten.



* * *



WHEN WE GOT to Room 203 on Wednesday, there was a note on the door from Connelly telling us he would be gone for a few days and that we should move ahead with the reading. He hadn’t said anything to me about being away.

I walked upstairs to his office, looking for a sign of where he might be. Nothing. On my way back down, I passed Tom and Igraine on the stairs.

“Isabel,” he said, and I blushed, remembering the last time I’d seen him, in Connelly’s office. He looked better than he had that day, his eyes bright, his skin clearer. Igraine looked exhausted, her gray eyes wide and serious, as if whatever energy he had had been gained at her expense.

“Could you do me a favor?” he asked. “Could you watch Igraine for a few minutes?”

Without waiting for an answer, he leaned down and kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Sweetie, wait here with Isabel. Daddy has to take care of a few things.” Then he disappeared down the hall toward his office.

Igraine had on a long dress and rain boots, her hair loose around her shoulders, a mini-version of Joanna. She barely made a noise as she took off her jacket and spread it out on the floor between her parents’ offices. I sat down next to her and watched her unpack her tote bag like she was setting up for a picnic. A pencil box, a black composition notebook, a plastic baggie with cut-up pieces of apple. I didn’t know if I should talk to her or if I should respect her privacy. I knew so little about children, what they thought about, what they needed.

While she busied herself with her things, I took a book out of my backpack and started to read. After several minutes, I could see her sneaking peeks at me.

“Do you want to see?” She nodded and I turned the book toward her. Her eyelashes were long and pale like Joanna’s, nearly translucent. Her long hair was wispy, the skin near her temples so thin you could see the veins beneath the surface.

When she was finished, she turned back to her notebook. “Can I see?” I asked.

“Sure.” Her voice was small and adorable. She handed me the notebook, and I flipped through the pages. I could make out letters, lots of I’s—for Igraine, I supposed—and drawings of people with big heads and mitt-like hands, unicorns, and princesses with long dresses and tall triangular hats. There were several drawings of what looked like her family. She’d captured them well: Joanna with her long hair and dresses, Tom with his rumpled clothes and lazy eye. In one of the drawings, they looked like they were screaming at each other.