How to Fail at Flirting(39)

“As awkward as you’d expect, but it’s over, and I don’t have to see her for a while.”

My heart squeezed at his earnest expression.

“You still believe me, right? I swear it’s over. I’m not cheating. I would never.”

“I believe you.” I threaded my fingers into his hair, scraping my nails along his scalp the way he liked.

A low moan escaped his lips, and his thumbs stopped their circling to migrate down to my thighs.

“You get on a plane in six hours,” I said, voice breathy.

His mouth was a resigned line as he stroked my backside, then pulled me against him, still kneading in a teasing and delicious way.

I couldn’t help but wonder what the line of his mouth meant. What do I want it to mean? “I’ve only got two or three hours to make sure you don’t forget me,” I said.

I took in the look on his face, to store the details. No matter how much I wanted this to be more, I knew it couldn’t.

“Naya, I’m not going to forget you. What if—”

I kissed him, a hungry, deep kiss that stopped his words but didn’t quiet my thoughts. Don’t give me the option of “if.”

Jake’s tongue rolling with mine, the firm grip of his hands on my body, his arousal, undeniable between us—I cataloged it all, knowing I’d want to recall every moment later when I returned to the closed comfort of my office. Somewhere between waking and climbing on top of him, I’d tried to convince myself that my work would sustain me. If I kept telling myself I didn’t need silly jokes and soft touches and kisses that left me breathless if I had my research and my teaching, would I begin to believe it? I knew it was no use. No amount of hoping would change who he was or who I was, so I memorized how it felt to live this kind of life, and when we pulled apart, I cupped the side of his face. “Three hours.”

A doleful expression crossed his features before he dipped his head to kiss down my neck. “I know.”





Twenty-three





Green umbrellas shaded the coffee shop’s patio, which was the ideal location to meet Aaron and work. I’d submitted an article to a top journal about the use of computer games in teaching math, especially for students whose first language was not English. I’d been hopeful, but staring at page after page of harsh critique from the reviewers, I wondered where I would even begin revising it.

“Why do you look so angry?” Aaron returned from inside the shop holding a disposable coffee cup. He was in a suit, having just come from a job interview, and I wasn’t used to him looking so dignified. His first teaching job had been in one of the city’s underfunded, overburdened public high schools, and after spending a few years in the lily-white, elite, suburban private school where he worked now, he wanted to go back.

“What? I’m not angry.” I looked up from a particularly scathing question about the necessity of studying math development in immigrant children. I wasn’t sure why I lied—I was furious at the thinly veiled racism in the comments. I’d gotten so used to hiding when I was upset that it had become second nature. “Okay, I’m a little angry, but I’m just trying to make sense of these comments on this article.”

“Can you ignore them?”

I could, but the reviews were anonymous, and I had no idea what weight that person held. I wanted a few more publications under my belt before I submitted my tenure application. I had a lot, but I preferred to leave no room for doubt. I shook my head, minimizing the window. I could go back to it when I returned to my office.

I’d been cloistered there for the last two weeks since Jake went home. Those days had been back to normal—I woke early and went for a run, worked most of the day, and relaxed at home alone in the evening. The only thing that was different was me eyeing the clock. For the first time in a long time, I admitted to myself that spending every day in my tightly regimented bubble was unsatisfying. I thought I’d have my little tryst and get it out of my system, but I kept thinking about Jake. Jake’s scent. Jake’s hands. Jake’s laugh. Jake’s job and the giant, conflict-of-interest-sized hole Jake had the potential to punch through my career.

To do: Find more writing projects to keep my mind busy. In my head, I crossed that out. To do: Figure out how to make money from writing if I lose my job. Again, I made a mental adjustment. To do: Figure out how to make money stripping when I lose my job. Side note: Ask Aaron’s mom.

I chuckled to myself in my head as Aaron drank his coffee and checked his watch.

The afternoon sun would give way to backed-up traffic soon. “Have to go?”

He shrugged. “Soon, but Felicia told me about that guy, that married one. It’s like you’re in the middle of a romance or a porno or something. What gives?”

“You’re the ones who gave me the list!”

“I didn’t think you’d check everything off in one night. I didn’t think you’d use it at all.”

“I guess I can still surprise you. And, for the record, he’s getting divorced.”

Aaron nodded. “And . . . ?”

“He was nice. I had fun. It was . . .” I struggled for the right phrase, words I was uncomfortable with already rising in my throat.

Paradigm altering. Hands down, the best week of my life. Real. Earth-shattering.