In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(9)

“Three. All older. You?”

“No,” he says, and turns back to the TV. We watch the movie in silence for ten or fifteen minutes.

“Hey, wait, is this where the term to gaslight someone comes from?”

“Yeah,” Rex says, looking back at me. “Ingrid Bergman’s husband—Charles Boyer—messes with her head, trying to make her think she’s going crazy.”

It is so hot to watch him talk about this stuff. He’s so, well, burly; he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d be into old movies. And unlike Richard, my ex, or the people I went to grad school with, he doesn’t sound like his interest is academic. There’s none of the desire to impress with his knowledge, none of the analysis asserted as fact. He’s just really excited about an old Ingrid Bergman movie. And I want nothing more than to kiss him again.

“I guess I always thought it had something to do with gas fumes making people hallucinate or something,” I murmur.

He smiles at me. “I think that’s a common mis—”

He breaks off when I launch myself into his lap. I kiss him, throwing my arms around his neck. His mouth is soft and his body is hard beneath me. When I kiss him, his hands go automatically to my back, stroking up and down my spine, sending sparks of heat through my whole body. I moan into his mouth, and he drags me down by the shoulders. I’m dizzy with lust, his scent and his warmth and his big hands making it impossible to do anything but keep kissing him.

I reach between us and fumble for his fly, but I’m pulled out of my haze by hands holding mine still.

“Hey, hey, Daniel.” He takes my hands between his and puts them back on his shoulders. He kisses me softly, but it’s a good-bye kiss. I can tell. A we’re-done-now kiss. A pity kiss. The warmth of lust is immediately replaced with nausea. My head is pounding and I’m too hot, not to mention humiliated. I move off him with as much dignity as I can muster, considering I’m straddling someone with binder-clipped sweatpants and a too-big shirt that has fallen off one shoulder like a valley girl’s sweatshirt.

On the floor, the dog has raised her head and is looking at me as if even she can tell something is wrong with me. I stare at the fire intently, wishing I could disappear into it.

“Look,” Rex says, his voice gentle. “It’s really late, and you’ve had a long day. You should get some sleep.” I nod without looking at him.

He brings me a pillow from the hall closet, and another blanket, but instead of going into his room, he lingers in the doorway, looking at me.

“You know,” he says, and he sounds a little shy. “You kind of look like you could be one of those old-time Hollywood leading men.”

I look up at him, startled. He’s looking at me intently, leaning forward, but his eyes are sad, dark.

“You’d be wasted on black and white, though. Your eyes.” He makes a vague gesture toward my face, then turns away. “Good night, Daniel,” he says. And then he’s gone.





Chapter 2


August



THE AIR conditioning in my car died somewhere in Ohio, so it’s hard to hear Ginger above the highway sounds coming in through the windows I’ve rolled down to avoid roasting. Fortunately, the girl’s never been accused of being quiet.

“Okay,” she says, “so I google-mapped this town of yours and I’ve gotta tell you, pumpkin, I’m a little concerned.”

It’s taken Ginger all summer to be able to remember that I’m moving to Michigan—not Minnesota, not Missouri—so this is progress.

“Number one: are you aware that this state is shaped like a mitten and people actually refer to it as The Mitten?”

“I am,” I say. Ginger is one of the smartest people I know, but she reminds me of someone’s grandmother sometimes with her insistence that the things beyond her daily routine are bizarre and shocking.

“So, you’re moving to a state that people refer to by its winter wear. This state also gets a lot of snow. There is only so much geological coincidence I can bear, sweet cheeks. Also, from what I can tell, the main claim to fame of this hamlet you will soon call home is its cherries. Tart cherries.”

“Yeah.”

“Daniel! Tart cherries. Who wants a tart cherry?”

“Dunno, Ginge; I’ve never tried one. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Okay, fine, clearly you’re not in the mood to be distracted, so get on with it. What did your dad say?”

I didn’t tell my father or my brothers about getting the job at Sleeping Bear College until last night, after I finished packing. I got the call offering me the job only about a week after my visit. Bernard Ness, the chair of the job search committee, was enthusiastic and friendly and didn’t even mention anything about my never checking in to my hotel the night I was there. At first, I didn’t tell them because I kind of couldn’t believe it had happened. This was what I’d been working toward for about the last decade of my life. It was surreal and shocking to all of a sudden have achieved it.

Then I didn’t tell them because I was madly finishing up my dissertation and planning for my dissertation defense where my committee would decide whether or not to award me my PhD. That was three weeks of fifteen-hour days where I guzzled coffee all day and NyQuil at night, terrified I wouldn’t be able to sleep.