“Yeah. For instance, less intimate details about our relationship, more enjoyable parties.”
He puts one hand on my arm—not a romantic move, just a reassuring one. “I swear to you, I’ll never reveal anything that personal about us again. Never. There’s not enough gin in the world to get me that drunk.”
I sigh. “Okay. But you’re on probation.”
“My sentence is just and fair, Your Honor.” Geordie squeezes my arm, then steps back. “So, I’ve got to get to class.”
The law school isn’t particularly close. “Will you have to run it?”
“Possibly. But we’re all right?”
“. . . sure.”
With a grin, Geordie turns away to lope across the green. He’s older than almost all the other students, but the way he moves—running, his longish brown hair flopping with every bound—he looks more like a kid than any of them. Shaking my head, I watch him go.
The teaching assistants all share a space on the fourth floor. The elevators only go to three. I take the steps the whole way—it’s less irritating. Our designated office is as grand as you’d expect: a long narrow room that was probably originally designed as a closet, outfitted with the oldest, most beat-up desks that haven’t already been thrown out as scrap. I don’t really mind. Most of my work is done at home or in the studio anyway. Besides, even as low as I am on the totem pole, I still get to rely on the department secretary.
“Well, hello there,” Kip says as I walk into the main office. “Not looking nearly as slinky as you did Friday night.”
“Oh, no! I meant to wear lingerie to impress my two P.M. class.” I smack my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Do you have any pasties lying around? Or a G-string?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Kip gives me a sidelong glance; his quick fingers never stop typing for a second. “I thought you might want to look nice for Geordie. Don’t think I didn’t see him out there, so spare me the sarcasm.”
“Geordie and I are just friends now, remember?”
“Mmmm-hmm,” Kip hums, making it clear he doesn’t believe me.
When Kip Rucker joined our department last year, I wasn’t sure what to think. Our previous secretary was a grandmotherly lady who wore appliquéd sweatshirts themed for every holiday, including Arbor Day. Kip, on the other hand, wears skinny jeans, oversized designer Tshirts, and nail polish. It takes courage to be as out as Kip is, here in Austin; we might be the bluest city in the great red state of Texas, but this is still Texas. So I admired his guts from the start, but couldn’t imagine him fitting in. He has a big mouth and a bigger attitude and doesn’t give a damn what anyone in the world thinks of him. Usually this is not great secretary material.
Within three weeks, Kip had restructured our entire office. Suddenly we’d become efficient. He turned around work faster and more effortlessly than any of us had dreamed possible. Even the old coffeemaker vanished, replaced by a newer model that produced actual coffee instead of blackish sludge.
When we asked him how he managed that, he said he knows people in food services. We soon learned that Kip knows people in every single department of the university. Somehow, all these people seem to owe him a favor. I think Kip could take over as dean if he set his mind to it. Possibly as dictator. I’m just glad he’s on our side.
This morning, Kip’s nails are cherry red. I take his hand for a second. “Nice shade.”
“Thanks. You can borrow the bottle if you want.”
“Not today. Maybe sometime.”
I go through the side door into my skinny little suboffice. Neither of the other TAs has come in yet; Marvin’s got class right now, and Keiko never puts in office time before noon. That means I have a little while to myself.
The computer chimes on. Our home page is the university’s site, so it only takes a couple of keystrokes to get into faculty—and to bring up the page for Jonah Marks.
Once again I look at his picture. I’ve spent all weekend imagining his face near mine—giving me orders, calling me names—but the sight of him hasn’t lost its power over me. If anything, he overwhelms me even more.
Maybe that’s because he’s closer than ever.
Before I can chicken out, I click the link for his university e-mail. A letter form pops out, Jonah’s address at the top, ready for me to type. I don’t bother putting anything in the body of the e-mail; everything I have to say to him fits in the subject line.
I type, Let’s talk.
And then I hit send.
Six