She didn’t allow herself much time for tears. She washed her face and practiced smiling and came to meet Megan for lunch. This is their first outing without the boys. Megan suggested it yesterday. It would give them a chance to talk, she said. That’s fine with Jennifer, as long as Megan does most of the talking.
Megan takes a substantial bite of the key lime, smiles at Jennifer as it hits her tongue, and then closes her eyes with pleasure. Jennifer looks away just as a college-age boy stops beside their table, a boy with the wild curly hair and lumberjack beard many of the students sport, rich kids pretending to be mountain men. “Professor Summerfield?” he says, and Megan’s eyes pop open. She reaches for her iced tea, washing down the rest of the bite. “Adam,” she says. “How are you?”
“Good, good,” he says. “How are you?”
“Doing well, thanks,” Megan says.
The boy gives her a mischievous grin. “Looked like you were enjoying that pie.”
Megan laughs like she’s taking the comment in stride, but the slow flush that creeps up her neck betrays her. “It’s delicious,” she says. “You should order some.”
“Well, I’m not much for key lime,” he says, “but if you say it’s good it must be true.”
Megan inclines her head and smiles in both recognition and deflection of the compliment. “Are you having a good semester?”
“I am,” the boy says, and launches into an eager, animated description of the fascinations of the philosophy class he’s taking. He moves closer and closer to Megan as he’s talking, until he’s leaning against the table, and Jennifer notes with surprise that he seems to think he has a chance. She glances at Megan’s face, her wide-eyed attentiveness, her mobile mouth, and wonders how often Megan’s willingness to listen is mistaken for something more. Or is Jennifer the one making the mistake? Maybe this Adam does have a chance. She reminds herself that she doesn’t really know Megan, and even if she did, she wouldn’t know for sure, unless Megan said to her: I am fucking that boy. Even if Megan said, I am not fucking that boy, there would always be a chance it was a lie, or would become one.
“Okay, then,” the boy says. He gives the table a light slap as he straightens, like it’s a mount that’s pleased him. “I’ll see you soon, I hope.”
“See you,” Megan says. She smiles, smiles, smiles, but as soon as the door has dinged his departure she collapses back into her seat with a sigh. “Oh boy,” she says.
“He has a crush on you,” Jennifer says, and to her surprise Megan groans, “I know.”
“He’s cute.”
Megan laughs. “Maybe somewhere,” she says. “Under all that hair.”
“Does that happen a lot?” Jennifer asks. “Crushes?”
“Not really. Or if it does I don’t know about it. I can tell with him because—he didn’t do it this time, but usually—he leads around to personal questions, like what do I like to do on the weekends, and as soon as I mention Sebastian he looks a little stricken. It’s exhausting talking to him, trying to be nice without being at all encouraging.”
“I can imagine.”
“He’s a sweet kid. Bright. But . . .” She blows out air like a horse. “I guess I had crushes on professors, even just intellectual ones. But I went to much bigger schools. I didn’t have the same kind of access. I didn’t run into them having lunch.”
“I didn’t go to college,” Jennifer says.
“Oh!” Megan says, clearly shocked, and then to cover her shock she returns quickly to the topic. “Sometimes I get tired of being so recognizable. I long for the anonymity of a big state school. I’d like to be able to swim at the rec center without encountering a student in my bathing suit. I feel like I’m under constant surveillance. And anything could be used against you. Professor Summerfield was buying prunes! Oh my God, do you think she’s constipated? I don’t want them sitting in my class thinking about how I’m constipated.” She sighs, then adds, “I’m not constipated.”
“Okay,” Jennifer says.
“I buy the prunes for Ben. He has issues sometimes.” She rolls her eyes at herself. “Not that you needed to know that.”