Jane talks about exertion in some of her novels. It didn’t quite mean back then what it does today; nowadays you think of the body—of pushing your muscles to the limit, of working your brain as hard as you can. Physical and mental exertion. But Jane’s exertion was of the emotional variety. In Sense and Sensibility, when Elinor finds out that the guy she’s in love with is engaged to someone else, she works her hardest to exert herself around others, to make sure that her true feelings—her true sorrows—go unexposed. She practices exertion in a way that means she acts as if everything is just fine, so that no one would suspect her of the kind of pain and heartache that was considered inappropriate to feel when someone else’s fiancé was involved.
All the way home that night, I practiced exertion. I didn’t cry a single tear. And I didn’t say a single word.
Only when we had pulled into the driveway did I look over at Foster. “I thought you played really well,” I said, and my voice came out perfectly even.
He shook his head. “I could’ve done better. We all could’ve done better.”
“He’s a jerk, though. He’s just…”
“He shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
“He shouldn’t have talked to you like that,” I said, and I stared hard at the garage, hoping that Foster wouldn’t notice how shiny my eyes had gotten. “You guys are supposed to be friends. Friends don’t do that.”
“Maybe if they’re going through something. Maybe then they do.”
“Don’t stick up for him. I know he’s like your role model or whatever, but just … don’t.”
“He’s not.” Foster fumbled with his seat belt. “You are.”
I didn’t know what to say. A thanks was in order, but I didn’t think I could muster it without exploding into embarrassing tears. So I just nodded and blinked even harder in the direction of the garage.
We parted ways in the kitchen. Foster went to greet my folks in the living room, and I went upstairs. I didn’t feel like talking.
Once in my room, exertion was no longer necessary. I cried.
I woke early the next morning with an undeniable heaviness in my chest.
I was mad at Ezra for acting in a way that I didn’t understand, but I was mad at myself, too, for how I had acted. I felt justified, but at the same time … was I? There was something so un-Jane-like about what I had said and how I had said it. I could’ve stayed cool and composed and rational. I could’ve … maintained propriety. But instead, I called Ezra Lynley conceited and said “fuck” a lot.
It was a weird mixture of embarrassment and also feeling like … like I had ruined something. Like Ezra and I had both ruined something, but I wasn’t even sure what it was. I just kept thinking about standing outside Sam Wells’ wake with him. How we stood there together for such a long time, and how even though it wasn’t a happy embrace, we still … fit together right.
After a while spent thinking along these same lines, I heard the front door open and close.
I got up and headed downstairs.
I stood in the living room and peered through the front window. Foster sat on the top front step. No loopy circle laps on the front lawn today.
I looked at the clock. 6:14.
And true to his schedule, Ezra came jogging down the street. Something in my stomach seized at the sight of him. Would he stop for Foster? What’s more, would Foster even join him?
He didn’t pass our house up—I was almost sure he would. Instead, he slowed and walked up the front path, stopping in front of Foster.
I couldn’t hear what he said, but Foster shifted over and Ezra took a seat next to him.
They sat there for a little while, their backs to the window. And then they got up and took off. Running side by side down the street.
I went and showered. I made some toast. All the while pretending as if I wasn’t keeping an ear out for Foster.