Page 48 of The Perfect Rom-Com

One time I asked her why she goes to such effort, and she said simply, “It takes a great deal of courage for someone to come to this country, often with nothing, and make a new start for their family. They need to feel proud of themselves.” And that was that.

So for the forty-year-old engineer who once taught at his university in Ukraine before the war took over and he fled with his wife and three children, the one who now works nights to clean the whiteboards as a janitor at a university here, the scent of the citrus essential oils is for him. To give him a burst of energy while he works so diligently to keep his eyes open as he finishes another test leading toward his GED.

For the young Somalian woman who fled an abusive situation and is now working to raise her two-year-old daughter alone, in a new country, the smell of the roses on the desk is for her. Along with the free lavender deodorants.

And it all began with Gran. I rap on the door lightly.

“Come in,” she calls.

Gran is dressed in a blue suit today. Wrinkle-free down to the cuff links. Her ankles crossed over little white shoes. A window is open and the sound of the interstate floods through. It’s not an ideal noise, but the breeze that’s blowing in is a welcome addition to the hot July heat. A trade. The better of two options.

I begin to roll up my own blue blazer to the elbow and then pause at her slight frown. I push things enough by wearing tennis shoes. Let’s not push her over the edge today.

“Shut the door, Bryony. Time for tea?” She motions to the little golden cart in the corner where her electric teakettle has taken a permanent post.

“Just a few minutes,” I say, moving over to the cart. “I’ve only got about ten before I need to sneak back and finish up some papers.” I pick up one of the little teacups and saucers.

There are, for the record, only real teacups and saucers at The Bridge. At the coffee station in the teachers’ lounge. At the tea station here. Little unmatching porcelain cups with delicate golden curled handles and intricately hand-painted purple flowers. Little five-dollar finds found in any antique store in the whole of the United States. They carry such a reputation even the students sometimes discover one, buy it, and contribute to the supply.

One time an opportunity for a grant popped up, and an inspector tried to tell her the supply was extravagant when Styrofoam cups would do, to which she replied curtly, “Treat a stallion like a pig, and eventually you’ll have a two-thousand-pound pig.”

Needless to say, we did not get that money.

“So,” I say, suddenly finding myself at a loss for how to start. I pour the hot water in the teacup. Reach for the tea bags.

“So,” she returns, no more inclined to jump in than me.

I venture a glance her way and see she is frowning at me. The expression on her face is similar to when she discovered I had snuck out of the house at fifteen for a party.

Terrific.

Not intimidating at all.

“You emailed me that we need to talk,” I say dumbly, as though that is new and fresh information to us both.

“How long, exactly, has this been going on?”

“Well . . . ,” I say, dodging the question. After all, I don’t know exactly how to answer it. How long has what been going on? The ghostwriting of books? The sending of money? Part of it? All of it? Something else entirely? “It’s hard to say . . . What have you been told?”

“Is there more that I don’t know?” She raises one brow.

“I don’t know.” I swirl my tea bag around in my cup. “Can you tell me what you do know?”

There’s no way I’m going to tell her on the off chance she doesn’t know about my little secret(s), so I might as well be stubbornly silent on the matter until she says something first.

There’s the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall, and Martha, Gran’s administrative assistant, talking in a very loud and friendly voice says, “Yes, Mr. Takahashi. I just saw her go down the hall, in fact. Let me see if we can get this straightened out.”

“Ms. Page, I have a quick question.” The door pops open, and Martha’s eyes widen as she catches sight of Gran and me. More specifically, because of the expression on Gran’s stern face. Flat. Unimpressed. I offer up a little wave to Hiroto. “Hello, Mr. Takahashi.”

He beams a little and dips his head. “Good morning, Teacher. It’s a . . .” He pauses before adding haltingly, “Very. Fine. Day. I have my head in the clouds to talk to Ms. Page.”

My smile broadens. Nope. He’s not even close with that one. But bravo for trying.

“I’m in a meeting, Martha,” Gran says, her hands tensely crossed.

“Right, all right. But this man, Mr. Taka-”—she looks uncertainly at the man as if trying to read the rest of his name on his face—“hashi,” she continues, then gives herself a little smile to prove she’s proud of herself, “says he doesn’t want to move on from Ms. Page’s class.”

He looks confused, and Martha points at me. “That one.”