Page 43 of Mating Theory
I look for her in the street, but I don’t let myself look her up.
My grief this time looks different. It’s not about drinking or feeling sorry for myself. I throw myself into work, building my own life. Building something I can be proud of.
Something that would make me worthy of her.
I’m sitting in my office, working on the plans when someone knocks.
“I’m eating,” I tell Mrs. Ness without looking up. There’s a turkey sandwich, potato salad, and a large slice of key lime pie waiting for me on my desk.
“I’m not Mrs. Ness,” comes a voice from my memory.
I look up, and there’s Christopher. He looks exactly like I remember him: handsome and diffident. Other people see him as distant, but I’ve always known that he’s shy. “Hello.”
“Can I come in?” He lifts up a white paper bag. “I brought gifts.”
“Contraband. Excellent.”
Benny’s is a BBQ place down the street from our office. Rather, down the street from our office when we had one. The short-lived, ill-fated company of Bardot and Mayfair.
He hands over the bag, and I look inside to find two Styrofoam containers filled to the brim. I pass one back to him and keep one to myself. Neither of us bother with plastic silverware.
I take a bite and close my eyes on a moan. “God, yes.”
Christopher does the same, and the expression he makes is pure erotic pleasure, even with the hint of barbecue sauce on the corner of his mouth. The sight arrests me for a moment. Probably the sight of a beautiful man always will, but it’s a faraway kind of appreciation.
I take another bite of the warm meat. “Do you know how long it’s been?”
“Probably since you left.”
“Mrs. Ness would never order from there.”
“Pussy,” he says, though the word holds no heat.
Both of us took instructions from the older woman. She was our office manager when we shared an office. When we split up, somehow I ended up with her, which I was grateful for. I suppose it was compensation for Christopher getting Harper.
When I’ve finished the full line of ribs I move on to the jalapeno bread. “So what is this? A peace offering? Or do you need me to sign some papers?”
“Hell,” he says. “Why not both?”
I have to laugh at that. “You’re more of a bastard than me, Christopher.”
He looks affronted. “Of course I am. What, you think stomping around for a few weeks makes up for a lifetime of being a cold and conniving bastard?”
“You’re not as bad as everything thinks you are.”
“I’m not as good as you thought I was, either.”
“No, probably not. Nobody can live up to the pedestals they’re put on, can they?”
“Here’s the thing about me and Harper. You loved her for everything good about her. You loved her in spite of her flaws, but I love her because of them. She’s vain and selfish and wicked.”
“She’s not—”
“Yes, she is. She’s also talented and generous and so damn caring it makes my teeth hurt. She’s a whole person, the good and the bad, and I love every single part of it. She deserves someone who loves every part of her. And you deserve someone who loves every part of you.”
“Hey,” I say. “What’s not to love? A deadbeat alcoholic with anger management issues.”
“There will be someone who loves that part about you.”
Maybe I already had that person. Maybe I gave her up.
And I understand what he means.
The fact that she lived on the street. The fact that she prostituted herself. There are men who would judge her for that. They might be with her despite that, but they wouldn’t appreciate her because of that. When I look at her time on the corner, I see only her strength. Her survival. The world would be such a dimmer place if she were gone. It tried to put out her light. Her father. Even her mother, for all that she repented later.
Maybe Christopher had a point. I saw Harper’s flaws, but he sees them as strengths.
The same way I see Ashleigh. That’s love.
* * *
Ashleigh
Sugar dips her paw into my teacup and drinks. Then she walks across my organic chemistry homework, leaving wet prints. A stack sits precariously at the edge of my desk, organized by a system of deadlines, subjects, and random thoughts in my head.
There’s a knock on my dorm room door.
It’s Jason from my class. “Did you get notes from political science?”
“Yeah, do you want to see them?” When he nods I pull out a sheaf of papers.
He whistles. “This is a lot.”
“Professor Morris was on a roll.”
“Can I make copies of this and return them?”
“Sure.”
He pauses at my door, and Sugar eyes his ankles like she wants to attack. It’s a private dorm, so we’re allowed to have an animal if we pay an enormous fee. But it means no more mice hunting. Instead Sugar likes to attack my friends’ feet. “Maybe I could drop them back tonight. Would you like to go out for dinner?”
