“So,” I say, thinking I’ll ask her about the classes she’s taught.
“So I wanted to—” she says at the same time. We both stop.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“No, you—”
“Please,” I say, gesturing with an open hand.
She smiles, looking down at her desk, then looks back up at me. “I wanted to say I enjoyed seeing you teach this morning.”
“Oh,” I say, flattered and embarrassed. “Thanks. I found that lecture on Macbeth online somewhere. I didn’t come up with it.”
Marisa shakes her head. “Maybe not, but you’re good at this. You aren’t just reading some notes off a page to your students.” She grins. “Makes sense, I guess. I mean, Faulkner, English teacher … you aren’t actually related to William Faulkner, are you?”
I smile. “No, but students ask occasionally. My mom taught English.”
“She must be proud,” Marisa says. “Does she give you tips?”
“She died,” I say. “When I was a kid.” I’m shocked that I’m saying this, especially to a relative stranger—I’ve spoken to only two other people at school about my parents—but I feel the urge to share this, to unload a bit of this dark thing I carry around with me.
“Oh,” Marisa says, her eyes rounding. She reaches over and touches my forearm, and her touch stirs something in me. Not lust; it’s more like gratitude. “I’m so sorry,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. She nods and removes her hand, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t want her to put it back.
“Well,” she says, and she stands up. I get to my feet as well. “I’m sorry to run, but Coleman wanted me to check in with him before school ended.” She holds out her hand, and we shake. “I really hope this works out. I know you all are in a bind with your colleague going on maternity leave and the sub having quit on you. But I’d love the opportunity to work with you all.”
“Likewise,” I say. We stand there for a moment, looking at each other. “Marisa,” I say, and I feel like I’m stepping into a field with a deep hole hidden somewhere in it. “About last Friday …”
She smiles, a tentative curve of her lips. “I was wondering when you would bring that up.”
“I just … I’m sorry if that—embarrasses you, or anything,” I say. “I know I just left the next morning, and maybe today was a little awkward, but—”
“Ethan,” she says, and I shut my mouth. “It’s fine,” she says. “We’re adults. I’m a big girl. It was consensual, and fun. But I’m here for a job, and I don’t want to make things complicated for you or me.”
“Oh,” I say. Oddly, I’m both relieved and just a bit disappointed.
She tilts her head, as if considering me from a new angle. “If me working here is a problem, please, tell me now, and we can work it out.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, shaking my head.
“Or I can go to Kennesaw State and their lovely adjunct position.” She makes a little pout at that.
Now I laugh. “No, seriously, it’s fine,” I say. “It wouldn’t be a problem at all.”
She smiles, clearly relieved, and holds her hand out again. I take it and she squeezes softly. “Thank you,” she says. “For everything today.”
“Good luck,” I tell her, and I watch her as she walks out the door. She turns to look back over her shoulder, tosses me one last smile, and she’s gone.
CHAPTER SIX
When I get home from work, Susannah greets me at the door wearing her Get Up the Yard T-shirt, artfully torn jeans, and black Doc Martens laced halfway up her calves. “We’re going out for drinks and food,” she announces. “Pick somewhere that has lots of both. My treat.”
I look over at Wilson, who is eyeing me from his bed and thumping his tail. I put my workbag down, walk over, and crouch down to scratch his belly. “What did you do to him?” I ask as Wilson half closes his eyes in doggy ecstasy. “He normally dances around when I come home.”
“Took him on a long walk around the neighborhood,” Susannah says. “Fed him lots of treats. He’s half comatose; he’ll be fine. I just took him out to pee. I’ve been stuck here all day. I even mopped your damn floors, which, by the way, were probably violating an EPA rule.”
“I thought the EPA was a bunch of hippies who believe in global warming.”
“Come on, Ethan,” she says, making a pouty face. “I’m hungry.”
Part of me wants to just have a beer and order a pizza and stare at the TV. I still need to process what happened today at work with Marisa Devereaux. But I’m sure as hell not going to talk about it with my sister. “You’re so pushy,” I tell her.
She grins, a dazzling show of teeth. “I’m assertive and cute.”
* * *
WE GO TO the Palms, a brewery three blocks up Roswell Road that serves good pub food along with craft beers. They have a pool table in the back, and after Susannah has had a beer, she heads to the pool table and hands me a cue from a rack on the wall. “Age before beauty,” she says.
We play a round and I win, sinking the eight ball into a far-corner pocket. “Lucky shot,” Susannah says, but she smiles as she says it.
“You’re in a good mood,” I say.
“Mercury’s out of retrograde,” she says, taking a sip of her beer. “Hey, I forgot to ask; how’s Frankie?”
I bend over my cue, chalking the tip and wishing I could avoid the question. “He’s good,” I say. I finish with the chalk and put it back on the edge of the table, and when I look up, Susannah is staring at me.
“You didn’t go see him,” she says.
I sigh. “No, I didn’t go see him.”
“So when’s the last time you did see him?” Her stare is getting sulfurous. “Last Thanksgiving? What about the year before that?”
I shake my head.
“You haven’t seen him since you and I went together? That’s over two years ago. What the hell, Ethan?”
I start putting balls into the triangle on the table. “I didn’t want to,” I say.
“Didn’t want to? He’s your friend.”
“I know that.”
“Did you feel guilty, or—”
“I didn’t want to go by myself,” I say.
She puts her hand on her hip, her other hand holding the cue with the butt end on the ground, like she’s planting a flag. “Don’t put that on me,” she says.
I roll the triangle of balls on the felt, hearing their muted clack, then lift the triangle off and hang it on its hook on the wall by the cue sticks. “You weren’t here,” I say. “It didn’t feel right to go alone.”
Susannah narrows her eyes in disappointment. “You think Frankie wasn’t alone?”
I lean my cue against the table. “I need to take a leak,” I say.
“Yeah, you do that,” Susannah mutters, grabbing the cue ball and lining up her shot.