Blushing Pink Page 8

  "Okay, great!" Reese called. Mrs. Rosenburrow took one hand off her doily collar to wave again. "Bye-bye," Reese added, smiling, and turned the key. She'd just nudged the front door closed with her hip when her cell rang again. Figuring it was probably Angela, she snapped it open and said, "Yes?"

  "Reese?"

  "Uh... um... yes?" She was stalling. She knew exactly who it was (she recognized the deep, authoritative voice, and the undercurrent of impending doom).

  "This is Professor Kimble," he stated majestically. "I trust you're working hard."

  "Um, uh-huh, sure, yeah, of course." Quit babbling. She couldn't help it—Kimble was the last person she expected to talk to. In fact, she'd given him her cell phone number only in passing, when she'd slipped up and mentioned she was going home for break, and no, unfortunately, her family didn't have a phone. She'd prayed so many times that he wouldn't remember the number, and when she hadn't heard from him in a few days, she'd thought she was in the clear until spring semester.

  But no, things were rarely so easy with Kimble. Talk about an egomaniac. For pete's sake, this was her break! She was keeping up with his work, but did they actually have to converse, too?

  "How far have you gotten with chapter eight?" he asked. No How's it going? Looking forward to the holidays? Sorry to disturb you on your VACATION?

  "I'm almost done with it actually." At least that was true. Before she'd gone home for break, she'd finished most of chapter eight, entitled "Historical Documents and Their Importance in Understanding Documented History." She just had to ramble on in circles for a few more pages, find a few more synonyms for "discover" and "forefathers."

  "That's what I was counting on," he said. No: Thank you. Wow, almost done, already? Or, How do you stand writing that crap? "I'll need you to make some additions, however."

  "Oh, really?" That seemed hard to imagine, because as it was, she was having trouble eking out enough BS for a whole chapter.

  "Yes, I've compiled some closing thoughts that will flesh out the analysis a bit more." Jesus, was that possible? Kimble had pretty much reduced the "analysis" to its most basic state.

  "All right," she said, "if you just want to e-mail me the new material, I'll try to take a look at it this week—"

  "No, I'm afraid that simply won't do," he said imperiously. "I want to convey these ideas to you while they're still fresh." Fresh? Reese stifled a laugh.

  Rolling her eyes, she scoured the bureau in the front hall for a pen and paper. No luck. "Hold on just a minute," she said, and Kimble merely grunted. Taking the steps two at a time, Reese sprinted upstairs and into her bedroom. She pulled a spiral notebook and pink ballpoint out of her book bag, and said on a breath, "Okay, I'm ready."

  Promptly Kimble began his usual mode of dictation: speaking as if he were at a poetry slam, every syllable imbued with affected pretense, while Reese tried not to toss her cookies. "Historical documents provide a discourse," he said slowly, dramatically. "No, wait. They provide... a discursive framework. Yes, a discursive framework. Full stop."

  She rolled her eyes again, and shimmied out of her track pants. "Uh-huh." She managed a half-assed, shorthand version as she rooted around for some jeans.

  "New sentence. Historical documents teach us—and allow us to be taught."

  She tossed her pad on the bed; she could invent better bullshit on her worst day. With the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, she jumped into a pair of faded blue jeans. As she worked the button-fly, she heard keys at the front door.

  Kimble droned on, while Reese jogged down the stairs and found Angela in the kitchen. "Hey!" she said, looking bubbly and adorable in a suit skirt, with silver Nikes and the BC sweatshirt Reese had given her years ago. Her hair was flipped out and wild from the wind, and her face was rosy, which only made her eyes appear more intensely dark.

  "Hey," Reese whispered, pushing the phone away from her mouth. "You're very sultry."

  Angela glanced down at herself, then said, "Oh, whatever." Reese held up her finger, because she thought she heard Kimble say something like, "Now, read it back to me." Shoot!

  "Um... what?" More stalling.

  "Wait, actually I forgot something!" he said. "Final sentence. It is crucial for people to uncover historical documents, and was it not Foucault who once said, 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained'? Full stop."

  Reese hesitated, then said, "I-I don't think Foucault said that." Okay, she didn't give a damn about Kimble's book, and she didn't pretend to understand all of what Foucault did say, but this was just too much. Jeez, wouldn't Kimble allow her any intellectual honesty?

  "Pardon me?" he said.

  She held her ground. "I don't believe Foucault said that."

  "Ever?" he challenged.

  "Well, not originally."

  Kimble paused, and Reese made a face to Angela that cried Save me. Angela just smiled, perched up on the counter, and continued picking on some leftover mini-éclairs Joanna had left in the fridge. Finally Kimble said, "Care to make it interesting?"

  Reese scrunched her face in confusion. "Uh—what?"

  "Well, if Foucault didn't originate the expression, then please find out who did."

  Oh, God, he was actually serious. Talk about taking delusional to a new level! "Professor," she said carefully, "exactly how do you expect me to find that out?"

  Ignoring the question, Kimble bulldozed forward, "And I'll need a revised chapter eight on my desk by the day after tomorrow."

  She shut her eyes and ground the heels of her hands into them. Releasing an inaudible sigh, she said, "But how can I have it on your desk? I'm home on break." She had a feeling she knew the answer.

  "I realize that. That's why I'm allotting you two days, rather than insisting on seeing it today."

  Reese looked around the room desperately, not really seeing anything, except red. The man was such an incurable ass! Now he expected her to come all the way back to school just to put something on his damn desk. What if she'd gone somewhere besides New Jersey? Would she have to come back then? And what about Kenneth? He was staying in New York over break, but was Kimble bothering him twenty-four-seven? Somehow she doubted it.

  Of course, she knew she could simply refuse, but it wouldn't benefit her. As Kimble's graduate assistant, she'd need a glowing letter from him to the doctoral committee, when the time came. "Is all of this clear?" he asked, sounding a bit impatient.

  "Mmm-hmm," she mumbled miserably.

  "Good. I look forward to seeing my work." She would've laughed at that, but she was suddenly too blue to crack a smile. "Until then. Good-bye."

  After he hung up, Reese had to remind herself that throwing her cell against the wall would be only a temporarily satisfying release of emotion. So she laid the phone on the kitchen table, sank into a chair, and buried her face in her hands.

  Who was she kidding? She would never have time to start that novel she'd always dreamed of writing. Kimble would keep her way too busy.

  "Reese, what is it?" Angela said, concerned. She set aside the plate of éclairs, and hopped off the counter to come closer. "What's wrong?" she asked, touching her sister's shoulder.

  Reese looked up hopelessly. "Nothing. I'm just wondering at exactly what point my life took a turn for the absurd."

  Angela grinned. "Sing it, sister." Reese grinned back, and realized she was probably being slightly melodramatic. Angela tugged on her hand. "Come on. We're gonna go eat. My treat."

  "Where are we going?" Reese asked, coming to her feet.

  "Somewhere with ambiance," Angela said. "Then we're gonna talk. You're gonna tell me more about your school problems." Reese groaned. "And I'm gonna tell you about how my husband has morphed into a complete pain in the ass."

  "Oh." Reese stopped, suddenly concerned. "Why? What's going on?"

  Angela shook her head, not even looking that upset. "Come on; let's eat first. I can't male-bash on an empty stomach."

  Reese laughed. In a weird way, she felt better already.
>
  * * *

  They were sitting at the Laughing Frog, finishing their third round of banana daiquiris, and life didn't seem so grim anymore.

  In fact, Reese was finding everything downright hilarious at the moment, while Angela was enjoying her brownie fudge cake too much to be depressed. "This is fun," Reese said, slurping up the icy remnants in the bottom of her glass.

  "I know," Angela said, breaking off a big chunk of fudge brownie covered in mocha ice cream. "This is the most fun I've had in forever." She stuck the whole overflowing forkful in her mouth at once, and Reese cracked up again.

  Reese had told Angela about the misunderstanding she'd had with Brian Doren at the cafe, and Angela had found it funny. She definitely agreed that Reese needed to clear it up as soon as possible, her argument being: "You have to clear it up—it's too dumb not to clear up."

  Reese had also admitted that she and Brian had semi-made out two years ago. She apologized profusely for not saying anything sooner, but considering Ally's big mouth, Angela understood Reese's need for discretion.

  The part that Reese left out, however, was her current and burgeoning attraction to Brian. She wasn't sure why, but she didn't feel ready to discuss it. She only casually remarked, "He's pretty good-looking, huh?" and Angela absently replied, "Yeah, he's sort of cute."

  Then they'd talked about Drew. Angela had only covered the basic plot points when they'd gotten interrupted by the waiter bringing dessert.

  "So finish what you were saying about Drew," Reese said now.

  Angela shook her head while she finished swallowing. "That's pretty much it. It just seems like he gets mad at me all the time—not that we ever actually address anything. I guess I'm hovering, but I really don't mean to. Oh, I don't know; the whole thing's so frustrating."

  "Yeah, I understand," Reese said sympathetically. "Well, maybe Drew's just projecting his own anger onto you. Like maybe it's not you he's mad at, just the situation—what happened and how his life is different?"

  Angela crunched on a chunk of ice that she'd spooned out of her daiquiri (which was a virgin, like her second had been). "Well, that's why I signed him up for a support group last week. It's for heart attack recoverees."

  "Oh, that was a good idea," Reese said encouragingly.

  "Yeah, but then he got this ludicrous idea in his head that the group was for 'old' people. Just because the meetings are held at the Twilight Pastures Retirement Village." Reese reserved comment. "I mean, where does he get this stuff?"

  "Hmm."

  Angela pushed her plate and glass forward. "Ugh, I feel sick."

  "Me, too," Reese said, feeling a headache coming on, too, which threatened to ruin her buzz. "So he didn't end up going to the support group, then?"

  "Oh, no, he went. He just sulked before and after, and probably during, for all I know."

  Reese held her tongue because she didn't like giving unsolicited advice, especially to her sisters, who would definitely ask for advice if they wanted it. But it was difficult not to take a firmer hand with Angela, and insist that she be more confrontational with Drew. If they were ever truly going to fix things, they'd have to talk about what had happened.

  Just then the waiter came over. "Anything else, ladies?" He smiled down at them in that flirty way young waiters always did to enhance their tips. It didn't even matter if they were good-looking or not; they still did it. Apparently they assumed that most women wanted to be flirted with. "Just the check," Angela said.

  "Nooo problem," he said, and ripped the check off his pad. Angela already had her gold card out, so he took it and, before sauntering off, reflashed his smile.

  Reese felt a little too fuzzy to smile back. Not to mention all the alcohol was starting to go south and settle in a pool of heat between her legs. Great, she was sitting in the middle of the Laughing Frog—with her sister, for Pete's sake—and she was suddenly feeling horny. That figured. Too much alcohol. Not enough sex. As close as she and Angela were, there was no way she would confess that bit of trivia.

  "Reese?"

  "I wonder if I'll ever have sex again," she blurted.

  "What?" Angela said, letting out a laugh. "Where did that come from?"

  "I don't know," Reese said. "Not that I've ever had really unbelievable sex or anything, but..." She expelled a sigh. "It's just been so long since I touched a man, I guess it's starting to get to me."

  "What do you mean? What about that guy from your program, Kenneth?"

  Reese scoffed. "Not even close."

  "Really?" Angela sounded surprised. "Why not? What's wrong with him?"

  "I don't know, nothing. It's... me." She sighed, feeling a little of the blueness creeping back. "I'm starting to realize that men just don't think of me like that."

  Angela snorted. "Puh-lease, of course they do. You just don't put yourself out there."

  "What's that got to do with it?"

  "Well, if you've only got a few guys to base your experiences on, then you're not getting a very accurate reading. I mean, do you know how many duds I went out with before I met Drew?"

  "So what are you saying?" Reese asked, slumping lower in her chair. "That I've got to date a string of losers before I find the right person?" Actually, that sounded pretty reasonable, and definitely true. That must have been why she hated hearing it.

  "No, I'm just saying that you're too picky."

  "What do you mean? I'm not picky."

  Angela tilted her head, and said, "Okay, you don't think you're picky. Fine. Most people don't think they are. But let's consider this: How many men have you given a chance since Pete?"

  Reese paused to think, and within a couple of minutes managed to calculate the grand total of one. "I rest my case," Angela said.

  "But that's not because I'm picky," Reese said defensively. "I just never like anyone." Saying it out loud made her realize that was pretty much the same thing. "Okay, you have a point." She started shredding her napkin. "Let's face it, the real problem is, I'll never find anyone who can measure up to Pete." Sighing wistfully, she mused, "Pete was perfect."

  Angela let out a laugh. "What are you talking about?"

  "What?"

  "Pete was not perfect—he used to drive you crazy!"

  Reese squinted, trying to remember (and also, the Laughing Frog's warm lighting suddenly seemed too bright). "He did? I don't remember that."

  "What do you mean?" Angela asked, scrunching her eyebrows. "Don't you remember how he never had enough time for you?"

  "Um..."

  "You used to complain about it all the time."

  "I did?"

  "Yes," she said emphatically. "Remember, he used to volunteer nights campaigning for the environment?"

  "Oh, yeah..."

  "And organize those monthly church retreats?"

  "Oh, yeah..."

  "And what about how you barely saw him on the weekend because he was assistant conductor of the youth group chorale, and that was when they practiced?"

  "Oh, yeah!"

  "Reese, it drove you up a wall when you were dating, don't you remember?"

  "Yes, yes!" Reese said excitedly, sitting upright, perversely thrilled by the revelation that Pete—for all his rites of sacrifice—hadn't been a spectacular boyfriend, after all.

  Angela leaned forward with the same momentum. "And remember when he brought that homeless person with him to your anniversary dinner?"

  Reese slapped her palm to her forehead. "Omigod, that was insanity. He shows up at the restaurant, and is like, 'Honey, meet Bo-Bo.' "

  Angela laughed, and Reese said, "What was I thinking? I was dating a freaking saint!"

  Smiling, Angela said, "See? It's not you—it's them."

  Reese smiled back. "Yeah, maybe you're right."

  "I am."

  "Yeah... I feel better. Thanks."

  "Good. No problem."

  Reese sighed. "I still miss the sex, though," she said after a pause.

  Now Angela sighed. "Me, too."

&n
bsp; The waiter returned and set the receipt and credit card down. "Thaaanks, ladies," he said. He knocked twice on the table before winking, and adding, "Come again."

  Angela rolled her eyes after he left, and Reese giggled. "So you're not gonna go back to work today?" Reese asked.

  "I don't know. What are you doing?"

  Reese made a gagging gesture, then converted her nausea into words. "More crap for Kimble."

  "Oh, that's right." Expelling a breath she mumbled, "Well, I guess I will go back to the office. I've got nothing else going on."

  Reese looked at her watch. "Hey, Mom should be home from the market by now—you can always help her prepare an elaborate, fatty dinner that no one can pronounce."

  She'd meant it only as a joke, of course, so she was surprised when Angela's face lit up. "Yeah, that sounds fun." She signed the receipt, and then they stood to go. As they headed through the cozy bar and grill, Angela asked, "So what are you gonna do about Brian? I mean if he comes to the house tomorrow night."

  "Oh... I don't know. Explain, definitely. Try not to say anything stupid."

  "Good plan."

  "What are you gonna do about Drew?" Reese asked, as they approached the door.

  "What else?" Angela said. "Ride it out till I explode."

  The words hit Reese hard. God, she really missed the sex.

  * * *

  Later that night, her dreams demonstrated exactly that point. Over and over. They were hazy dreams—the kind she couldn't fully remember afterward, but that left their imprint all the same. Images that were incomplete but still tawdry. A tiny breakout of perspiration on the back of her neck. A hard throbbing between her legs.

  And Brian Doren's name running through her mind.

  Chapter 9

  Reese ran some glossy, red-raspberry Chap Stick along her lips one more time, before she slipped on strappy black heels and headed downstairs to join the rest of her family. In sleek, hip-hugging black pants and a lilac angora sweater that clung to her curves, she was dressed up enough to feel quasi-attractive, but not enough to invite questions from her family.