There was also the “unnaturally good-looking” part.
Max: So there’s no scenario in which you’ll deign to get together with me today.
She was strangely tempted, but . . .
Dani: No.
She meant it about being post-men. Vince had done a number on her, and she was done. Not only done dating, but done arranging her life, even one day’s worth of it, to please a man. She felt so strongly about that position that she’d put it in writing. Just in case she was ever tempted.
She had never imagined that temptation coming in the form of a baron.
She set the phone on her dresser, opened the closet, and fingered the forest-green taffeta dress she’d impulse-purchased in a fit of optimistic shopping earlier this fall. She’d thought then it would be a perfect holiday dress. But in addition to being too formal for this evening’s party, not to mention for her afternoon class, taffeta was a try-hard fabric. Not an “I am completely over the fact that all of you in this room knew my husband was fucking around on me but apparently didn’t respect me enough to tell me” fabric. Anyway, who was she kidding? She was never going to wear that dress. A year ago, she could have worn it to the opera with Vince. But she didn’t go to the opera with Vince anymore. She didn’t go to the opera with anyone.
Which was fine, because she didn’t like the opera. She and Vince had been scheduled, in what turned out to be the week after he left, to go see some avant-garde production about a dude who loses his nose. Dani had looked at the entry on their shared calendar and, even though she’d still been in the sobbing-hysterically stage of the breakup, thought to herself, Well, at least I never have to go to the fucking Met again.
She moved the dress to the back of the closet and pulled out her standard day-to-evening black dress. It was a contoured number with a pencil skirt that had a pleasingly 1950s vibe to it. She could wear a blazer over it for teaching, then lose the blazer and jazz up the dress to make it more festive for the party.
How, though? Scarf? No. If she added a scarf to the retro dress, she would come off a little too Rizzo from Grease—although maybe some Rizzo energy was exactly what she needed right now.
Maybe she could make a jaunty hat out of the divorce papers Vince wouldn’t sign?
Because wasn’t that the cherry on top of everything? Husband leaves not only her but also the country—to spend a year’s sabbatical in Spain, where his girlfriend spends her time posting Instagram shots of herself hiking the Camino de Santiago in a bikini top—but that same husband will not sign the divorce papers.
Vince was back for the holidays. Maybe all that time relaxing in the sunshine with said girlfriend had inspired him to move things along? A girl could hope. Even though seven sessions of mediation before he left had not provided her with reason to do so.
Dani ran her fingers over a tangle of necklaces that hung from a stand on her dresser. She needed a statement necklace. And she needed that statement to be Eff you very much, Vince. No, that wasn’t right. The message she wanted to send was more Sorry, what was your name again? I have moved so far on while you were away that I can’t quite remember but please sign the fucking papers. If only she had an accessory that would communicate that.
Hang on. She grabbed the phone. Max, apparently having finally gotten the point, had stopped texting.
Dani: On second thought, there might actually be a scenario in which I want to get together with you today.
Max: I wait on bated breath.
Dani: Any chance you want to be my plus-one to my work holiday party, at which my soon-to-be-ex-husband, Vince, will be in attendance, as will his new girlfriend, who is a former student of both of ours and who is twenty years younger than he is?
Max: Is your soon-to-be-ex-husband the main character in a Philip Roth novel?
She laughed out loud.
Dani: He might as well be. He’s on sabbatical this year in Spain communing with the spirit of Picasso, but he’s back for the holidays.
Max: The answer is yes, but I have questions. Question the first: Is this going to be one of those elaborately complex romantic comedies where we pretend to be in love to make your ex-husband jealous?
Dani: Unfortunately, he’s not technically my ex-husband. My fondest wish is to relegate him to that status, but we’re not there yet legally. As to your question, let’s leave it vague. No need to make out or anything.
Max: Well, that’s disappointing. I do so enjoy making out at office holiday parties.
Dani: No making out at the party. Or anywhere. In addition to being post-men, I am post–making out. If pressed, I’ll call you a friend. But if you wanted to do me a solid and appear to find me the pinnacle of wit, that would be appreciated.
Though, really, there was no reason Max should “do her a solid.” She’d been nothing but cool to him last summer in Eldovia.
Max: Question the second: Am I myself, or am I pretending to be, say, a visiting scholar of nineteenth-century literature who is therefore extra susceptible to your pinnacle?
Dani: You’re yourself.
She was impressed, though, that he knew she studied nineteenth-century literature. If she’d said anything about it last summer, it had been in passing.
Max: So what I hear you saying is that in this one very specific scenario, you find it convenient that I’m an almost-duke.
God damn him.
Dani: God damn you.
Max: I might even go so far as to say that you’re using me for my almost-dukeness.
Dani didn’t want to be this petty, but . . . Okay, yes she did.
Dani: She’s twenty years old. He told me she was his Lolita. That she saw the real him and that in order to take his writing to the next level he needed someone who could be a “helpmeet,” and when I said we were each other’s helpmeets, he said there can only be one helpmeet and one help-ee in any relationship. And then they went to Spain for a year.
Max: What time am I picking you up?
Dani: Five. I’ll meet you there—it’s a building on campus but not mine. I need to look up the address. I’ll text it to you.
Max: Dress code? Formal? Business casual?
Dani: Dukeish casual.
Max: Understood. Prepare to be the pinnacle.
Dani smiled, dived onto the bed, and prepared to be love-bombed by the other Max, the main Max, who genuinely thought she was the pinnacle, no pretending required. As he did every morning, the little Yorkie acted like waking up next to her was the greatest joy of his life, going from dead asleep to vibrating with happiness as he crawled onto her lap. He might not do dishes like Cinderella’s mice and birds, but he earned his keep in other ways, filling what had been a wrenching year with seven hyper pounds of unconditional love. “Good morning, my sweet,” she cooed. He yapped in greeting, and she buried her nose in his fur as she hugged him.
Maybe today wasn’t going to be as crappy as she’d feared.
Max was supposed to meet Dani at the faculty club on her campus, but since he arrived half an hour early, he looked her up in the school directory and had his driver drop him at the English building.
This was going to be fun. He hadn’t been lying—he did like Daniela Martinez, not least because she didn’t seem to like him. That wasn’t something that happened. It wasn’t that everyone liked him—he wasn’t conceited enough to believe that. But he rarely encountered someone who didn’t at least pretend to. Sparring with Dani last summer, when she’d come to Eldovia to visit Leo, had been a breath of fresh air in a remarkably stressful time. He’d only spent a day in her company, but she’d made an impression.