“It’s true, isn’t it, Meg?” Jeremy said. “Didn’t I ask you to dinner last night, and you kept turning me down?”
“She didn’t!” Mitchell gasped and clutched his chest. His mouth opened in an O.
“Yes, she did. I had to beg her. She relented after I told her it would only be for half an hour.”
Mitchell shook his head. Ms. Julia looked a little affronted, as well. “Young women these days.” As if that was a complete sentence and explained anything. Plus, Mitchell was probably no more than fifteen years older than me. It’s not like he’d lived through the actual Civil War.
“Isn’t it true, Meg?” Jeremy prodded.
For my part, I stood there with my mouth partially open, blinking at the man. I didn’t know whether I wanted to kiss him or strangle him. He was certainly doing a good job of convincing Mitchell that he’d been secretly pining for me for years, and Mitchell was sure to tell Harrison, but on the other hand, I felt as if he was laying it on way too thick by making me lie along with him. Though I suppose when I really thought about it, it wasn’t technically a lie. He had had to convince me to go to eat with him last night. “It’s true,” I said curtly, wanting to run out the door and hide in the Jetta. “Let’s go,” I ground out.
Mitchell and Ms. Julia slowly waved us off with a handkerchief as if we were going to war, and I hightailed it out to my car. Jeremy’s truck was parked close by but he followed me to my car.
“He’s going to tell them you know,” I said.
“Tell who?”
“Harrison and Lacey.”
“I know. I want him to.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
“You’re welcome. I guess.”
I unlocked the car door with my fob and Jeremy promptly opened the door for me.
I paused. “You don’t have to walk me to my car and open the door for me. Haven’t you seen my bumper sticker?”
“The herstory one? Yeah, I like it,” he said. “And I wanted to walk you to your car. Besides, I thought you were an old-fashioned sort of girl. Like 1815 old-fashioned.”
Despite my lingering anxiety, that made me laugh. “I study it. I don’t want to live it.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Disease, no plumbing, racism, lack of women’s rights, and no HVAC. I could go on.”
He leaned an elbow on the top of my opened car door. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d do the same for my sister.”
“Do what?” I frowned.
“Open the door.”
Oh, great, he’d compared me to his sister. Any momentary insanity that had made me think he might actually be digging me vanished.
“How much are the clothes going to cost?” he asked next without waiting for me to reply.
“That’s for me to worry about, not you.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but the door to the shop jangled open again and Mitchell stuck out his head. “I forget to tell you. Come back next Tuesday for your first fitting, and the Tuesday after that to pick up everything.”
“Thank you, Mitchell,” I called back.
“Don’t worry.” Mitchell waved his handkerchief in the air again. “I’ll be sure not to schedule you at the same time Professor Macomb and his actress friend are here. Oh my. That would be awkward, wouldn’t it?”
Chapter 11
Wednesday
Harrison was sitting at our favorite table in our favorite restaurant at precisely eleven thirty in the morning. He was wearing his favorite ‘uniform’: a pair of khakis, a buttoned-up, stiffly starched shirt, and a jacket with corduroy elbow patches. His hair was swept away from his forehead with the smallest bit of gel, and he looked fresh-faced and rested. Meanwhile, I’d gotten a total of about four hours of sleep in the last several nights.
It was a bit early for lunch, but we preferred to eat early. That way we bypassed the big crowds. We loved the little soup and bread shop on the corner of campus because it had quick, efficient service and yummy food. It was the type of place where you ordered at the counter, however, and Harrison had obviously already ordered because his water bottle was sitting on the table in front of him, and that meant he’d already paid.
Keeping my face carefully blank, I waved to him to indicate that I’d seen him and then made my way up to the counter to order my own lunch. Soup and salad. V. healthy. Who cared if the soup was loaded baked potato? Half-ass dieter here.
The girl behind the counter gave me a plastic number tent and a cup for my Sprite. While I signed the screen to pay for my lunch, I couldn’t help but think about how Jeremy had bought me pizza last night. When was the last time a man had paid for my meal? Maybe on my last birthday? Harrison paid for me on my birthday, of course. But we both agreed that it didn’t make sense for a modern couple to pay for each other. We each had a good job. It was sexist and outdated for a man to always pay for a woman. Still, it would have been nice for him to offer from time to time.
No, that thinking was wrong and sexist. What the hell? Was my mother creeping into my head again? I took my little plastic tent and my cup and made my way over to the drink machine. I filled my cup with soda and grabbed a handful of napkins and a plastic spoon and fork before turning toward Harrison.
I pressed my lips together to remind myself to be stern. The man hadn’t even called me in the last two nights. All I’d gotten from him was a lousy lunch text. He had a lot to explain.
I marched up to our table in the corner near the window and slid my soda cup onto the top. Then I set my napkins down and the cutlery on top of the napkins before plunking my hands on my hips and glaring down at Harrison.
“Take a seat, Meg,” he said in his most professorial voice.
“Not having lunch with Lacey Lewis today?” I asked in a kinda-purposefully-snotty tone.
“That’s beneath you.”
Damn it. He knew how to get to me. He was right. It was beneath me to be jealous, but at the moment I was only feeling like a girl, not an evolved professional with a Ph.D. Instead of answering, I lowered myself into the chair across from him and did my best to keep the smug look pinned to my face.
Harrison opened his mouth to speak, but one of the employees came up carrying a tray. “Turkey and avocado sandwich and fat-free chicken noodle soup?” the young man asked.
Harrison nodded and the kid slid the tray in front of him while Harrison lifted his water bottle to make way. The kid turned and left and Harrison, ever the gentleman, let his food sit while we waited for mine.
“Go ahead, eat,” I prompted.
He ignored that. “Look, Meg. I’m really sorry about what happened. I—”
I stopped him by putting up a hand. I’d been preparing for this conversation for days. “I only have one question.” I stared him in the eye and paused dramatically. I’d already decided that this moment was perfectly acceptable for drama, whether he liked it or not.
“Yes?” he prompted, the steam from his low-fat chicken noodle soup rising between our faces.
“Whose idea was it to toss me over for Lacey?”
He gave me the impatient look he often gave me when he thought I was being too dramatic. “I’d hardly say I tossed you over. It wasn’t like that, Meg.”