After Perfect Read online

  “Fine. As long as you’re not going to crack on me,” she teases.

  “I promise.” I stand at attention.

  Felicity looks at my pink sheet schedule again, walks a few steps forward, and stops further down the hall to the right.

  “Your first class is Creative Expressions? I like this. It’s freestyle writing. The professor will see where you are in your writing, and the whole class will discuss it.” It’s the reason why I decided to take the class. I like the notion of its freedom. “Here we are, my child.” Felicity abruptly stops, turns around, takes both my arms in her loving hands, and squeezes them in support. She gives me a sad smile, like a mother sending her daughter to kindergarten for the first time, and then pulls me into a tight hug. I let her, rolling my eyes and huffing in fake irritation. She pulls away and we both laugh hysterically.

  “Just now you sounded like your old self again,” my best friend whispers, “and I’m glad.”

  How can my situation get any worse? What I’m most afraid of happening has already come to pass this weekend. Simon doesn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore. The pain, although numbing, is there, but I know I’ll survive.

  Felicity blows me a kiss as she walks backward toward the stairwell. I turn around to face my classroom.

  I’m twenty minutes early. I push the heavy wooden door, and it produces a loud creaking sound. There’s no one in the room yet. I leave the door open. This is probably one of the so-called writing labs. It’s a small room with a big rectangular table at the center and twelve chairs around it. The air smells mustier here, like it has not been opened for months, which is probably the case during the summer. I walk toward one of the chairs, set across from the window with a perfect view of today’s clear blue New York City sky. I lay my binder and my purse on top of the table and look around. The walls are covered with big oak book-shelves. I saunter to the one closest to me, and I can’t help brushing my fingers lightly along the books that it shelters. The books are of various genres, and I am pleasantly surprised to see that romance has earned a spot in this room. In another life I would have been a romance writer. Not in this one though, since my only chance at a happy ever after has already gone up in flames.

  This room speaks to me. I can stay in this room all day and write, think, and create. Books are my passion. My escape. It’s probably why I neglected to see that my life had become such a mess, because in my books there are adventures and excitement and lots of love—always lots of love—and I guess because of this, I failed to recognize that my real world was falling apart.

  I finally take a seat facing the window, crossing my arms over my chest and soaking up the brightness of the morning sun. I stare at it head on without squinting. I breathe it all in. At about ten minutes before eleven, a tall, slender girl in braids walks in and sits next to me. She glances sideways, smiles, and pulls out her MacBook. I look at her digital school supplies laid out right in front of her on the table, and I look at mine. Note to self: Bring my MacBook to school too.

  “Hi,” the chirpy girl says to me at the top of her high-pitched voice. She drags her chair closer to mine. “My name is Heather.” She reaches out for a handshake. I didn’t think they still did that anymore with the germaphobe generation, but I take her hand anyway.

  “Hi,” I say, and I smile. “Gabby.”

  “Aww. That is such a sweet name,” she says in a singsong voice with a hint of a California accent.

  “Thanks.” And just like that, I think, I’ve made my first friend in school.

  “Nice to meet you, Gabby.” She then faces the table, pulls open her MacBook, and pushes the power button, which reverberates with a loud, lingering ding.

  A few more students start arriving.

  “This is really exciting, don’t you think?” She claps her hands together in a gesture of overexcitement. “Colt James is the best professor in this program. The best!” she squeals.

  “I know, right?” The girl with platinum—I mean, almost white—hair across from us joins in our conversation. “I hear he’s still really busy doing book tours and talks, even though his last book was published like two years ago,” Platinum Girl adds. “Last semester he sent his TA to substitute for him almost half the time. I just hope we get some face time with him to discuss and critique our work before the semester ends.”

  I look at both of these girls in shame. I should have done my homework. I should have, like the rest of the university, researched my professors. I read a little about him on his photo-free profile on the university faculty page, but I don’t know him —not with the kind of background these two girls have. In my defense, I have been busy sorting out my messed-up life.

  “And it doesn’t hurt that he’s extremely hot!” Heather chimes in. So, I guess he’s not the old, chubby, balding writing professor I’ve visualized. Almost as if she’s read my mind, Heather adds, “How can someone have written so much at that age? I mean, I think he’s only like five years older than I am.” What is he, like twenty-five? I ask myself sarcastically and silently. I’m mortified to think that I could be older than my professor, and by the sound of these two shrieking girls, I could be at least a decade older.

  “Oh, my god, I know,” Platinum Girl concurs.

  “Really?” I say, trying to contribute to the conversation.

  “You really don’t know him? So, get this, he published his first book, Roots, at twenty-one. Twenty-one!” She lets that info sink in, giving us the I-know-even-more look. “I’m Sophia, by the way,” she adds.

  “Hi, I’m Heather and she’s Gabby.” Nods and smiles all around. Heather and Sophia, although their styles are optically contrary—with Heather looking like America’s sweetheart in her blonde braids and angelic smile, and Sophia with near-white hair and nose piercings—I feel like they are going to be instant best friends. They’re still chatting away after almost all the chairs around the table have been claimed.

  I look at my watch, which is an old Cartier Tank Simon gave me. Whoever Colt James is, he is almost half an hour late. I roll my eyes in disgust, and the fact that now I know he is hot adds even more to my irritation.

  “I hope you don’t have very high expectations of this class.” The crisp, mild voice comes from behind me, as someone enters the room, dragging the screaking wooden door shut behind him. I turn sideways to get a better view of my new professor, but instead my sight lands on the leather jacket he is tightly clutching with one hand.

  Our eyes meet. It’s him.

  There are no sparks flying, no rainbows or stars over my head, but there are uncomfortable flutters in my stomach. Butterflies.

  His soulful eyes bore into mine, and a glint of a smile forms on one side of his mouth. I bend my head, cursing under my breath. I nervously start shaking my leg. Heather looks at me teasingly, as if to tell me that she knows fully well how I feel. But she doesn’t, because she wasn’t there when I made a fool of myself in front of this guy, who as fate would have it, is actually my professor. It’s official. My first day is a complete disaster of epic proportion.

  Then, a realization hits me, and like a crazy person I smile. All these things—the simplicity of being awkward in an unknown place with an unknown guy and a number of unknown people—these are the things that I’d rather face than that thick envelope on top of my kitchen table still waiting to be signed.

  I sigh.

  I slowly look up, more confident than I was a few seconds ago, and I match his glare. He raises one thick eyebrow slightly, impressed that I’m meeting his challenge. I actually am not. I just want to fake it until I make it.

  “My name is Colt James,” he says, dropping his jacket at the back of the chair across from me—one of the vacant ones next to Sophia. Sophia cranks her head up to look at him. There’s visible awe in her gaze. He then backs up toward the window, leans against it, and crosses both his legs and his arms effortlessly. “People call me Colt. Students call me Mr. James. I don’t care how you call me, really, but let me make one thing clear—I don’t want to see crap in this class.” The room goes silent, dead silent. Like when the air conditioner stops all of a sudden, and every single sound becomes so creepily distinct around you. It’s like that. Even the noise from outside seems to have stopped. “You were chosen to attend this class based on the sample pages you sent during registration. This is not a class where you will learn Creative Writing 101. I don’t do that. This is a class where I will personally tell you if your writing sucks and if you should just give it up.” His voice is not loud or boastful; it’s chilly, frightening. Imagine listening to a vampire speak—slowly and long and lingering. The word “sucks” coming out of his mouth even sounds different. He makes the word sound intelligent, and I don’t know if that’s even possible. I hear sighs all around. “And no. I’m not one to give someone a pep talk. This is not my MO. Understood?”

  The door opens widely, breaking the chilly ice that is Mr. James’s warning. A young man in his early twenties walks in.

  “You. What’s your name?” He’s obviously annoyed. Sophia turns around to face Heather and me, and widens her eyes in a mix of fear and admiration. Then Heather touches my knee, trying to stop my leg from shaking. I look at her and she smiles at me sympathetically.

  “Scott,” the young man replies softly, obviously uneasy.

  “Speak louder,” Mr. James booms.

  “Scott!” It sounds more like a scream. I feel terrible for Scott. I look in my professor’s direction and squint at him in clear annoyance. He challenges my glare but instantly looks back at Scott.

  “Don’t be late in my class again, Scott.”

  “Yes, sir. . . .”

  I roll my eyes. I’m too old to endure this kind of crap. He sees it.

  “Sit down, Scott.” He gets up and starts walking around the tiny room. All heads follow him like starstruck apprentices. I suppose I can’t really blame these kids for their ambition. I should celebrate that along with them. I’m here, am I not? And hopefully I’m here because, after almost two decades of complacency, I’m ready to do more. I do hope so; otherwise I’m just wasting a ton of money to get my mind off Simon.

  I feel him stop right behind my chair. I don’t move or turn around. I stay where I am, looking out the window. I see Sophia give me a glare, but I don’t budge.

  “As you can see, this is a small class,” he says. I can almost feel his breath on top of my head. “We will have intimate discussions about your writings. Let’s get personal,” he continues, charming all the young ladies in the room but one. Yes, me. Although I wouldn’t be too sure, since for a time earlier today, I was so enamored of him that I couldn’t shake his image out of my head. “Tell me your names and why you’re in my class.” I feel his hand resting at the back of my chair and tapping it lightly. Scott, bless his soul, who is sitting on my far left, gives me a knowing glance as if in warning. I don’t react or say anything. Colt walks around the table, stops directly behind Sophia, and stares at me. “You.” He nods at me.

  “Uhm. . . .” Definitely a bad way to begin. “My name is Gabriella Martin . . . oh, Stevens.” I shake my head, my bravery and confidence lost in mere seconds. “My friends call me Gabby. You can call me whatever you want.”

  “So, Ms. Martin . . . oh, Stevens?” he confirms.

  “No, just Stevens.” I match his glower.

  “You forgot which one was your last name?” He’s challenging me, and I’m furious that he thinks he has the right to this starkness and sarcasm.

  “No,” I say more sternly than I intended. “If you really care to know why I got confused about my last name there for a second, it was because I used to be Martin, but since my divorce papers finally came just this Saturday, I’ll probably have to start using my maiden name again. Stevens. I hope that answers your question.” I see him take a step back, and the softness in his face, which I saw a glimpse of this morning, is apparent again. I can feel my cheeks heating up. Everyone’s eyes are on me—some in sympathy, some in shock. The room becomes awkwardly silent.

  “Well, Ms. Stevens, divorce is a good place to start,” Colt says, his look of surprise vanishing. “I expect good writing out of it.” He moves on and calls on Heather next. I clutch both sides of my seat to steady myself. I don’t think I’ve ever been so pissed off, not even at Simon, and he has done a pretty horrible thing to me.

  I try to calm myself down as he moves around the room asking everyone the same question. I don’t look at him anymore, because if I do, he’ll notice how angry I am, and how this is ruining my normally calm aura. I feel like crying in anger, and I don’t cry easily. I was just handed my divorce papers over the weekend, and not a single tear dropped. I clutch my seat tighter. If I let go, I’m afraid I might storm out, and then he wins. If his goal is to scare or insult or infuriate his students, I think he’s accomplished that.

  I sense him moving around the room until he stops right in front of me again. I slowly lift my chin up to meet his gaze. There is weight in his eyes, an unnerving pull. I don’t look away.

  “Academic writing has no place in this class. In this room I want you all to be yourselves, and to be able to explore the depths of your souls.” As he says this, he looks straight into my eyes. “This is not drama. So, if it doesn’t need to be dramatic, let’s not put it anywhere.” He walks to the window and leans, finally letting go of my gaze and resuming his earlier stance, crossed legs and arms. “Look, I had a teacher who was so uptight he wanted me to put two spaces after every period.” The class relaxes a little, and some even manage to laugh. “That is not creative writing; that is technical writing. Anybody can learn those things. They’re in a book. Remember the rules and you’ll be fine. In fact, you can carry the book of rules around if you want.” He unfolds his arms and brushes invisible dirt off his sleeve. “That teacher also told me that I should not use the words ‘nope’ or ‘yeah,’” he says without looking up at us. “But, if you think those are the only words that can truly express who you are, use them.” And then he looks up and stares at each one of us in his class with such intensity. “Creativity cannot be learned. It is a talent. If you’re here, you know you have it. I read your work. Those sentences had so many grammatical flaws, and style guide infractions, but they were all . . . yes, creative. That’s why writers have editors. They are pretty much our help—we pay them to clean up our beautiful work. So, in this class, if you’re angry, be angry. If you’re sad, be sad. If you’re happy, don’t be cheesy, but show it anyway. Explore that, express that, be that, and creativity will flow. Welcome to Creative Expressions.”

  I find myself staring at him, entranced. And I hate myself for it.

  Chapter Three

  My phone rings as I rush to cross Times Square from Seventh Avenue to Broadway.

  I’ve been clutching my phone since I left the apartment, just in case Felicity calls to change her mind about where we’ll meet up before the dinner party I was coerced to attend. Felicity and I agreed to grab a drink at John’s Bar at six thirty.

  It isn’t Felicity. Simon’s face flashes on the screen. I stare at my phone, battling an inner debate whether or not to take his call. I have to at some point, and I know it. Not right now, I tell myself, and the ringing suddenly stops. I don’t have voicemail set up so it’s likely he’ll call again. I turn off the ringer, drop my phone inside my purse, and continue on toward 48th Street.

  New Yorkers hate Times Square. They try to avoid it by all means. But I love Times Square. The vibrant billboards, the colorful electronic advertisements, and the noise of life—they give me energy. I feel like I’m at the center of the world when I’m here. There is no space for sadness or melancholy. There’s always just the now, like a time warp. I’m at a standstill as I soak it all in. The swarm of tourists this time of day, especially on a Saturday, is like nothing you’ve seen before or anywhere else.

  I’m early. I have about twenty minutes to kill, and John’s is just another five minutes away. I breathe a heavy sigh as I look around me. It never gets old.

  This is home.

  I never really imagined that I would one day call New York City mine. Simon, Felicity, and I moved here after graduating from Georgetown. Simon received a degree from the McDonough Business School, while Felicity and I graduated with degrees in communications. Simon got a job on Wall Street a few months before we arrived and started his master’s at Columbia a few months after we got settled. He was in school during the evenings and worked really hard at his job during the day, which quickly moved him to the top. Felicity jumped straight to a master’s program at NYU, started teaching part-time almost immediately, and was later hired by The New York Times. I was never as driven as those two. I felt like ever since middle school, I’ve followed them around. I loved being part of our trio. So it was a surprise to everyone when I ended up valedictorian, with Simon and Felicity tied for second place.

  As Simon and Felicity’s careers flourished, I floundered. I wanted to have children. That had been my focus for a long time. After years of trying, Simon one night drunkenly confessed that he had never really wanted them. It broke my heart a little, but I trusted that Simon only had the best intentions for us both. I never brought up the topic again and went to the doctor the next day for an IUD.

  I was content being Simon’s wife. Some people from his office called me “the perfect wife,” and I was fine with it. My mother was happy about it too. We were at the very same spot in our respective marriages. She was proud of the daughter I’d become. All I wanted was for Simon to be happy and for us to be happy together. I really thought he was until he met his assistant. Suzanne. I shouldn’t be thinking about this tonight. Again, I remind myself, not tonight.

  Felicity is already at John’s when I walk in, her phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear.

  “Bye,” she says into her phone and yanks me right out of the bar before I even get the chance to say hi. With her hand firmly clasping my arm, she hails a taxi as soon as we step outside. This is a horrible idea in this part of Manhattan at this time of day.