Authors: Stephanie Fournet
Chapter 20
Malcolm
Ready or Not
What if Bernadette
had gone to the grotto
an hour early
and caught the Virgin
in her bathrobe
with curlers in her hair
puffs of tissue
wedged between her toes
to protect the French pedicure?
Would that not still have been a miracle?
Would she not have told her sister?
Called the parish priest?
Put Lourdes on the map?
Even if the Blessed Mother
had not been ready for her,
would she not still have fallen to her knees?
Rubbed her face with mud?
Felt her life made new?
This is God’s mom we’re talking about.
How often does that happen?
So you’ll forgive me
if I don’t have the grace
to shield my eyes
to turn away
to deny that I’ve seen you.
M
alcolm clutched the hand-written poem with expanding disbelief. It did not matter that she had not signed it or that he had never seen her handwriting before. The moment he saw the folded sheet placed across his keyboard on his desk, Malcolm knew it was from her. His heart had begun pounding frantically even before he’d picked it up.
He quickly crossed his office to close the door so he would not be disturbed as he read the poem a second time.
You don’t hate me.
Relief, deep and wearying, rushed over him, and he sunk down in his chair. In the week since she had told him, clearly and accurately, how fucked up he was and effectively kissed him goodbye, he had avoided her with such skill that he never had to confirm for himself whether or not
she
was avoiding
him.
He could not blame her for hating him. But he held the note with shaking fingers as he traced over her letters, so grateful that she did not.
I miss you.
The poem was an echo of her, nothing as fresh and full as being in her presence, but after his agonizing week of bitterness and longing, it
was
her. Her humor and boldness, already so familiar to him, leapt off the page.
Maren.
She had come into his office while he was at lunch. Surely, that had been her intention, to leave it while he was out. It made his head swim to think about her being in his space. He read the poem a third time. No one had ever written a poem for him. And such a poem. He could not accept the comparisons she made. Clearly, she had been fooled. But it moved him, completely.
He had to admit that there was some truth in it. She had seen more of him than anyone had in years. It was a strange realization. He had not talked about his parents to anyone since J.J. He had never shown a woman his treasured study or the screened porch—the house on St. Patrick he had purchased after the divorce. And except two regrettable, whiskey-soaked encounters that both happened to fall one year apart on the date of his erstwhile anniversary, he had not shared his desire or his kisses.
But Maren’s kisses, even the angry one, lived in a world above those confused and pitiful grapplings with partners he’d rather forget. She had seen more of him, felt more of him; it was true. Still, she did not understand her folly. And he now cared for her too much to punish her with himself.
Even so, she had opened her heart with the poem. Opened herself, again. And he could not bear the thought of hurting her anew with the wrong response. He would not ignore it.
A million lines of verse—in English and Spanish—sprung to mind. Pages of nouns and adjectives.
Dearest. Longing. Diosa. Congoja.
As always, the Spanish captured it best. She was his
diosa
and his
congoja
.
His goddess and his grief. The pair of words he had never joined before seemed to become inseparable now. He could write poem after poem for her, but he would never be able to share them.
He also could not risk speaking to her. For myriad reasons. He thought about the kiss in his office, how he had crushed her against himself. There was no telling what his body would do. Beyond that, there was no way he could look into her eyes and say what her poem meant to him. He swallowed a knot in his throat at the very thought.
He pulled his phone out from his pocket. It was the weakling’s way, but he and Maren both knew he was weak. He tested out messages.
I love the poem. Thank you.
He deleted this immediately. He could not use the word “love.”
I read it three times. Thank you.
He erased this, too. It might communicate how much the poem meant to him, but it also could imply a lack of clarity. He finally settled on honesty—as close to honesty as he could manage.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:21 p.m.
I don’t know what to say. Thank you. It’s wonderful.
He sighed and set his phone down, ready to turn his attention to the latest round of essays from his 202 classes. Just as he pulled the stack toward him, his phone chimed.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:22 p.m.
You are quite welcome.
How are you?
His breath hitched. Where was she? Just down the hall in the bullpen? If he summoned her, would she come? The temptation was almost overwhelming.
No, you don’t, you bastard.
Still, she had asked after him. The fact that his well-being still mattered to her utterly humbled him.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:25 p.m.
I’ve been better.
You?
He was playing with fire, and he knew it, but his will was so weak, it was nearly nonexistent.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:26 p.m.
I’ve been better, too.
So, there it was. He missed her, and she missed him. Malcolm felt sure that there was no misunderstanding about that, whatever other misconceptions there might be between them. He allowed himself to admit that it felt good; it both softened and sharpened his ache. But it was time to put an end to the conversation.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:27 p.m.
Have a good weekend.
He was about to set the phone down again when it registered her response.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:27 p.m.
Not likely. Rob and I are meeting in the lab tomorrow to work on the chapbook.
Malcolm frowned. What he’d seen of Maren’s interests and work habits told him that she should relish the assignment. He did not understand her lack of enthusiasm.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:28 p.m.
Why aren’t you looking forward to it? The chance to edit a publication?
Her response was slower in coming. Malcolm could almost feel her hesitation. His curiosity doubled, tripled, in spite of himself.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:32 p.m.
It’s not that. I’m just not crazy about Rob.
Malcolm thought of the bright and self-assured Ph.D. student. His dissertation on Mamet was going to be magnificent.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:33 p.m.
Why not?
This time her response was immediate.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:33 p.m.
He’s too “friendly.”
Malcolm nostrils flared as he read the word. With suddenness, he remembered the evening he met Maren—at the department party, how Rob had tended bar and flirted mercilessly.
Malcolm growled.
Reason and control were overthrown by forces much older and more primitive. It did not matter that he told himself that he could not have her; on some pre-verbal level, she was his.
“Get a hold of yourself, Vashal,” he muttered.
Still, Malcolm consoled himself with the fact that Maren was uncomfortable with Terrence’s advances.
And then he frowned. Was she more than uncomfortable?
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:35 p.m.
Do you feel unsafe with him?
The thought alone agitated him. He stood up from his desk and paced his office, waiting for her response.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:37 p.m.
No, I’m sure it’ll be fine.
Her words did not satisfy him. The thought of her being in Griffin Hall alone with Rob Terrence now made him almost feral. Malcolm knew it was not just his lust and longing that shook him up; it was Maren’s discomfort and the barest hint that she might be harmed or harassed.
Friday, Nov. 3:
1:40 p.m.
I have Sheridan’s class in a bit. Have a good weekend.
I’m glad you liked the poem.
Though he wanted to reply, Malcolm thought it best to let her end the conversation. He looked at the waiting stack of essays on his desk and knew that he would have little success focusing on them if he could not shake the sense of anxiety that cloaked him.
“Fuck this,” he swore, leaving his office and heading for the center stairs. The doctoral English students had the privilege of study carrels located on the third floor of Griffin Hall. Malcolm had sought Terrence in his on more than one occasion to discuss this or that facet of his developing dissertation.
As he suspected, Terrence was bent over his laptop, surrounded by books when Malcolm approached the doorway. Instead of reaffirming the admiration Malcolm secretly held for Terrence’s work ethic, the hunched posture made him look scheming, sinister.
“Terrence,” he barked, startling the younger man.
“Dr. Vashal,” Terrence said, straightening up. “What brings you up here?”
Malcolm eyed the graduate student with a cold authority. He said nothing and watched Terrence begin to grow unsure and concerned.
“I’m wondering when your segment of the chapbook will be ready for me to peruse,” he said, frowning. “The print deadline is in less than two weeks.”
“Actually, Avery told me that she was already finished with the fiction section, so Maren and I were going to get together tomorrow to work on the rest,” Terrence said, eyes slightly wide.
Malcolm pretended to consider this piece of information.
“What time will you be here? I have some work to do myself,” he lied. “Perhaps I could assess your progress while I’m here.”
Terrence didn’t hesitate to respond, but Malcolm detected a look of disappointment cross his eyes.
“We’re meeting at 10...in the Mac lab,” he said. “We might be at it for a while.”
You wish, asshole.
“Well, I’ll be around,” he leveled, wanting to communicate more than the words. “It would be preferable if the job got done this weekend.”
“Yes,...it would,” Terrence said, uncertainly.
“Tomorrow, then,” Malcolm nodded curtly and walked away.
Even with a plan in mind, he felt unsettled and irritable. He went back to his office and forced himself to commence grading, but his mind kept drifting to Maren. Then Rob Terrence. He numbed the cycle that evening with a few Crown and waters, but nothing could keep his mind from her. She had infected him. The worst part was that he didn’t wish to be cured. As much as it hurt to want her and not be able to have her—and Malcolm fully admitted that it hurt—he had no desire to unknow her truth. The part of himself that valued her, that recognized her grace, might have been the best part of him. It made itself known in his chest and under his skin, and he wanted to keep it alive.
By contrast, the thought of Terrence—of anyone—hurting her gave him to murderous visions. He was still himself, after all.
Though it took hours of mental grappling, he finished his grading around 10 p.m. and fell into bed. The thought that stirred him there was that he would see her tomorrow; he would be able to be near her again. He had to admit to himself that he probably owed Terrence his gratitude. The boy had unwittingly given him a mission, one that allowed him to break the ban he had placed on himself. Her well-being was his highest goal. He had pushed her away to protect her from himself, but he would draw near to guard her against someone else.
As he drifted to sleep, he allowed himself to imagine a courtly knight—black armored, of course—who suffered chastely in service of an untouchable lady in white.
Chapter 21
Maren
“Y
ou see, I think we should use a drop cap on each bio,” Rob Terrence said, standing behind Maren and invading her personal space.
Out of the two of them, she was the more familiar with Adobe Pagemaker and was in the process of designing the poetry pages while he was supposed to be proofreading the author bios they had written earlier that week.
“No problem,” she said, staring at the Mac and willing him to return to his seat one over from hers. When she had arrived, she had purposely dumped her bag on the seat next to his to give herself a buffer but still be close enough for them to see each other’s screens and work in tandem.
Instead of sitting again, he hovered and watched her insert the drop cap for the first place poet.
“Yes,...that looks great,” he whispered. She felt Rob’s hand land on her back between her shoulder blades, and her spine stiffened. Maren truly did not know if she should shrug him off, say something, or just ignore him and keep working.
She drew a deep breath to tell him to sit down when the door to the Mac lab opened.
“Doughnuts, anyone?”
And there he was. Maren recognized his voice before she turned to see Malcolm enter the lab, carrying a white box and a blazing look. The hand on her back vanished, and relief coursed through her.
She sprung out of her chair and could have hugged him, but she restrained herself.
“Thanks, Dr. Vashal!” She approached him, and their eyes locked. His searched hers, and she could tell that he was asking if she was okay. She understood why he was there, that he had come for her alone. He was there because he knew that she felt uneasy with Rob. In that moment, Maren’s heart flooded with love.
“I’d love one,” she managed, never taking her eyes off his as he opened the box and offered it to her. It was filled with half glazed and half chocolate-covered, and she smiled, remembering their Saturday morning at the conference. “Keller’s. My favorite.”
“Mine, too,” he said, containing his own smile better than she could. She was glad that Rob was behind her and couldn’t see her face.
“Terrence? Doughnuts?” Malcolm said, a little more coolly, and held the box in the man’s direction. Rob approached and plucked a chocolate covered from it.
“Thanks, Dr. Vashal,” he said, with much less enthusiasm. In fact, Maren may have detected a little irritation, but she couldn’t face him to find out. Instead, she took a bite of her doughnut and tried to quell the emotions that were rising inside of her.
I love him. Heaven on Earth, I love him.
“How are things going in here?” Malcolm eyed Rob first, but then sought Maren again, checking in with her.
“Fine. Better now,” she said with her mouth full. “Doughnuts make everything better.”
She hoped he’d understood her. She was okay, but she was so glad to see him. He nodded.
“I agree,” he said.
“We’re editing and formatting right now,” Rob said. “We should be done in a couple of hours.”
“Good.” Malcolm set down the box of doughnuts on the printing table and helped himself—adorably, Maren thought—to three chocolate covered. “I have some work to do in my office, so I’ll be just down the hall if you two need anything.”
He was gone as quickly as he’d come, but the mood in the room had shifted. If anything, Rob sulked, but he grabbed a second doughnut and sat back down to continue his work. Maren, on the other hand, felt like she could never sit still again.
“My hands are sticky. I’m going to wash them,” she said and headed out after Malcolm. She waited for the lab door to swing closed behind her before breaking into a run. Malcolm was already at the end of the hall, about to turn down the wing to his office.
“Malcolm!” she called in hoarse whisper. He turned and aimed all of his beauty at her. She had not laid eyes on him in more than a week. He was stunning. Fucking gorgeous. He brushed the chestnut hair away from his eyes, which pierced her with the ache she read in the sage green depths. She wanted to crash into his arms.
I will not kiss him. I will not kiss him.
She ran up to him, and their hands reached for each other in a mutual assent, to hold and to hold back. Maren was breathless.
“I wanted to thank you,” she said in a rush. “Thank you for coming.”
She wanted to cry suddenly. Did he understand what it meant? No one had ever cared for her so completely. Did he understand that he gave her what no one had ever given her before? How could he still think himself wrong for her? No one had ever been more right.
“Are you alright with him?” Malcolm spoke hoarsely, frowning. She could see that he was still worried about her.
“Yes, I’m alright.” She nodded.
“I could work in there if you need me to,” he offered, his eyes narrowing to search hers.
“No, it’s fine. Really,” she said, squeezing his hands, strong and firm in hers.
“Don’t let him touch you, Maren,” he pleaded, squeezing back.
“No, I won’t...I didn’t know what to do earlier. I was about to tell him to move when you came in,” she tried to explain. “But, no, I won’t.”
Maren knew that he wasn’t saying this to stake a claim, but it didn’t matter. She belonged to him, no matter what he thought. She didn’t want another man laying a finger on her.
They stood for a moment, hands and eyes grasping each other.
I love you.
She wanted to tell him, but she knew he would not hear it. He wasn’t ready. Maren could only hope that someday he would be.
“I should go back,” she whispered, reluctantly.
Gripping her hands still, Malcolm stepped back, putting distance between them.
“I’ll come check on you in a little while,” he said.
The promise made her smile. She watched the answering smile lift his beautiful mouth.
I will not kiss him.
“See you then.” She forced herself to release his hands, and she turned and sprinted back to the lab.
“All clean?” Rob asked, playfully, eyeing her as she came in.
“Mmm,” she grunted, not even looking in his direction. She no longer felt like she needed to be friendly or diplomatic in her responses to him. If he had not figured out yet that she was absolutely not interested, she’d make it very clear.
To her relief, he said nothing, and they worked in silence for nearly a half an hour. Once she was finished with the designs, she asked him if the text was ready, and he shared the documents that had been finalized.
Maren was grateful that when Malcolm came in to check on them an hour later, they had a near-completed draft to show him.
“This looks good,” he said, having taken the seat at Maren’s station that she offered. “These bios are well done, and I really like the design.”
Maren felt a secret pride at his praise. She knew it was sincere, and she knew that his praise was rare, which made it all the more precious.
Both she and Rob murmured their thanks, and Malcolm left them to finish. Maren was relieved he didn’t stay longer because she wasn’t sure that she could hide her enjoyment of his presence.
A moment after he’d left, her phone chimed. She was sure it was a message from him, but when she checked, she read Helene’s words and gasped.
Saturday, Nov. 4:
11:40 a.m.
I think tonight’s THE night.
In the week since Helene’s first date with Jess—when he indeed had taken her dancing at the Blue Moon—it seemed as though the two would-be lovers were turning dry-humping into an Olympic sport in their attempts to “take it slow.” Helene had admitted, a little bashfully, that the slow part was Jess’s idea, that she had been ready to jump into his bed after he had whispered the words to Prince’s “Kiss” into her ear as they danced.
Saturday, Nov. 4:
11:41 a.m.
So the incorruptible Jess Dalton isn’t so incorruptible???
Saturday, Nov. 4:
11:41 a.m.
He’s making dinner for me at his apartment. That means sex...doesn’t it???
Maren laughed, and Rob eyed her appreciatively.
Saturday, Nov. 4:
11:42 a.m.
It’s a good sign.
Although it didn’t mean sex for Malcolm Vashal,
she said to herself.
Saturday, Nov. 4:
11:43 a.m.
I’m packing my toothbrush and some condoms just in case. Does that make me a slut?
Again, Maren laughed, and again, Rob eyed her, smiling this time.
Saturday, Nov. 4:
11:44 a.m.
No, of course not! Go get you some. In fact, get some for me, too!
Saturday, Nov. 4:
11:45 a.m.
What? Rob’s not offering to take you in the Mac lab?
Saturday, Nov. 4:
11:45 a.m.
Ugh! Perish the thought. By the way, the longer I text you, the longer I’m stuck with him.
So, bye. Have fun tonight!
Maren stuffed her phone back into her bag, resolving to ignore the chime that signaled that Helene was having the last word.
“Something funny?” Rob asked, raising an amused brow.
Maren shook her head dismissively and put her eyes back on the screen in front of her.
“Just Helene.”
“Oh? Are you two going out tonight?” he asked, feigning casual chit chat. Maren saw through it and stifled a sigh.
“No, not tonight.” She focused intently on making sure all of the columns on the last page were aligned, but she could feel Rob’s eyes on her. Again, she was so very glad that Malcolm was just down the hall. She didn’t think that Rob would ever try anything, but Maren was relieved nonetheless.
“So, would you like to maybe get dinner tonight, then?” he asked, angling his chair so that his knees pointed to her.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m with someone,” she said. It wasn’t true in the conventional sense, but as far as her heart was concerned, it was a sacred truth.
Rob looked surprised.
“Oh? Anyone I know?”
“No, you don’t know him.” Maren smiled to herself over the liberties she was taking, but it was true; Rob did not know the Malcolm she knew. Perhaps no one else did.
“What’s his na—”
“Let’s get back to work so we can finish, Rob,” Maren said, cutting him off. “I’d still like to enjoy my Saturday afternoon.”
“Sure,...of course,” Rob said, a little icily, turning back to his computer.
She knew that she had probably offended him, but she’d had enough of him pressing her boundaries. They worked in near silence for another 20 or 30 minutes until their section was polished and print-ready.
“I’ll email these to Dr. Vashal, and we can get out of here,” Rob said, not looking at her. Maren let out a slow breath, relieved that the project was finished. Rob logged off his computer and gathered his things in a rush.
“See ya,” he called over his shoulder as he headed out of the lab.
Finally.
Maren took her time logging out and slinging her satchel across her chest. She wanted to make sure Rob was well and truly gone before she stopped by Malcolm’s office on her way out. When she left the lab, the hall was empty and silent, and instead of running to him as she had that morning, she walked lightly until she found herself outside his open office door.
Malcolm was seated at his desk, eyes on the screen of his laptop, and he had not heard hear approach. With one elbow on the desk, he rested his brow on the perch of his fingers, and his chestnut hair fell over them. He frowned slightly as his sage eyes struggled with the puzzle before him.
His beauty was completely unfair. Maren felt a bit like a stalker, spying on him from the hallway, but being able to drink him in—unobserved, unhurried—was too rare a thing. She watched him part his lips and moisten them with his tongue, and Maren thought she’d faint. She needed to announce her presence.
“Knock, knock,” she said, softly, and she had the privilege of watching him start, take her in, and recover his mask. It happened so fast, but Maren caught the look of joy that shone in his eyes for an instant before he tamped down on it. It made her heart ache.
“Done?” he asked, giving her a half smile.
“Yes, indeed.”
“And Terrence?” He frowned with the question, and Maren felt the cloak of his protection.
“He just left.”
They watched each other for a moment. Maren was keenly aware that they were alone—if not in the building, then at least on the second floor. She longed to touch him, but she leaned against the doorjamb instead.
“How are you getting home?” Malcolm asked.
“I rode my bike.” She nodded in the direction of the parking lot beyond the south stairs.
“If you give me a moment, I’ll walk you down.”
Maren would have given him days.
“I think I can spare a moment,” she said, trying to contain her smile. She watched him shut down his laptop and begin to pack up.
“What were you working on?” she asked.
Malcolm put the laptop in his case and did not meet Maren’s eyes when he answered.
“It’s a translation.”
“Oh?” she inquired, wanting to hear more, but hesitant about pressing him.
Malcolm joined her at the door and waited for her to lead the way.
“It’s a book of poems,” he said, with a hint of a smile. “By a Guatemalan nun.”
Maren felt her eyes bug in surprise.
“Wow. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that.” She started walking down the hall toward the stairs, and he fell in step beside her. She found herself slowing to make their time together last longer.
“It’s a brilliant collection,” Malcolm said, reverently. Maren could see immediately that the project meant a great deal to him.
“I’m certain it is,” she said, sincerely. “You wouldn’t choose anything less.” It took everything in her power not to reach for his hand. It would have been the most natural thing in the world, and yet she couldn’t.