November Surprise (16 page)

“Don’t quote Shakespeare to defend yourself.” Playfully, I
punch his arm. “That’s low.”

He reaches for me and pulls me into his lap. I don’t even
pretend to resist. “Oh,” he says, in mock offense. “I forgot who I’m dealing
with. How about I quote Jefferson instead?” He tilts his head down and kisses
my neck. “A little rebellion now and then is a good thing.”

“I doubt that’s how he meant it.”

“You never know,” he whispers. His lips find my lips, and he
gives me a gentle kiss—gentler than I remember ever receiving from him.
That’s not a complaint; I feel like I could live comfortably, encircled in his
arms, for quite a while.

But I break away. “I didn’t ask you here, thinking we would,
you know…”

“I know.” He doesn’t smile; his voice and his face seem
neutral. “Do you want me to go?”

I consider his question. I could say yes. But he probably
won’t accept this job, and he’ll be gone in a day or two. Spending time with
Monty has always been short-lived, and I’m usually left wanting more. However,
if he leaves right now, I’ll definitely be left wanting more.

It’s a lose/lose situation. I may as well enjoy the process.

I kiss him again. This time his arms wrap around me tightly,
and his mouth becomes more firm and demanding. I can’t imagine telling him to
stop.

“Stay,” I say between kisses.

Then we stop talking altogether.

The next day he calls.

“I decided to take the job,” he says.

“Congratulations,” I grab onto the edge of my desk for
stability. “When do you start?”

“Right away. They’re even finding me a furnished apartment.
I should be back here at the beginning of the week.”

“Wow.”

“So…” he murmurs. “When can I see you again?”

My throat goes dry, and I reach for the water bottle I just
refilled. After taking a sip I say, “I think we should take things slow.” I add,
clutching my phone. “I mean, of course I want to see you again, soon even,
but…”

“Lucy,” he cuts me off with a laugh. “Don’t worry about it.
You have a life, and I’ll have tons to do, getting acclimated to a new job and
a new city. I wasn’t expecting a serious relationship.”

I laugh too. “Right. Sorry. Of course you weren’t. But when
you get back to town, call me. I’ll show you around.”

He promises to call.

I return to grading my
students’ papers about the effects of early 20th century immigration. Later,
I’ll plan tomorrow’s lecture about the rise of workers’ unions. There will be
no sitting, waiting around for the phone to ring.

Two weeks later I’m sitting up in bed, watching the results
of the Indiana and North Carolina primaries. But it’s not my television, not my
bed, not even my t-shirt that I’m wearing as I watch.

Monty comes in from the kitchen, wearing only his boxers.
It’s a look he can easily get away with. He’s carrying a large glass of water.
“I’ve only got one clean glass,” he says. “So I figured we could share.”

I raise my eyebrows at him, and he uses his free hand to
scratch behind his ear. “The apartment didn’t come with glasses.”

“Really? I thought this apartment came with everything.”

He gives me a crooked smile. “Even a girlfriend.”

I glance around the room. “Are you hiding her in the
closet?”

“You’re the girlfriend.” He takes a long drink, nearly
finishing it. “And I would never hide you in a closet.”

“You’re a prince. You couldn’t be more perfect unless you
gave me my own glass of water.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I bought a set of four the other day.” He
walks back into the kitchen to refill his glass, raising his voice as he
continues to talk. “And I’ve used three of them since then, but I haven’t
washed them yet.”

“Uh huh.” My attention belongs not to him right now, but to
CNN, where “the best political team on television” is sitting around with their
laptops, discussing the ramifications of tonight’s results.

Monty comes back and sits down next to me on the bed. “So
Clinton pulled it out in Indiana, huh?” He doesn’t even try to keep the
happiness out of his voice.

“Just barely. And she was pounded in North Carolina. All the
commentators are saying she’s done.” I pull the covers up over my bare legs and
cross my arms over my chest. Monty offers me a sip of water but I refuse.

“Well, if Obama hadn’t said that thing about bitter people
clinging to their guns and religion, he probably would have sealed the deal a
lot sooner.”

I lightly kick him with my sheet-covered foot. “She
gleefully exploited his statement! You know that’s not how he meant it,” I say.

“Politics is exploitation, Lucy! I shouldn’t have to tell
you that. Obama’s guilty of it too.”

“Not like she is.”

“Maybe not yet, but give him time. He’ll get there.” Monty
moves closer and caresses my arm. I pull away.

It’s not that I’m not enjoying the evening, or being with
him. Earlier we went for dinner at a low-lit Asian restaurant, where we shared
a bottle of wine, a spicy noodle dish, and all sorts of details from the last
six years of our lives. Afterwards he invited me to see his new apartment, and
as we strolled back through the neighborhood he held my hand. When we got to
his building and walked through his door, he didn’t let go. Rather, he pulled
me in close, picked me up, and carried me to bed.

But now I’m annoyed. How can he seriously be for Clinton?
Even if he is from New York, that’s just no excuse. Obama is special, the type
of candidate that comes along very rarely. I tried to explain to Monty how
idealistic and inspirational Obama is, that his message of reaching across the
aisle to Republicans, working together, and finding strength through common
ground is better than being divisive, but Monty just laughed, shook his head, and
told me I was drinking the Kool-Aid.

“They’re saying she can’t win the nomination now, and that
she ought to drop out. But there’s no way she will.” I prop my chin against my
fist and continue to listen to Wolf Blitzer.

“Of course she won’t,” states Monty. “Why should she?”

I give him an incredulous look. “To unify the party. To let
Obama have his victory, so he can move on and engage in the general election.
She needs to think about more than herself, here. This is for the good of the
country.”

Monty whistles and his eyes widen in exaggerated shock.
“Wow. I’m glad we had sex before watching the primaries. If we’d waited until
after it probably wouldn’t have happened.”

I push him in response. “Watch it,” he cries, “you’ll make
me spill the water.”

“It would serve you right,” I say.

He sets the water down on his nightstand and tackles me in
an embrace. “Serve
me
right? Really?
Half the bed would be soaking wet, and I’d be forced to sleep on top of you.”

He tickles me, and I relent and enjoy it. Gently he pushes
me down onto the bed, and holds my arms down.

“Let me up,” I demand, though I’m laughing.

His voice is soft, as soft as this bed, these high-thread-count
sheets, and the old t-shirt of his that I’m wearing. “I will let you up in a
second. First I need to know: will our little romance survive me being for
Clinton and you being for Obama?”

I squint at him, my attempt to look mean and imposing. “Of
course it will, unless Clinton wins the nomination. But the chances of that are
literally zero, so we’re good.”

He releases me. “If that’s true, why are we still arguing?"

Easy question, but no answer comes to mind. Most of the time
I feel so familiar with him, I forget we’re still learning the ins and outs of
each other. Then I get tongue-tied. After all, this is only our third date,
unless you count all the unofficial ones that brought us to this point.

I decide it’s time to change the subject. I use the remote
to shut the television off, climb on top of him, and nuzzle and kiss his neck.

He laughs. “Really? You’d rather make out than listen to
Bill Bennett and Paul Begala pontificate? Admit it; you’re just trying to
distract me.”

“Shhh…” I collapse all my weight against him, so he’s lying
on his back, and my head is resting against his chest. I listen to his heartbeat
while he strokes my head.

“Do you have any plans this weekend?” I ask.

“Just trying to get settled in.”

“Your job found you a furnished apartment. How much more
settled in do you need to be?”

He arches his back and shifts a little. “I still have stuff
to unpack.”

I lift my head and try to make eye contact without moving
too far away. “You do?”

He nods. “I actually haven’t unpacked anything but my
suitcases.”

“You have boxes?” He nods again, and I’m surprised because I
haven’t seen any boxes sitting around. “How many? I’m just curious.”

“Three.”

“Three whole boxes? Over the past twenty or so years, that’s
all you’ve acquired?”

“When you’re travelling through Africa, you don’t hang onto
a lot of stuff.”

“Well,” I say. “That’s impressive. So you need to unpack
your boxes.”

“Yes. And I should go shopping.”

“For more glasses, or for dishwashing liquid?”

Monty chuckles a little. He reaches down and brings my hand
to his lips, baby-kissing each knuckle. “Maybe I’ll go crazy and buy both. I
think I’m going to be here a while.”

“But you’ll probably be too busy to do anything?”

“It’s three boxes, Lucy, and some shopping. I’ll be done by
Saturday afternoon.” He pulls me up so we’re facing each other, eye to eye.
“What were you thinking?”

“A harbor cruise of the locks?”

He gives me a quizzical look.

“What? They’re cool.”

“I can see the boats pass by from my office window,” he
says.

“So you don’t want to go?”

“It’s not that…” His face looks focused, contemplative. “I
just think it’s a good idea for us to stay land-locked for a while, you know,
until the primary is over. Otherwise, things might get heated, and one of us
could wind up overboard.”

“Okay,” I laugh, “then what do you want to do?”

His gives me one of his trademark charming smiles. “It
doesn’t really matter. We can do the locks tour. As long as we’re together, I’m
happy.”

I smile back in response, and then snuggle again into his
embrace. I’d like to believe that’s all I’m doing—that I’m not, in fact,
clinging
to him. Because as Obama has
notoriously said, clinging leads to bitterness. Or is it

I’m in over my head.

 
“…so I told
them we have to check with the American embassy in Nigeria about it, and they
had the nerve to be surprised. Like I was just springing it on them, you know?”

I look out at the ocean. Boats are rocking on the waves, and
clouds are gathering. It’s dusk, but it will be dark soon enough. I shiver at
the thought.

Monty tugs my hand. “Lucy? You okay?”

“Huh?”

Monty stops walking. We’re on one of our post-dinner
strolls; this time we ate downtown, and afterwards we wandered down to Ocean
Avenue.

“Have you heard a word I just said?”

“They’re surprised that you need to contact the embassy in
South Africa?”

“Nigeria.”

“Right, sorry. Just how many embassies do we have in Africa?
Is there one for every country?”

Monty steps away from me, and he leans against the railing
that separates the sidewalk from the path down to the shore. “You’ve been
distracted all evening. What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

Monty straightens the black button-down shirt he’s wearing,
but it’s blowing in the wind, so he’s going to look unkempt no matter what. I
can’t help but think that it suits him. I shiver. The wind is cold this close
to the sea. I brush a strand of my hair out of my face. “I’m not distracted
about anything.”

“Okay.” He shakes his head and gives me an affectionate
smile. “But you’ve got that line over the top of your nose that you get when
you’re thinking too hard.”

“When I’m thinking too hard? Like I’m simple or something?”
I huff out a deep breath, and cross my arms over my chest for warmth. “And
isn’t it a little early to know what all my looks mean?"

Monty gives me a look of his own, his squinty-eyed,
chin-out, challenged-lawyer look. “You don’t have to get defensive. Sorry I
brought it up.”

I tilt my head down, so my gaze is on my shoes instead of
his face.

“Do you want to keep walking?” He holds his arm out to me, a
peace offering that should be easy to accept.

I shake my head. “I’m cold, and I’m tired. I think I’d
rather head home. I kind of need an evening to myself.”

Monty shrugs his shoulders. “Fine.” His voice sounds airy,
but now he’s wearing his nonchalant-but-actually-annoyed look. I can tell by
the way he furrows his brow and bites the inside of his lip.

Maybe we are way too familiar way too soon.

We walk back to his car. He drives me home and drops me off,
planting a kiss on my cheek before I get out.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say.

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Enjoy your
evening to yourself.”

When he drives off I don’t go
inside. Instead I walk to the drugstore.

The plastic stick has two pink lines, not one. Two lines
equals pregnant. I don’t need to look at the box again to confirm that, but I
do anyway. Two lines equals pregnant.

Who accidentally gets pregnant at thirty-seven?

We never used condoms. Our first date in Seattle was only
supposed to be a drink, so I didn’t buy a new box of condoms to store in my
medicine cabinet. As inactive as I’ve been lately, it seemed like a waste of
$12. But Monty didn’t have a condom in his wallet, or in his pockets, or
anywhere he could easily access. Since we’d both been tested recently, we
forwent the jog to the drugstore.

“It’s fine,” I had assured him. “I’m on the pill.”