The Scenic Route (10 page)

But he did.

M
andy was sweating. She knew her faculty adviser liked to make her sweat, but this time it was literal.

The air-conditioning was on the fritz in West Hall, where she was explaining, no, defending her dissertation proposal. The amazing thing was she was actually excited about it, but excitement is less valued in academia than levelheaded gravitas. And she had no gravitas. What she had were her notes from thousands of hours of watching chimpanzees have sex. Often violent sex. And she had evidence that the violence was often linked to self-destructive and unpredictable female behavior. Something Mandy knew a thing or two about. And her hypothesis was that primates had as hard a time comprehending each other's actions as their
Homo sapiens
cousins.

“There's been so much focus on sexual coercion by male chimpanzees,” Mandy said, coming to the conclusion of her presentation, “but what if there's also an element of confusion?”

“I think not,” said Dr. Lola Peña-Punjabi.

“You don't think there's confusion?”

“I do not think there has been too much focus on sexual coercion.”

“I didn't say
too
much,” Mandy said, mindful it was a primary focus of the department's research.

“I do not think I can support you using university resources to rationalize rape.”

“Are you serious?” Mandy asked in disbelief. But Dr. Lola Peña-Punjabi was always serious.

“Rationalizing rape” was in no way what Mandy was suggesting, but it was pointless to argue. Mandy knew there were few job opportunities for someone with a PhD in primatology, and even fewer for someone without a PhD. Or without the support of her department. It was a very small and incestuous world. And the narrow pathways to success had numerous toll bridges that were guarded with a tenacity that put Homeland Security agents to shame.

“Isn't it worth considering that a female's actions may not always be to her benefit?” Mandy asked. “And isn't it really empowering females to give them permission to make mistakes?”

Dr. Peña-Punjabi regarded Mandy in a way that suggested she was the one making a very large mistake.

“Amanda,” her adviser said. No one ever called her Amanda. Dr. Peña-Punjabi claimed that formality was a way of showing respect, when really it was a way of showing condescension. Mandy looked nervously at her wristwatch. “Amanda,” she repeated, “is there something else you would prefer to be doing?”

“No,” Mandy assured her. “I've been prepping for this meeting for the last week.”

“What I meant is, is there something you would prefer to do other than a dissertation?”

“I'm very excited to get started writing a dissertation.” Mandy dreaded the thought of it. “Unless there's some other option I don't know about.” She gave a quick laugh to show she was joking, but she wasn't.

“You do not
have
to get a PhD,” Dr. Peña-Punjabi said in her
cautious, soft-spoken way. Her toffee-complexioned face remained almost inert, with her lips making the bare minimum motion. “You also do not
have
to get one in this program. Perhaps it is not a good match.”

Mandy's throat constricted. Being told you're “not a good match” was the ivory tower equivalent of Donald Trump saying, “You're fired.”

Mandy's first thought was that a decade in academia had given her no employable work skills. Other than possibly typing. And she had no place to live outside of student housing. And no way of paying back her student loans. But she was getting ahead of herself. She couldn't be kicked out without first being put on probation. And even that was a long and time-consuming process that she suspected Dr. Peña-Punjabi would prefer avoiding.

“I will do whatever it takes to complete this program and earn my degree,” Mandy said.

Dr. Peña-Punjabi sighed. “If that's what you really want,” she said. “But I do wonder if you are making things unnecessarily difficult for yourself.” If she were a man, Mandy thought, she would be a total manstrosity.

Before Mandy left the office, she received a two-week extension to come up with “a more suitable proposal.” Those were Dr. Peña-Punjabi's precise words. But when had Mandy ever been attracted to anything “suitable”?

She found herself thinking about Hal. He had texted her several times, but she hadn't responded. Though she had thought about it, more than once. If she responded, it meant she wanted to see him again. And she didn't. She refused to be
that
person. The person who, well, wanted to be with a person like Hal. The whole point was that she wasn't emotionally invested in him. He was the antidote to Tad. He had cleared the toxins out of her system and helped her stop
obsessing about Tad. She finally had been able to focus on work without checking her phone for texts every five minutes.

And because nature abhors a vacuum, the moment she no longer needed to hear from Tad was when she started hearing from him incessantly. Phone calls and texts and e-mail. She hadn't responded to any of his messages. She hadn't even opened his last e-mail, which he'd sent more than a week back. Though she supposed that she should. Out of politeness. Or curiosity. Everything she felt about Tad, she now viewed from a distance. Like watching some video documentary and wondering, Who is that woman, and why doesn't someone stop her?

She supposed she owed Tad an apology for her blog post. Though it wasn't like she'd named him, and it was unlikely he would have seen it. They didn't have any friends in common, to the best of her knowledge. The advantage of meeting online. But the least she could do was open his e-mail and read it. So that's what she did on the corner of State Street and South University. If she'd had any inkling about the length of the e-mail, she would have chosen a spot with a bench.

Mandy, I'm writing because you won't answer my calls or my texts, which makes it kind of hard to have a conversation. Obviously, you're still upset we didn't get together a couple weeks ago. You seem to have some idea that since I didn't meet up with you I must have been “doing it” with someone else. And while I appreciate your faith in my libido, the truth is the reason I wasn't able to get together with you was that my parents were in town. And the reason I didn't tell you that my parents were in town is that I didn't really want to introduce you for a lot of reasons that really have nothing to do with you and a lot to do with me (and my parents, who being parents, come with a lot of operating instructions). And, yes, I kind of thought it was a little soon for the whole “meet the parents”
thing. My concern was that if I told you I didn't want you to meet my parents you might get insulted. You might have a hissy fit. You might run off and give me the silent treatment. Kind of like what you're doing now. I know I should have just told you the truth. But I didn't. Because I'm human. And I do stupid things. And I make mistakes. But I think that's the definition of being human. I don't know. You're the anthropologist. Here's what I do know. I like you. A lot. And it's really upsetting to me that you're so angry you won't even speak to me. Because I really thought we were getting along pretty well. But that's my perspective. You might have a different one. It would be nice to know what it was. Maybe you could share it with me. Like in an e-mail or a phone call. Or maybe over pizza at Cottage Inn? Just throwing it out there. And I'm sorry. For what I did (not telling you about my parents). And also for whatever you think I did (but I assure you that I didn't). I hope you're okay. And I hope to hear from you soon. Miss you. Tad

She read the e-mail twice to make sure she didn't imagine what she read the first time. Her heart was beating fast. All the feelings she had pushed aside came rushing back. She could see his slim wrists as he sat typing the e-mail. She could see his eyes squinting at his computer screen as he tried to come up with the right words. He said he liked her. She felt like she was twelve, when her best friend told her that Jimmy Barkin liked her. Except that was only a rumor, and Jimmy had denied it when she saw him at his locker. But Tad Emerson liked her. Tad Emerson with the sensitive face and the silly sideburns. Tad Emerson who played “Kokomo” on his trumpet for her. Tad Emerson wanted more than booty calls. And it terrified her how much it meant to her.

N
aomi gripped the handrest as the
FASTEN SEAT BELT
sign was illuminated. No matter how many times she flew, she never had acclimated to turbulence.

“Please return to your seats and prepare for landing,” the doe-eyed flight attendant instructed in a tense voice that implied the landing might be an immediate and fiery event.

The plane dipped and dropped. “Please, God, not before I have my own restaurant,” Naomi whispered under her breath.

It was a ritual thing she said to herself on planes. But she wondered if it was really what she wanted most in the world. And what it said about her if it was. She claimed to be looking for a long-term relationship, yet it didn't seem to be her priority.

She supposed she could have said, “Please, God, not before I'm married.” But there was something desperate and demeaning about thinking that way. Thinking that marriage was some kind of brass ring and that her life had value only once she attained it. She bridled at the notion. She had slaved for too many hours in front of too many hot stoves. She had been tongue-lashed by too many sadistic egomaniacs.

Yet it turned out she could take the girl out of the OC, but she couldn't take the OC out of the girl. She still wanted the old-fashioned hearth and home, though preferably in a renovated London flat rather than the suburban sprawl of Southern California. She wanted the hubby and the kids in footie pajamas. She was jealous of Steffi. Steffi! Who practically had a countdown clock going to her thirtieth birthday and, when the alarm went off, grabbed the first single man in sight. Okay, maybe not the first one. But Stu was the kind of man-child Steffi had always steered clear of in the past. Naomi wished she could have said the same for herself.

But she was making better choices now. Or she was making less frequent bad choices. She wasn't sure which of the two categories Austin belonged in. Until twelve hours ago, she would have simply categorized him as MIA. Sure, he had diligently followed up after their night together. But he had never told her he wanted to see her again. He implied it. Or he allowed her to think he implied it. But he never came out and said it. While Carlos was picking her up when her shift ended at midnight and wining and dining her at South Beach hotspots, all she was getting from Austin were laconic voice mails saying “Hope you're having a great day. Call me if you have time.”

She supposed she could have called him, but she didn't see the point. If he had something to say, he should have said it. And one thing he most definitely didn't say was “I'm coming to Miami, and I'd love to see you.” Or even “I'm going to be in Miami on business this week. How about a drink?” Instead, he showed up with no advance warning and seemingly little interest in whether or not he saw her.

But he did see her. And she saw him. She saw his eyes light up like a five-year-old's when the Metromover zipped through the inside of the Knight Center. She saw him share her goofy enthusiasm and match it with his own.

And then there was that kiss. It had caught her by surprise. She
hadn't necessarily expected him to kiss her. And definitely not like that. She tingled when she thought of it, and she'd been thinking of it a lot. She had thought she was over him. She had certainly tried to be. If you can't get over a schoolgirl crush by the time you're thirty, well, what does that say about a person?

But she hadn't told him about Carlos, and she couldn't pretend it was unintentional. Not that there was much to tell. Other than she was flying halfway around the globe for a guy. No, for a job. For a job interview. She was going for the job interview. She was almost sure of it.

The plane pitched to the left, and she braced herself for a tempestuous descent. Another quick prayer. A simpler one.
Let Austin kiss her again.
That was even worse than the first.
Damn, Austin.
He was messing with her mind. Again. One of the reasons she was going to Madrid was to get over him. But there was nothing to get over. They weren't in a relationship. They weren't even dating. Carlos was the one who was pursuing her. Carlos was the one who'd begged her to come visit. Carlos was the reason she was going to Madrid. Well, Carlos and the job interview. And the adventure. Though she was getting a little old for adventures. No, one was never too old for adventures.

Naomi joined the applause when the plane's wheels made abrupt but steady contact with the ground. She followed the crowd into Terminal Four of the Madrid-Barajas Airport, flowing down ramp after ramp along the glass-sheathed building, past candy-colored steel beams that called to mind the vertebrae of gargantuan exotic birds.

She took her place in a line at passport control and turned on her phone to check the time, but her phone didn't turn on. She tried again. Nothing. With growing panic, she realized she had forgotten to turn it off before the flight. She'd been distracted, thinking about Austin. No, the problem was she
hadn't
been thinking. And now she was out of battery. And the hotel reservation number was on the phone. And the address! It was okay, she told herself. Any decent taxi
driver would know the hotel's location.
If
she could remember the hotel's name. But Carlos had made the reservation, and she was blanking.

Though Naomi prided herself on her ability to navigate through airports, she somehow got turned about after customs and couldn't find the right baggage claim. The arrival hall's soaring height and rippled bamboo ceiling had given way to brutalist columns and row after row of low-hanging, wok-shaped fluorescent fixtures. The minimalist signage seemed contradictory or her limited Spanish was failing her, and she seemed to be going in circles.

As she raced to and fro, she grew increasingly aware of being a small, solitary figure in a vast, indifferent place. Where was she running? Why was she always running? She stopped and leaned against a column, taking a few deep breaths. Arrivals were the hardest part of traveling. She knew that. If she could just get to her hotel, everything would be fine. But at the moment nothing was fine. And she couldn't help but think it was a sign.

She spied a flash of red on a distant carousal. There was a reason she traveled with red luggage. She hurried toward the revolving bag, thinking she was more competent than she gave herself credit for being. She needed to remember that. And she needed to remember to never pack her charge cord inside a checked bag again. She retrieved it from the zippered pocket where she had stuffed it, but she couldn't find an electrical outlet.

She groggily headed for the exit, dragging her wheeled case behind her, not really sure what to do next. She could take a taxi downtown and try to get online at a Starbucks. Did they even have Starbucks in Madrid? The morning light was disorienting. It was four a.m. in Miami, and she was starting to feel the time difference and her lack of sleep. She felt drugged and dreamy, as if she'd been smoking weed and drinking espresso simultaneously.

“Buenos días,”
an overeager taxi driver called out to her as she weaved through a line of cars. Everyone seemed a little too loud and too close to her. She kept imagining that she recognized people's voices, even though they weren't speaking her language. She even thought that she heard her name. “Naomi!”

She saw his chin first. His cleft chin with salt-and-pepper stubble that matched the disheveled thatch between his ears. He was leaning against a Mercedes limousine.

“You came to pick me up?” she asked, incredulous.

“¡Por supuesto!”
he replied with a wide grin, as if it was the most foolish question he'd ever heard. And she was running again. To Carlos. Into his arms.