Unholy Nights: A Twisted Christmas Anthology (4 page)

"If all else perished, and
he
remained, I should still continue to be....Nelly, I
am
Heathcliff!"

No, I had never been romantic. Until now.

There was another reason why I hadn't completely panicked at that point. It was midterm week. Granted, not all courses had midterms, but Will was a chemistry major and pre-med, so he would. In my major, history, I had no midterms, although I did have a couple of papers to write. Focusing on my work, though, was much harder than usual.

I finally did get up the nerve to call him about a week after our night together. I debated texting or emailing, but I wanted to hear his voice again. Surely I'd be able to tell, when I heard that expressive voice, if he had any continuing interest in me.

He picked up when I called, which seemed a victory in itself.

"Hi Will." I had done some breathing exercises before tapping out his number, so I think I sounded calm. My palms, though, were so slippery I could hardly hold onto the little phone. "It's me. Holly."

"Hi, Holly," he said. "How's it going?"

I couldn't tell anything from his voice. It sounded neutral. It wasn't like "who the fuck is Holly?" and it wasn't "Oh shit, how do I get her off the phone?" But it wasn't "OMG, it's her! At last! She still wants me!" either. Neither warm nor cold, neither friendly nor bored.

"Fine." I was trying to remember the storyboard I'd drawn in my head for this. It had been wiped clean by my anxiety. "How are you?"

"I'm good."

"And how's your sister? How was her skating competition? Did she do okay?"

Reminder, boy, you shared some personal stuff with me about your little sister. It's not like we got naked without bothering to connect.

His voice seemed warmer. "She did great. She got second. She even landed a triple."

"Wow. That's awesome. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

Silence. Remembering the script, I asked, "How about that midterm you were stressing about? How did that go?" I could hear the nervousness in my own voice, but at least I'd got the question out.

Will sounded as if he'd loosened up a bit when he answered, "Better than I'd expected. I tried your suggestion about analyzing what the professor might ask on the exam, and that really helped with a couple of the problems. Awesome idea, Holly, thanks."

Wow, he had listened to something I'd said and followed my advice? I started to relax a bit, too. Now he sounded like the Will I'd lain in bed with—friendly, easy, comfortable. Everything was going to be okay, after all.

"Cool. I'm so glad it helped. Of course, sometimes you get a prof who completely defies expectation and asks the weirdest, illogical stuff, but usually it works pretty well."

"I hate it when they're illogical," he agreed.

Silence again. Your turn, I thought, to ask me something. He didn't. I could hear him breathe. Damn. I got nervous again. Why was it so hard for me to talk to people? I'd been naked with him, for godsake; you'd think I could make a little small talk without so much awkwardness.

When he still didn't say anything, I wondered if maybe he had the same problem I had. He wasn't super outgoing, either. Maybe he was wracking his brain, too, for something unlame to say. Plus, I'd called him, so he didn't even have the advantage of a mental script.

I summoned all my courage. "So, do you think maybe you'd like to hang out sometime this weekend? Maybe get a coffee or something?"

The silence continued for several interminable seconds. "I'd like to," he said, and my heart flipped joyously. "But I can't."

I tried to parse "I can't." It sounded final. Heavy, almost. As if he was being physically prevented. It didn't sound like an excuse. Not that I could tell. And suddenly I was one of those ditsy girls who analyze every utterance out of a guy's mouth for its vast relationship significance. They teach us Spanish and Chinese and Arabic in school these days, but there's no course that translates guyspeak into intelligible English.

"Okay," I said.

"I really can't," he said, as if adding an adverb would clarify things.

"No problem." I felt as if I'd been poised to burst into song when my vocal cords had ruptured.

"Maybe later," he said.

Which was something I wished he hadn't said. Because that "maybe later" conveyed hope, and hope can be cruel when you're obsessing about someone. If there's no hope whatsoever, it's easier to let go. But if there's even a glimmer of hope, then you keep trying to figure out what you can do to turn "maybe later" into "Now."

"Later," I agreed and ended the call before I started to howl.

The "I'd like to" and the "maybe later" sent me into stalker territory. I kept remembering that his voice had been pleasant and sweet for a few seconds there. He hadn't sounded as if he were brushing me off. If he hadn't wanted to talk to me, he could have let voice mail pick up and never called me back. It's what I'd half-expected was going to happen anyway.

What did "I can't" mean? Why couldn't he?

I ran through all the possible scenarios—he wasn't that into me, he'd met somebody he liked better, he was really gay but had tried straight sex for the first time with me and hadn't liked it much (nah, no way), he had some awful genital disease, or maybe even a fatal illness. He didn't want to let me get too close in case I fell in love with him and then had to lose him to his tragic destiny. And so on.

One thing I decided. I was going to keep my dignity. I wasn't going to make the next move. No calling or texting him. No email. I did break down and send him that e-card, which was adorable and quite funny. But I didn't add anything. Just my name. I know he picked it up, and he even responded. I got an email back, but all it said was "LOL!"

That LOL! was added to my list of "I'd like to. I can't," "I really can't," and "Maybe later," to mull over and try to unravel.

What did they
mean
? Was it all senseless and random? What was the point of anything when it came to sex and romance, anyway?

No wonder Cathy's ghost had ended up howling over the moors and tapping at window casements in the bitter wind.

5. Witchery

As I'd expected, Julie just about pissed her panties when she heard about the invitation to "Jeff's" Christmas party.

"Oh my god," she said. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" She probably would have said it a few more times if I hadn't glared at her. Julie excited was like a puppy on amphetamines. She walked back and forth, bouncing on her toes and clapping her hands and practically panting. "Did you ask him how dressy it was? What are you going to wear?"

I tried to convince her that I hadn't given the matter any thought, but I had. I'd been poking through my closet trying to decide if I owned anything that would cause Will to be heart-struck with desire. So far, I hadn't come up with much. Maybe I'd have to hit the mall.

When I shrugged, Julie surprised me: "Holly, you've gotta help me."

Julie never asked for my help. She and I were an odd pair, given that we had little in common. We had become roommates accidentally at the end of freshman year. I'd been in the infirmary with mono during the week when everyone in our dorm had chosen their next year's roommates. The girl I'd thought I'd be with had decided to stick with her freshman year roommate, and the girl Julie had chosen had accused her of being bossy and dumped her. Julie and I had been the last two girls in our freshman dorm to pair up, making the best of it with each other.

It had worked out better than either of us had expected. We hadn't driven each other crazy, and living together had proved interesting and even fun. We had a suite this year in one of the new dorms—two tiny singles and an equally tiny common room. I was neater than Julie, who tossed her things around as if she expected servants to follow in her wake with hangers and dusters. She
was
bossy, but I was stubborn. I simply ignored her when she tried telling me what to do. This was effective, although I'm sure it annoyed her. Julie is one of those people who like to be in control.

But she was outgoing and cheerful most of the time, which provided some balance for my more sardonic personality. She was good at bringing me out of my shell, introducing me to her other friends, and dragging me out to the local bars, pizza joints, concerts and parties at which I often surprised myself and had an okay time.

"What kind of help do you need?"

"I really like him. Jeff, I mean. I don't want to waste this opportunity. I've got to get him to notice me."

Well, obviously I could sympathize, although I hoped it wasn't for the same reason. That is, I hoped "Jeff" hadn't messed with her and dumped her without a backward glance. "He's a professor. He can't notice you. I mean, that kind of noticing could get him fired."

"He's not my professor. I've never taken a single class with him."

"He's your advisor. That's probably even more
verboten
."

"Not any more. I have a department advisor now. Jeff was only my freshman advisor. He's, like, off the hook."

"No he's not. He, professor at this college. You, student at the same college. There are rules against it."

"I'm an adult. It's not like it would be harassment or child molestation or anything. There's no law against it."

"Maybe not, but it would unethical. I'm sure the university has rules that prohibit professor-student hookups. Especially since he was your advisor." I don't know why I was getting so persnickety about the rules. It's not as if I was any champion of moral behavior myself. Especially in the sex department.

She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to her. I could see the half-crazy light in her eyes. It was a look I recognized. I'd seen it in the mirror when I'd stare at myself, trying to fathom why the dreams and plans and fantasies and made-up conversations I'd been having with Will MacIvey wouldn't leave my head. How had I missed that my own roommate, my perfect, beautiful friend who always had a boy or two or three chasing after her and trying to get her attention, was, like me, obsessing over an impossible guy?

"So you're really into him?" I must have been wide-eyed, but she didn't laugh at me.

"All I know is I can't stop thinking about him. Holly, I think about him
all the time
. It's crazy. I wish I could stop, but I can't. I've tried everything. I've been into him ever since freshman year. Well, it wasn't so bad last year because I had a boyfriend, but ever since Matt and I broke up in October, I've been obsessed. It's sick," she added, with that gleam in her eyes that suggested she meant "sick" in both the good way and the bad way. "What's wrong with me?"

How had I not known this about her? Was I a bad friend? Had she been ashamed to tell me? Were we not close enough? I hadn't told her about my stalkeresque activities, either.

"You haven't done anything about it, have you?"

"No," she moaned. "I haven't dared to ask, and he's never noticed me that way. Not even when I dress provocatively and flirt." She sounded outraged that any man could resist her. "Do you think he's gay?"

Since I didn't know the guy at all, I had no opinion. I'd seen him around the history department. He was good looking enough that you couldn't fail to notice him if you were female and breathing. I'd never been too good at figuring who was gay and who was straight, unless they made it obvious. Slayton didn't give any hints of gayness to my undiscerning eye, but what did I know?

That night Julie and I bonded over our mutual obsessions. We went to a bar and drank a couple beers while we poured out our souls. I told her how I'd sneaked into Will's dorm and put my ear against the door of his room. Julie confessed that once she had tried to peek through the keyhole of Jeff's office, but she hadn't been able to see anything because he must have hung his jacket on the doorknob inside. "I could smell his jacket through the keyhole," she said, her eyes dreamy. "It must have been all coated with pheromones because I got so turned on I practically had an orgasm right there outside his office."

We both laughed, cheered by the notion that we weren't alone in our nuttiness. At one point I seemed to lift out of myself enough to see that we were in a bar full of people, some of whom were blankly drinking, but others, like Julie and me, were sitting together sharing stuff, talking and laughing and connecting, if only for a little while.

I know the Christmas season is when people are supposed to be all moody and depressive as they reminisce about their perfect childhood Christmases or mope about the chilly wintery mess they've made of their lives. But I wasn't wallowing in that holiday gloom. I felt almost normal, for a change.

"Love is insane, isn't it?" Julie said.

"And sex is even crazier. Why do we fall for certain people? It's like we're pre-programed to fuck ourselves up."

"Destiny," she said dreamily.

I snorted. Personally, I held more to the pheromone theory.

I thought about the Shakespeare survey course I'd taken freshman year. When we'd read the comedies, our professor had pointed out how ridiculous love was in those plays. Young men and women were continually switching partners as the result of malicious fairy magic. Or just some whim. They would look and love, then, in the next act, they would turn hostile to the object of their affections. One minute Romeo could dream of no other maiden but his beloved Rosaline, and the next he met Juliet and fell into the crazy, forbidden love that would steal both their lives.

Love was capricious. It made no sense at all.

Someday, I told myself, I will get over this. Someday I'll look back on this folly and laugh. I'm still just a kid, grown up but not quite the fully responsible adult that I'll eventually be. Someday I'll be able to solve shit like this without so much drama and angst.

But not yet. Maybe if I'd been fully adult and responsible, I wouldn't have done what Julie and I did next. Because this was the sort of thing female stalkers do. It's the X-chromosome version of the male stalker who goes out and buys a gun. We didn't go to a gun shop, of course not. We went to a Gypsy fortuneteller. Actually, she wasn't a Gypsy, but some kind of witchy chick. Julie had heard about her from one of her Wicca Circle friends.