Learning Curve

Then he glanced up at her and saw the nerves behind her smile.

God, he was getting cynical in his pre-middle age. He really ought to apologize for any number of things: for not initiating a friendly chat himself, or for his bad habit of suspecting ulterior motives. For not seeming more grateful for the offer of free carbonated chemicals. For spending half his time plotting to get rid of her and the other half visualizing her naked in his bed.

This was why etiquette had been invented—to safely channel all manner of primal urges and sociopathic aberrations into G-rated clichés the whole family could enjoy. “Thank you,” he said as he took the can.

“You’re welcome.”

“So.” Joe set his soda on the grass beside him, shifted to his side, braced his head in his hand and prepared to engage in something simple and friendly. “What are your plans for this weekend?”

“Short-term or long-term?”

A two-tiered plan for a two-day weekend? Why did he think any conversation with Emily could be simple? “Forget I asked.”

“Okay.” She shoved a hand into her skirt pocket, withdrew a folded wad of paper and waved it under her chin. “New topic. I have here a list of names beginning with P,” she said.

He groaned. “Believe me, I’ve heard them all.”

“Not, apparently, all of them.” She shifted and wriggled her curvy rear end over the root to torture him. “I figured I could arrange the search in either alphabetical order or categories.”

“Categories?”

“Categories makes the most sense to me, too.” She smoothed her paper over her lap. “I thought I’d start with Polish names. Just in case someone overlooked something that goes with Wisniewski. Names like Pawel? Piotr? Prosimir?”

He shook his head. “No, no and nope.”

“Prokop. Parys. Pankracy. Pius. Pielgrzym. And this one,” she said, handing him the paper. “I don’t know how to pronounce it.”

Przybywoj. “Neither do I.”

“Oh, well.” She took her list back with a sigh. “I didn’t expect to get it on the first try.”

He watched her refold the paper and carefully shove it back into her skirt pocket. They sat for a moment in silence, watching students materialize and vanish through the grill smoke.

Emily picked up her soda and sipped, and then gestured with the can to encompass the scene on the quad. “So, is this where you picture yourself in ten years?”

Joe narrowed his eyes. “Why should I?”

“Because this is where you want to be, what you want to be doing.” She cocked her head to one side with a bright smile. “Because you find teaching challenging and satisfying. Because it makes you happy.”

He stared at her seemingly innocent expression, searching for a trick. Strange that she’d ask him the one question he’d been ducking lately. “Happy?”

“Happiness is a worthwhile goal.” She set down her can. “I’m hoping teaching will bring me happiness. For any number of reasons.”

Her idealism itched along his conscience like a rash. He frowned at her and grabbed his soda. “Do you have another list in your pocket?”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “And we don’t have to talk shop if you don’t want to.”

Thank God. “What will we talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Life, for instance. Specific or generic. Past, present or future. For a start.”

“For a start,” he said. “Would that fall under the short-term or long-term goals for this conversation?”

She smiled one of her widest smiles, the one that twisted and tickled something deep inside him. “Any topic, Joe. Any or all of the above. You could start with the easiest one first.”

“Don’t you have something else to do right now?” He rolled onto his back and set the can of soda on his chest before closing his eyes. “Someone else to interview about the meaning of life?”

“No. I don’t have university classes on Fridays, so I thought I’d hang out here for the rest of the day. Maybe find another opportunity for a friendly chat.”

Joe groaned. “Lucky me.”

He listened to her laugh and couldn’t suppress a miserly smile. He enjoyed hearing her laugh, and he liked knowing that something he’d said was the reason. He enjoyed her company, and her chatter, and her scrunching nose and pinwheeling hands. And he liked this simple, friendly feeling. It was…nice.

He really hated that particular four-letter word, but there it was: nice. He couldn’t come up with a better term for this warm and fuzzy friendship he felt settling over them just the way he imagined grandma’s favorite afghan might feel—soft and familiar and scented with something other than barbecued pork extract. Warm, and fuzzy, and safe. Nice.

He hadn’t planned on it, hadn’t been looking for it, hadn’t been working at it, but there it was. And what was extra nice was that he was fairly sure Emily felt the same, too. The sound of her laughter was a good sign. That and the fact that she hadn’t given up on him and moved away.

So he made the effort to straighten up, chance a sip of the soda she’d given him and take the simple, friendly conversation to another level. “You know, Ms. Sullivan, not everyone chooses happiness as a life goal. Some people put other people’s happiness ahead of their own.”

She tilted her head. He knew that tilt. It meant his philosophical underpinnings were about to be run through the wringer.

“And doesn’t the creation of that happiness give a deep sense of accomplishment and satisfaction to the happiness causer?” she asked.

He shifted forward. “What about pure altruism? Doing good for others at the risk of complete self-sacrifice?”

“Does it have to make you unhappy to be pure? Can’t an act still be altruistic even if there’s a little niggling shred of satisfaction mixed in with the sacrifice?”

“So, in your world, self-satisfied self-sacrifice is, in essence, a selfish act?”

Emily leaned closer. “What is self-sacrifice without some degree of self-satisfaction?”

“Altruism.”

“Or martyrdom.” She tilted her head again. “So, Joe, which kind of teacher are you? A slightly impure altruist? Or a chest-thumping martyr?”

“Neither. And I have the paychecks to prove it.”

Damn. She’d snuck in under his guard and landed another sucker punch. She’d gotten his brain in gear, his juices flowing and forced him to examine his motivations for teaching. He was feeling bruised, and confused, and annoyed, and something else he didn’t care to label at the moment, because it felt like one of those feelings that would get him fired if he followed through on it.

He settled back against the ground and closed his eyes to shut her out and end the conversation. “It’s just a job, Emily.”

When she didn’t respond, he cracked one eye open to see her smiling down at him. One of her admiring smiles. The kind that made him squirm.

CHAPTER FIVE

EMILY PERCHED on her bar stool a week later and surveyed the Friday-night scene at a university area pub: a room packed with hopefuls looking for hookups. The stale beer, the stale peanuts and the stale lines were standard issue atmosphere.

Next to her, Social Studies Methodology classmate Marilee Ostrom ran a red-lacquered nail along the edge of her margarita glass and licked the salt from her finger. Then she leaned forward and set her elbows on the glossy pub bar, crossing her arms to neatly frame her ample breasts for the male art critics on the other side of the counter.