| |
––––––––
Dean and I sat on stage at Loyola University’s Mundelein auditorium waiting for the talks to commence. The last of our talks was the most terrifying—the other universities had a standard two hundred or so people in attendance, but Loyola had opened the event to the public and over a thousand people had turned up.
The audience consisted of students, professors, and the history buffs of Chicago. Looking around at the people pouring into the beautiful Art Deco theater with its exquisite stained glass windows, lofty ceilings and tiered balconies, I knotted my cold fingers. I had attended many lectures here and never expected to be a speaker myself; at least, not before my hair had turned gray.
“Keep calm, luv.” Dean Dillon, who was sitting next to me, seemed to sense my tension. “You were brilliant yesterday and this morning. Three down, one to go.”
“Why did I allow you to lead me to the bowels of insanity?” I said, wringing my hands.
“Consider it an audition for the scholar position I offered you.”
“This is the biggest audience we’ve had. So many people.”
“Don’t let them make you nervous. You are the smartest person in the room. Well, one of the four smartest.” With a cheeky grin he patted my hand and leaned back.
I was mundane on a panel with three stars of the Iron Age academic world. Next to Dean sat Dr. Ron Silas, author of several books and host of his own History Channel show, and on my other side sat Dr. Mary Cutup, noted Irish historian and bestselling author.
The hall filled up, the audience settled in their seats, the lights were lowered, and the university’s history department director walked to the podium to introduce us all. As she spoke, I shut my eyes, my belly queasy. Breathe. Juniper. Inhale. Exhale. You’ll be fine.
My phone pinged. I glanced down under the table and smiled. A text from Kyle:
look up, Juniper...you know I like your beautiful eyes up
I gasped. My head jerked up. I looked out into the audience, blinking at the stage lights and the flashes of camera. Breathing hard, I scanned the room. My eyes met a pair of steely blue eyes in the fifth row and I gasped for air.
Was that Kyle?
No. That man could not be Kyle. I was supposed to pick him up in three hours from O’Hare. Squinting my eyes, I gaped at him. Even in the semi darkness, I made out the razor-sharp curve of a jaw against a muscular neck and as my gaze wandered up, his soft-and-hard mouth curved in a slow familiar wolfish grin. Then he blew me a kiss and I lurched back in my seat as if he had slapped me.
Hot damn! That certainly was Kyle.
The introductory speech ended and Dr. Silas leaned forward in the mic and began talking. For all I knew, he could have been spouting gobbledygook as my ears buzzed and all I felt was Kyle. With trembling fingers, I texted him.
What the hell? I was supposed to pick you up from the airport tonight.
Kyle: #bazinga!
Me: #stalkery-move
Kyle: nah. just want to support my girl...here I am...you’re welcome
Me: Dude, not cool.
Kyle: not cool—hot. how could I miss hearing you talk hot stuff
Me: I’m having a nervous breakdown and now you. Silent scream.
Kyle: why
Me: It’s nerve-wracking. Everyone on this panel is stupid brilliant.
Kyle: so are you
Me: Not even in their shadows’ league.
Kyle: they’re not fit to be on the same panel as your toes
Me: OK sweet lying genius. I’m totally freaked by the audience size.
Kyle: just pretend they are all naked
Me: Doesn’t help. Now I’m imagining you naked.
Kyle: hmm wanna picture? you don’t have to imagine
Me: Very funny. Let me focus. Get ready to be smacked later for surprising me like this.
Kyle: damn now I’m imagining u naked & smack-y. meet me backstage?
Dean poked my leg with a pen and hissed, “Pay attention.”
Gulp. Dazed, I looked around. The entire panel was staring at me. With sidelong glances. And the audience was waiting. I heard my name being called out and Dr. Ron Silas addressing me. Out-and-out flustered, I asked, “Can you repeat the question?”
“Miss Mills, I was talking about the mass graves of women at Derbyshire and referring to your work on Celtic women who rise above the banal image of Iron Age women as mere victims of war and Roman invasion,” Dr. Silas said with an impatient twitch of his bearded lips.
There goes my work reputation.
“Y-you are absolutely c-correct,” I stammered. “In pre-Roman Britain...women were warriors, healers, agrarians, rulers, priestesses and druidesses. At that time, observational history was written by the Roman conquerors of Britain, who saw women as possessions, and could not, in their misogyny, fathom females in power. So they wrote the fierce female power of the Celts out of history. Women like Boudica, Onomaris, and many nameless women—whose burial tombs were found at Reinham and Vix—point to powerful Celtic women. My research counters the historical observation, as I will discuss in my talk. Thank you, Dr. Silas. Back to you.”
Whew.
I saw from the faces of the panel that I had redeemed myself.
My belly fluttered and I leaned back in my chair. I turned off my phone and did not dare look in Kyle’s direction after that. By the time my turn came, I had recouped my poise and talked with my eyes on the Art Deco stained glass (so I could avoid the piercing blue stare in the audience that made me so nervous.) Funny thing. Kyle was so close to me—almost part of me—yet his mere presence had the ability to utterly disrupt my sanity.
After the Q and A session, there was a long line of people waiting to talk to us. Finally, I made my way through the crowd where I saw Kyle leaning against a pillar in the far corner of the room. Weaving through the empty chairs, I ran to him. He stood with his hands in his pockets, smiling at me. Throwing my arms around his neck, I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. His arms slipped around my waist.
“Creep, you scared me half to death.”
“Come on, death or joy?”
“Fine. Joy.” My smile was as wide as it was genuine.
He bent down to steal a quick kiss. “How’s my rock star?”
“More like back wall drummer.”
“Stop it, masochist. You were amazing. You should do a ton more talks.”
“I promise to do more if you promise not to turn up and sext me.”
There was a soft coughing behind us and I whirled around to see Dean Dillon standing there looking in the opposite direction in polite confusion. “Hullo, there.”
I smiled and waved him closer. “Dean, this is Kyle Paxton, my boyfriend. Kyle, this is my mentor, Dr. Dean Dillon. He forced me to shimmy out of my comfort skin and speak in front of a million people.”
“Great to meet you,” said Kyle civilly.
“Likewise.”
The two of them shook hands. In the grip of the hands, I saw Kyle use all-out force and Dean give an energetic thrust. The air was electric with irate sparks and I could not understand why. I got the distinct feeling that both men were looking at each other like two hyenas circling in the Serengeti, waiting to attack.
Wait, what is happening? And why?
Dean withdrew his hand first and fixed Kyle with an assessing look. “Juniper says you are the mighty CEO of your own company.”
“More like an inventor who got mighty lucky.” Forever reluctant to talk about himself, Kyle quickly said, “Your talk was interesting. I enjoyed the part about radars and X-ray fluorescence technology.”
“Ah, yes. Fascinating stuff.” Dean beamed in pride.
“Did I hear you say using radars you can detect buried pyramids and with X-ray guns you can classify an artifact’s chemical structure?” Kyle asked.
I suppressed a smile. I had become used to Kyle’s habit of making others talk while he listened and took a devil-may-care backseat. Anything to avoid being the cynosure of anyone’s pointless attention. Evan and I were possibly the only exception to this rule.
Dean fell into his trap.
Eyes bright with copper fire, he said, “Yes, indeed. Recently, we used X-ray guns on a dig at Citania de Briteiros in Portugal. We were excited to unearth iron weapons left in a battle. Using X-ray guns, we found which spears and swords belonged to which side. We measured ion beams and atomic interactions that give off EM radiation of wavelengths in the electromagnetic X-ray to spot the age and make of the spear tips and sword blades.”
As we talked about Dean’s work and, Kyle kept a tight caveman-style hold around my waist.
At long last, I noticed the hall had emptied except for us. I glanced at my phone. “I think we’ll miss our dinner meet-and-greet at Loyola. I have to drop Dean off at the airport.”
“Oh no. Don’t bother. I will just take a taxi, yeah,” said Dean.
“We can drop you off. No trouble,” Kyle said coolly.
I turned to him. “But you just came from the airport. I’ll take you to the hotel and Dean to the airport.”
“No,” said both men in unison, glaring at each other.
I mentally rolled my eyes and stared from one man to the other wondering why civility was declining downward here.
Testosterone soaked biscuits.
“No,” Dean said. “You’ve already chauffeured me enough the past few days. Thanks for everything, especially last night, Juniper,”
Last night? Why did he go and say that?
I guesdse Dean recognized Kyle was possessive and he was deliberately poking the hornets’ nest. That made me mad, but I kept my tone courteous. “Yes. We had the world’s best deep dish pizza.”
“I hope you two had a good time.” Kyle had ice chips in his voice.
“Absolutely jamming,” said Dean with an amused smile.
I was uneasy now. “As jamming as two nerdy scholars talking about work can be.”
Dean laughed. “Well, it involved a lot of alcohol.”
I tensed and so did Kyle. I shot Dean a sharp look. At that moment, it dawned on me that Kyle might have been right; Dean had more than a professional interest in me.
Goddamn it! Can’t men and women be friends without sinister intents?
“Well. He is the drinking Irish,” I said.
“Yeah, the fog and rainy days drive every Irishman to the pub.” Dean smiled and I saw in his intelligent eyes a faint recognition that he had gone too far and needed to back off. “Juniper, I must go now and I look forward to your decision regarding my proposal.”
Kyle was quiet but his eyebrows shot up.
“Thank you for the honor of consideration,” I said.
“That’s sounds like you are leaning to a negative. Make an affirmative decision.” Dean pulled me in an embrace and kissed my cheeks. “See you in England in April, Juniper.”
“What decision?” Kyle asked.
Easing away from Dean, I gave Kyle the details of the scholar position Dean offered. Though he looked stunned, Kyle said nothing. I was peeved—at the very least, he should be happy for me.
Dean took a step back. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Hey, we are dropping you,” I said.
“No need. Juniper, I will take a taxi.”
“I won’t hear of it,” I said. “We’re dropping you and that’s final.”
Kyle was quiet the entire duration of the car ride as Dean and I talked about my book’s completion and editing. At the airport, Kyle pulled up to international departures, turned and said bye to Dean and stayed in the driver’s seat while Dean and I got out of the car. Shivering in the subzero air, we went to the rear hatch. It was so cold the puffs of our breaths froze on arrival.
Dean pulled out his luggage and turned to me. “I’ll miss you, yeah.”
“I’ll miss you too. You are a blast.”
“Au revoir, my Celtic girl.”
I shook Dean’s hand but he swiveled me into his arms and gave me a tight hug.
“I hope to see you soon,” I said with a tug on my heart. I would genuinely miss his Zen and cerebral presence.
Dean walked to the glass doors of the British Airways Terminal and I waved, even my hand sad and limp.
“Lady, is that your car?” A Chicago aviation policewoman barked in my ear.
I jumped back. “Yes.”
“I’m gonna give you half a second before I give you a parking violation ticket.”
“Okay.” I ran to Kyle’s car and she followed me, still yelling.
“Dropping or picking! You can’t park for so long,” she screamed at Kyle.
Kyle revved up the engine and I skedaddled in my seat. We grinned as we drove off and somewhere past the first airport exit, we burst out laughing.
“Dropping your loved ones? Jump out of the moving car, chump, or I’ll give you a ticket,” I mimicked.
“Rudest aviation authority on the planet,” Kyle muttered.
I watched his striking profile flashing blue from the dashboard display and yellow from the buttery glow of the highway lights. My heart stirred. I loved him so much, it made my insides ache. At times, I could not believe Kyle was all mine.
That didn’t mean I wouldn’t occasionally elbow him.
“Um...speaking of rude, dude, you were very rude to my mentor.”
Kyle exited a circular loop on a highway entrance and squeezed my hand. “Let’s not fight, darling. I’ve had a long week and all I want to do is enjoy my limited time with you.”
I let it go. After two months, Kyle and I had become experts at navigating the minefields of our relationship. In the rare occasion that one of us was upset, we evaded the issue until it was less of a hot-button item. It was easy because we were still in the honeymoon stage of our relationship. After a rocky start, we were in a good place.
With idle fingers, I stroked his nape, brushing off the tendrils clinging there. “Your hair is growing scruffy, Kyle.”
“Feels good, babe.” He leaned back into my hand with a sigh. “Feel free to massage the scruffy parts.”
I massaged his neck until he complained it wasn’t hard enough. Miffed because I was massaging him so hard my fingers hurt, I slapped the back of his neck. “How about now?”
“Ouch. Fine. I’ll find a sexy Swiss masseuse at the hotel.”
“Labor extortion much?” I giggled and kissed his hand.
“Let me drive. Stop kissing me. Or I’ll get off at the median and take you in the back seat.”
His hand slipped into mine and we stared at each other in amity.
I love you.
This was always on my mind, but I never articulated it. I just said it to myself like a silent prayer in moments when I knew I felt connected to him beyond words. Leaning back in my seat with a tired sigh, I closed my eyes in contented bliss.
