Chapter Five
Clarity
The shuffle of the Sunday newspaper was always relaxing. My father and I spent Sunday mornings at the wide kitchen table in front of the French doors. Morning light poured in and caught the swirls of steam rising from our coffee mugs.
I loved the quiet routine. Except my eyes wouldn't focus on any words, and I burned my lips on my coffee. My mind kept wandering back over the moonlit campus walk with Ford. As soon as we stepped out of the frat house party, my father had jogged up with a breathless frown.
"A group of streakers is causing havoc outside the gym complex, and I have to go deal with it."
"There's a great article in there somewhere," Ford nudged me.
"Professor Bauer will see you home safe, won't you?" My father had waved as security swung by in a truck to pick him up.
Neither of us had said a word until the full moon climbed up and over the corner towers of the library.
Ford sighed. "I do actually like it here. I know you think I should be off chasing big stories and being a hard-hitting journalist, but it's peaceful here. Beautiful."
Our hands had brushed at that moment, and the memory alone caused a thrill to rush up my arm. I had to be a silly, delusional girl to think that last, whispered 'beautiful' was for me, but I couldn't help it. We were impossible, never going to happen, but at least I could hope he felt the same way I did.
My growing attraction to Ford was a problem. It was fine when it was just a crush on an attractive professor, but now it was pluming out like smoke and hanging like a deep haze on the majority of my thoughts.
"Clarity? Your toast popped up," my father repeated. He folded down one corner of his newspaper and checked on me. "Everything alright?"
I looked around the sunny kitchen and took a deep breath. Most of my friends made fun of me for living at home until they saw our house. The Craftsman was big, comfortable, and full of light. The original hardwood floors and crown moldings gave it a sense of maturity, while my father's tendency towards bright colors kept it lively and fun.
"You know it's alright if you want to go out with your friends on Sundays," my father said. He poured himself another cup of coffee from the French Press on the table.
"I know, thanks." I gestured around the warm kitchen. " But why would I want to leave all this?"
My father snorted. "This isn't for everyone. Too boring. What's the word? Stodgy."
He was talking about my mother, and I felt a twinge in my chest. She had left when I was too young to remember her in the kitchen on a Sunday morning, but the way my father talked about her, she may never have sat there for more than five minutes. When he talked about her, my mother was always in motion. Always going somewhere, traveling, and very rarely returning. And then one day, she was gone.
That was why when my friends called to declare a Funday Sunday, I declined right away. I couldn't bear to drop everything and leave my father alone. He needed someone to grind the coffee to the right consistency for the French Press. He never remembered where the honey was that he liked on his toast. If I wasn't there to help him, sit with him, he'd be all alone.
I would never hurt him like my mother did. If his heart felt an airless reaching like mine, then how could I even think about leaving? I was determined to be the opposite of my mother in every way. It's what drove me to shake off all my silly fantasies and focus. My biggest worry was hurting my father someday, and he was too good a man to deserve that.
So, I refolded my section of the newspaper and studied the articles. Some journalists used creative leads, while most stuck to single-item or summary leads.
The newsprint blurred, and I was back on campus under the full moon. Ford's gray eyes caught the silvery light and twinkled. The air was chilly, and dried leaves crumpled underneath our feet. I felt safe, the ramrod straight set of his back telling me I was his responsibility. Except when he looked my way and a wildly charged current leapt between us.
"Just imagining things," I muttered.
"What was that, darling?" My father looked up from the Arts & Style section again.
"Did you want one of those pears? They're ripe; I checked earlier," I said.
He gave me a quizzical smile, then shook his head and returned to his reading. I forced my eyes back over the headlines and tried to find the trick I needed to write my own grabbers.
Not touching, but aware of every breath, shift, and accelerating heartbeat.
I jumped up from the table and went to butter my piece of toast. On the way back to the table, I slipped a blank grocery list page under my plate along with a pen. There had to be some way to express the distance and absorption I felt all at the same time when I was near Ford.
"Working on an article?" My father asked. "I remember when you used to sit here and write fairy tales. I was forever helping you spell words like 'enchantment' and 'dastardly.' Bet you don't use those words enough now that you're all grown up."
"No one uses the word 'dastardly' anymore. Unless, for some reason, you're describing pirates," I pointed out.
My father chuckled. "If anyone could, it'd be you. You're so much more creative than you're letting yourself be, Clarity."
I groaned. "I thought you were supposed to save the lectures for after coffee."
"No lecture, just an observation," he said.
I folded up the scrap of paper and shoved it in my back pocket. "Well, here's an observation: I've got a great opportunity for an internship at Wire Communications, and you promised to help me with the application, but you haven't even picked it up yet." I pointed to the neat folder I had placed on the edge of the kitchen island.
My father glanced at it and gave me a pained look. "Why do you want to work there?"
"First off, it's just an internship. And, secondly, it's just an internship at one of the largest media outlets in the Midwest." I dropped my hands to the table in exasperation.
"You don't have to worry about internships yet, Clarity. It's not even Thanksgiving break. Actually, though, we need to talk about Thanksgiving," he said. My father folded his paper smoothly and laid it aside.
I held up a hand. "No. No talking about the holiday until you promise you will help me with this application. I need to pick the perfect cover letter, the best examples of my writing, and recommendations. And I don't want to wait until after break because everyone else will. I want to stand out and show them I'm dedicated. Besides, we never do anything for Thanksgiving."
"That's what I want to talk to you about," my father reached for my hands. "We've been remiss with our holidays the last few years."
"I don't mind. I'm not a child anymore," I reminded him.
He squeezed my fingers. "Even more reason for us to take the time to celebrate. You need to let yourself be a kid again, even if it's just during the holidays. You're much too serious, Clarity."
I narrowed my eyes, but knew I would never win this fight. We had it almost every day. My father thought I was too serious, too focused, and that I was going to miss out on my life. I thought he was sentimental and pinning his abandoned desire to paint on me. We'd go ten rounds about what we each thought the other should do, and then let it blow over until the next day.
"How about we make a deal?" I asked.
My father let go of my fingers and steepled his hands together. "Ah, a deal. Does it include you finding a creative outlet and letting a little more balance into your life?"
I swatted at him even as I thought about the scrap of paper in my back pocket. "Nice try, but we're skipping the lecture today and going straight to negotiations."
He laughed and sat back to cross his arms and give me a regal stare. It didn't quite work with the remainder of his red hair still fuzzy from sleep and his bathrobe tight over his belly. "Fine, I'm listening."
I grinned. "I will help you cook a full Thanksgiving meal, decorate the house from autumn leaf garlands down to a cornucopia centerpiece if you help me complete my entire application for Wire Communications."
"Turkey, stuffing, gravy, the whole works?" he asked.
"Even acorn squash with nutmeg," I promised.
My father's eyes twinkled. "Throw in one original poem, and it's a deal."
"No poem, no short story, just the entire Thanksgiving experience."
"Fine. Deal." My father stuck out his hand and we shook on it. "Now what's this about a short story?"
"Dad!" I laughed but shifted so I could feel the folded paper in my back pocket again.
#
The armchair was half-hidden behind the archive stacks in the basement of the library. Above it was a porthole window, a trace of the old building before the new addition. That was why the tiny alcove was an anomaly in the architecture and the perfect place to curl up and work on my secret project.
The scrap of paper was now taped on the inside of a spiral bound notebook. Page after page was crossed with a slashing X as I had written and rewritten the beginning about eighteen times. I wanted it to be perfect.
Each word felt like a tiny puzzle piece that had to be turned and fitted precisely. I loved agonizing over them and watching beautiful sentences form.
The best feeling, though, came from the moments when the pen took off, and I filled half a dozen pages with inspiration. My mind soared, and I felt the smile on my lips even though I was all alone.
Every time my phone beeped to remind me of the time, I felt like I was coming down from a great height. Gravity was heavier as I trudged up the stairs and crossed the courtyard that joined the library with Thompson Hall. It was my new routine to work on my secret project until it was time for Ford's class. If it had been any other class, I would have skipped it and stayed in my little library alcove, scribbling away forever.
No one knew where I disappeared to, and that was part of the thrill. I hadn't told anyone, not even Jasmine or Lexi, and I certainly was not going to please my father with news of my creative endeavor. If he knew I was writing a short story, he would yell it from the rooftops.
"Did you find that link I sent you about traditional story structures?" Ford asked as I walked into the lecture hall.
"Yes, thank you! Kurt Vonnegut sums it up so well. I loved how he described the shape of stories. Especially Cinderella," I said.
Ford smiled, and for a moment I forgot about the multiple levels of students behind me. There was only his stubbled grin and the crinkled lines of it around his smoky gray eyes. The man had black lashes that could ensnare me.
"Are you going to tell me what you're working on?" he asked.
I turned to walk up to my seat. "Who says I'm working on anything? Maybe if you didn't give us so much homework..."
The students nearest me snickered and called out their agreement. I felt a tug in my chest. It always felt awful to separate us back into our roles. He was a professor, and I was a student, except when he smiled and the outside world receded.
I missed most of his lecture that day, but I knew it wouldn't bother me to watch him again on the recording my laptop made. My notes were a jumble of attempted phrases and minute descriptions—a mess of writing that had nothing to do with journalism.
As long as no one noticed, I was recklessly following my own instincts. If anyone saw me acting so free-spirited and irresponsible, I knew the unsaid comparison to my mother would drive it all away. Writing a creative short story felt wild, impractical, and wonderful as long as I had it all to myself.
With that thought in mind, I scooped up all my things and crammed them into my book bag. The other upside of my secret project was it helped me to avoid thinking about Ford. Sure, one of the characters resembled him in flattering ways, but writing about him was safer than flirting with the real thing.
"Hey, Clarity!" Thomas jogged to catch up to me in the foyer of Thompson Hall. "How about a coffee? Unless you're heading out to get some fresh air. Want some company?"
It was a beautiful, November day, with bright sunshine that held the last dregs of summer's warmth. Everyone was flooding out of the building and onto the lawns to feel the sun on their faces. All I wanted to do was scramble back down to the library basement and be left in peace.
"Sorry, Thomas, I've got to study. See you around," I called as I headed across the courtyard to the library.
I took a different route just to make sure Thomas didn't follow me. He was shy, but persistent, and I wasn't sure how far he would pursue me. I was just translating that thought into a memory for my main character when I came around the corner of the archive stacks and almost screamed.
"What are you doing here?" I hissed instead.
Ford leaned his head back on the hidden armchair and smiled. "Isn't it obvious? I'm waiting for you."
"How did you know I was coming here?" my whisper cracked with irritation.
Ford stood up and motioned for me to take the arm chair. When I shook my head and crossed my arms tight across my chest, he sighed and explained, "I questioned your friend, Thomas. I'm sorry to say, but he's the best kind of source: anxious to talk if he likes the subject. You do know he likes you, right?"
"Leave poor Thomas out of this. Why are you here, Ford?" My breath caught. I always called him by his first name in my head. That's how we first met, and I felt I had some claim to his given name as long as I didn't say it aloud.
Ford paused at the sound of it too. A smile played around his lips, only to be swallowed away. "I'm just curious. Thomas, on the other hand, is worried. He thinks you're working too hard. But, if the smile I saw as you came down those steps is any indication, you like whatever you've been working on."
I ground my teeth and scowled. "I did until you came along and interrupted me."
Ford gestured to the open armchair. "Please, don't let me get in your way. Like I said, I was just curious."
I inched past him, refusing to inhale the intoxicating scent of his soap. The last time I caught a whiff of sandalwood in a candle store, I had gotten weak in the knees. I stopped, and we were caught, the backs of my knees hard against the seat of the armchair and Ford pressed against the wall. We were inches apart.
"Yes?" he asked and the word was barely more than a whisper.
This was what I had wanted all along. I wanted someone to find me, someone to be curious enough to check on me. I wanted someone to discover my secret project, and Ford was the exact person I had wished it would be. Not just because being near him felt like a fast car ride with all the windows down, but because he could give me an honest opinion.
I flopped into the armchair and surrendered. "It's a short story."
Ford's eyes brightened, and he dropped down to squat comfortably next to the arm of my chair. "And you're hiding it from your father because it would make him too happy?"
"He'll never give me an honest opinion," I said. "All he'll do is gush about the joys of creativity and how he wished he had pursued his art."
"So you're looking for an honest opinion?" Ford laid a hand on the armchair, and I had the insane desire to rest my cheek against it.
"Yes." I distracted myself from his proximity by reaching into my book bag and dragging out the spiral-bound notebook. "I haven't even typed it up yet, but there's a clean copy in the back of this."
He didn't laugh in my face; he just studied it with a disconcerting level of interest. "Just a general opinion or actual feedback? How specific? Like down to word choice, or just my overall impression?"
My hand shook as I shoved the notebook at him, and it was hard to tell what was sparking my nerves. Our fingers brushed, and the lightning sensation of his skin along mine shot right to the balls of my feet.
I cleared my throat. "Be specific," I squeaked. "Tell me what I need to improve on."
Ford stood up and flipped open the spiral notebook. Then he leaned against the wall, and his eyes flashed across the page.
I dropped my book bag and leapt up out of the armchair. "Not now!"
"Why? No time like the present, right?" Ford asked with a wicked smile.
I flapped my hands at him. "Not in front of me. I'll die. Just take it and read it when you have the time. Maybe you can give it to me next class."
Ford chuckled and used the notebook to fend off my buffeting attack. "Next class is after Thanksgiving."
I raked both hands through my hair. "Oh my god, I have to go buy a turkey!"
"Wait, now?"
"Yes, now, before the store runs out of the right size." I gathered up my book bag. "My father's gotten it into his head that he wants a real Thanksgiving gathering this year. I spent half of last night trying to figure out what fruit looked best in a cornucopia. How insane does that sound?"
Ford laughed, then stopped on a long, barely audible sigh. "Actually, that's sounds wonderful."
I watched his face and saw the shift from amused to wistful. "Why? What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" I asked.
"Nothing," Ford shook his head. "It's no big deal. Liz is volunteering in the city and doesn't want to be away from school long enough to drive up here for the weekend, which I totally understand. Still, the microwave dinner selections for Thanksgiving were pretty bleak."
My pulse jumped into a riotous jig, but I managed to speak calmly. "My father is determined to have a big Thanksgiving meal. And he still wants to thank you for braving the frat party check with him the other night. I'll have him call you, but you should plan on coming to our house for Thanksgiving."
"Are you sure?"
I rolled my eyes, "My father will be happy you're there."
"Will you be?" Ford bit his lip as if the question had escaped.
I couldn't breathe, so I nodded until I could manage to say, "Just don't say anything about my short story."