The Perfect Match

Now or never, Honor.

“You asleep?” she whispered.

“Nope. Just letting you ogle me,” he said, opening his eyes with a grin.

She smiled back. “And I appreciate it.” She licked her lips, knees tingling with adrenaline. “So.”

“So.” He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. It was all the encouragement she needed.

“You know what I thought the other day?” she asked. Her toes curled, but she kept her voice casual.

“What?”

“I was thinking we should get married.”

There. She said it. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe normally.

“Yeah, right.” Brogan snorted. He stretched, yawning. “Man, that flight is catching up with me.” Then he looked back at her. “Oh. Uh, are you serious?”

Play it easy here, her brain advised. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s a thought.”

He stared at her, then his eyebrows jumped in bewilderment. “Really?”

His voice did not indicate that he’d just heard a wonderful idea. It indicated...bafflement.

“It’s just, you know, we’re good friends. Good, good friends. Really good friends.” Oh, youch. Stop talking. You sound like an idiot. “You know, we’ve been friends for ages now. Long time.” Her tongue felt like a piece of old leather, and wasn’t that an attractive image! Would you like to kiss my shriveled, dry, leathery mouth, Brogan? Because the years are precious, you know. Egg-wise.

She forced out an awkward laugh, then wished she hadn’t. “Just putting that out there. It’s been, what? Seventeen years that we’ve been together?”

“Together?” he said, sitting up abruptly.

“Uh, sort of. We always, um, fall back on each other.” She sat up, too, leaning against the leather-upholstered headboard. Tears stung her eyes, and she immediately ordered them back. She cleared her throat. “I mean, we’re such good friends. And then there’s this. Sex.”

“Yeah! Right. No, we’re great friends. Definitely. I think of you as my best friend, really. But, um...” Brogan took a deep breath. “I never really saw us as together per se.” He swallowed and, to his credit, looked at her.

Calm, calm. “No, you’re right. I just thought, we’re getting to a certain age, and you said you were cutting back on traveling.” She paused. “And neither one of us has ever found someone...permanent. Maybe that says something.”

Please say you agree. Please realize what a great idea this is.

He didn’t answer, but his eyes were kind. Horribly so, and that was answer enough. Her heart stuttered, then shriveled like burned paper. To avoid looking at him, she traced the stitching in the comforter. Now that the initial rejection was done, she could keep it together. She was a rational, calm person. Except she might be having a heart attack. She kind of hoped she was.

Brogan was quiet for a minute. “You know how I think about you, On?” He turned to see her face. “I think of you like an old baseball glove.”

She blinked. Was he kidding? A sports analogy? Granted, he was full of them, but now?

He nodded. “Like an old friend, something you turn to when you need it.”

“A baseball glove.” Could she smother him with the pillow, maybe, or did that only work in the movies? How about panty hose strangulation? Too bad she hadn’t worn any.

He took her hand and squeezed it, and she let it lie there like a dead fish. “It’s like Jeter once said. Or maybe it was Pujols. Yeah, because this was back when he played in Saint Louis. Wait, was it Joe Maurer? No, because he’s a catcher, so that’d be a mitt. Anyway, whoever it was, he was talking about how when he’s in a slump, or when he doesn’t feel right about an upcoming game, he puts on his old glove. He’s had it for years, right? And when he puts it on, it’s like an old friend, and he knows he’ll have a better day because of it.” He turned to her, tipping her chin up, and she blinked, her eyes feeling like two hot, hard stones. “But you don’t need that glove every day.”

Surely this was the worst breakup speech in history.

He winced. “Okay, that was the worst comparison ever,” he said, and she had to laugh then, because it was that or burst into tears. “What I’m trying to say, On, is—”

“You know what?” she said, and her voice was normal, thank you, God. “Forget it. I don’t know where the idea came from. Maybe it was because your parents saw me na**d.”

He grinned.

“But you’re right,” she said more firmly. “Why ruin a good thing?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Because we are a good thing. Don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. No, no, getting married was just...just a thought. Never mind.”

He kissed her then, and it nearly tore her heart in half. An old baseball glove? Holy fungus. Yet her head was cupped between his hands, and she was letting him kiss her, like nothing had changed at all.

“Feel up for round two?” he whispered.

Are you kidding? You just compared me to an old baseball glove. I’m leaving.

“Sure,” she said. Because nothing had changed. She was the same old glove she’d always been.

If she left, he might realize she’d been dead serious, and if he knew that, then she wouldn’t have any pride left. And since her heart had just been poleaxed, pride was suddenly very important.

* * *

SHE APPEARED AT Dana’s door an hour later, and the second she knocked, tears made a rare appearance, sliding down her face in hot streaks.

Dana opened the door, took one look and blinked. An odd expression—half surprise, half something else—came over her face. “Well, I guess I can see how that turned out,” she said after a beat. “I’m sorry, babe.”

She got a clean pair of pajamas, and Honor changed, then washed her face in the sloppy, comforting bathroom.

“At least you know where you stand,” Dana said, leaning against the doorway. “I think drinks are called for, don’t you?”

She made very strong martinis and handed Honor a box of Kleenex. Shark Week, a shared passion of theirs, played in the background. Somehow, it was the perfect backdrop to spill everything.

“I feel like such an ass,” Honor said when she’d finished recounting the wretched evening. “And the thing is, I didn’t know how much I loved him till it was out there, you know? Does that make sense?”

“Sure, sure it does.” Dana drained her drink. “Listen, I hate to be insensitive here, but tell me the part about the parents one more time, okay?” she said with a wicked grin, and Honor snorted and complied, making Dana swear she’d never tell anyone, because as a hairdresser, Dana saw everyone, and knew everyone’s business, and was pretty liberal with sharing it.

“Comparing your vajay-jay to an old baseball glove...that’s going a little far, isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t my... Never mind. Let’s talk about something else. Oh, look at that guy’s stitches. I’m never swimming again.” She sat back, leaning against her raincoat. Stupid raincoat. Where was the shock and awe now, huh? Wadding it up, she tossed it on the floor.

“Hey, it’s not the coat’s fault. And that’s Burberry,” Dana said, retrieving it. “But no, I see your point. You hate it now, so I’m going to make the ultimate sacrifice and take it from you. I promise never to wear it in your presence.” She opened a closet, shoved the coat in and slammed the door.

Dana could be prickly, but she certainly had her moments. “So what now?” she asked as the guy on TV described what it was like to see his severed arm in a great white shark’s teeth.

Honor swallowed the sharp lump in her throat. “I don’t know. But I guess I can’t sleep with him anymore. I have a little pride, glove or no glove.”

“Good. It’s high time,” Dana said. “Now sit there and watch this next attack, and I’ll make us another round.”

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

FOR A GUY who taught mechanical engineering at a fourth-rate college in the middle of nowhere, Tom Barlow was packing them in.

At the university where he’d last taught, there’d been an actual engineering school, and his students were genuinely interested in the subject matter. Here, though, at tiny Wickham College, four of the original six attendees had stumbled into class, having left registration until too late, only taking mechanical engineering because it still had open slots. Two had seemed genuinely interested, until one, the girl, transferred to Carnegie Mellon.

But then, by the end of the second week, he suddenly had thirty-six students jammed into the little classroom. Each one of these new students was female, ranging in age from eighteen to possibly fifty-five. Suddenly, an astonishing array of girls and women had decided that mechanical engineering (whatever that was) had become their new passion in life.

The clothes were a bit of a problem. Tight, trashy, low-cut, low-riding, inappropriate. Tom tended to teach to the wall in the back of the room, not wanting to make eye contact with the hungry gazes of seventy-eight percent of his class.

He tried not to leave time for questions, as the Barbarian Horde, as he thought of them, tended to be inappropriate. Are you single? How old are you? Where’d you come from? Do you like foreign films/sushi/girls?

Then again, he needed this job. “Any questions?” he asked. Dozens of hands shot up. “Yes, Mr. Kearns,” he said gratefully to the one student in the class who was there out of interest in the subject.

According to his file, Jacob Kearns had been kicked out of MIT for doing drugs. He seemed on the straight and narrow now, at least, but Wickham College was a hundred steps down academically. Then again, Tom knew all about shooting himself in the foot, career-wise.

“Dr. Barlow, with the hovercraft project, I was wondering how you’d calculate the escape velocity?”

“Good question. The escape velocity is the speed at which the kinetic energy of your object, along with its gravitational potential energy, is zero. Make sense?” The Barbarian Horde (those who were listening) looked confused.

“Definitely,” Jacob said. “Thanks.”

Thirty seconds to the bell. “Listen up,” he said. “Your homework is to read chapters six and seven in your texts and answer all the study questions at the end of both as well as pass in your term project proposals. Those of you who flunked the hovercraft estimates have to do them again.” Hopefully, he could break the Horde with a ridiculous workload. “Anything else?”

A hand went up. One of the Barbarians, of course. “Yes?” he said briskly.

“Are you British?” she asked, getting a ripple of giggles from a third of the class, whose mental age appeared to be twelve.

“I’ve answered that in a previous class. Any other questions that pertain to mechanical engineering, then? No? Great. Cheerio.”

“Oh, my God, he said ‘Cheerio,’” said a blonde dressed like a Cockney prostitute.

The bell rang, and the Barbarian Horde surged toward his desk. “Mr. Kearns, please stay a minute,” Tom said.

Seven female students clustered around him. “So do you think I could, like, work for an architect or something?” one asked.

“I’ve no idea,” he answered.

“I mean, after this class.” She lowered her gaze to his mouth. Crikey. Made him want to shower.

“Pass the class first, then apply and see,” he said.

“Do you want to hang out at the pub, Tom?” asked another of the BH. “I’d love to buy you a drink.”

“That’d be inappropriate,” he answered.

“I’m totally legal,” she said with a leer.

“If you don’t have any questions related to the lesson today, get out, please.” He smiled to soften the words, and with a lot of pouty lips and hair tossing, the Barbarian Horde departed.

Tom waited till the other kids were out of earshot. “Jacob, would you be interested in interning for me?”

“Yeah! Sure! Um, doing what?”

“I customize airplanes here and there. Got a project coming up. It might be good on your CV.”

“What’s a CV?”

“A résumé.”

“Sure!” Jacob said again. “That’d be great.”

“You can’t be using, of course. Will that be a problem?”

The kid flushed. “No. I’m in NA and all that. Clean for thirteen months.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “I have to pee in a cup every month to come here. The health office has my records.”

“Good. I’ll give you a shout when I need you.”

“Thanks, Dr. Barlow. Thanks a lot.”

Tom nodded. The head of his department was standing in the doorway, frowning down the hallway, where a cacophony of giggles was coming from the twits. When Jacob left, the man came in and closed the door behind him.

This wouldn’t be good news, Tom thought. Droog Dragul (not a shock that he was called Dracula, was it?) had the face of a medieval monk—tortured, pale and severe. He looked even more depressed than usual.

“Dee cheeldren of dis school,” Droog said in his thick accent. He sighed. “Dey are so...” Tom winced, fearing the next phrase would be well fed or iron-rich. “Dey are so unfocused.” Phew.

“Most of them, anyway,” Tom said. “I’ve got one or two good students.”

“Yes.” His boss sighed. “And you heff such a vay vith the ladies, Tom. Perhaps we can heff beer and you can give pointers.”