Chapter 6 – Chapter 6

I spent the better part of Thursday afternoon in his office. We talked for almost three hours. I have no memory what either of us said or about what we talked, but I know we both said a lot, laughing hard and smiling widely, the intimacy we shared filling the empty space like sprayed insulation that expanded to fill all the gaps and holes.

I do remember that he clocked me. "You're staring at my mouth," he said.

"I can't help it," I answered. "I'm in love with your lips."

"Meh," he dismissed me. "You're not in love with anything but yourself."

I wanted to tell him he was wrong. I wanted to tell him that I was in love with him or at least vaulting in that direction. But, I didn't want to jeopardize the time I spent with him, and I thought such a confession would be like a sponge soaking up the water that was our time together.

When it was time for me to leave, he walked with me to the door. At the door, he extended his hand. I was worried he wouldn't, that my "I'm in love with your lips" would force a retreat.

I took his hand and pulled him into me. Our right hands were together between us, my left hand was around his neck, and his left hand was around my waist. It was the first hug that felt truly reciprocal, that had any warmth to it. It emboldened me.

"I really want to kiss your lips," I whispered.

"This is as far as it goes," he whispered back.

The next day, there was another envelope in my student mailbox. It was from him. It surprised me: "5:15 Tuesday at my home?"

I scrawled "yes" on the note and slipped it under his office door. I spent the next 72 hours wondering whether Claire and his girls were going to be present or whether we were going to be alone while they had another "Girls Night Out."

I didn't ask him. I was afraid to.

When I was getting ready, I decided I didn't have to play it down the middle. If it was only going to be the two of us, then I wanted to look nice for him. If it was going to be all of us, then I wanted to make a good impression, at least on Claire.

When I rang, Claire opened the door. As I handed her the bottle of red, I tried not to show my disappointment.

"It's good finally to meet you, Harold," she said, not splitting the infinitive. "Jackie has told me so much about you."

"Jackie?"

"Yes. I call him Jackie. He hates it. I'm the only one who's allowed to do it."

"You shouldn't have told me. It'll be difficult for me not to join in."

"He really likes you. I mean, he talks about you all the time. Maybe he'll allow it."

"Why do I feel like I'm breaking up a conspiracy?" he asked, striding into the room with his hand out.

"Because you are," Claire answered matter of factly.

I am an evil man. I had decided in advance that I would focus my attention on Eleanor and Evelyn, believing that the path to Jackson's heart wound through his daughters. And, I wanted him to see a side of me that he had never seen, the caring compassionate side that was not visible when we were talking precedents or theories, the whimsical side that often dazzled children, my happy audience.

"I read your final opinion," Claire said, while I was making faces at Eleanor and Evelyn over pastitsio. "It was excellent. I thought Jackie wrote it."

At the use of "Jackie," Jackson's eyes darted to Claire and then to me.

"I let him in," she said, "when we were conspiring."

"Claire, you don't know him. He's evil. He'll use it."

"Good," she said. "You need to be knocked down a couple of pegs."

"Not by a student."

"I'm not a student," I interjected. "I'm a friend. You wouldn't have a student to your home."

I overstayed my welcome. When it was time for Eleanor and Evelyn to go to bed, they each gave me a massive hug. As my grandmother had to me when I was a little boy, I told them I was going to "squeeze them 'til they squealed." And, I did, not letting go until they squealed, giggling and wheezing.

"I should go, too," I said to Jackson as he walked the girls to their room. "It's always a good idea to leave when people start going to bed."

"You don't have to," Jackson said over his shoulder.

"I do."

"Do you want me to put the girls down so you can see him out?" Claire asked.

"No," he answered, disappointing me. "You can see him out."

At the door, Claire responded to my "thank you again" with an "It was a pleasure to meet you. You're very charming. I see why my husband is so smitten with you."

As I drove home, Claire's word — smitten — bounced around like a fly inside my car, elusive but trapped.