Page 8 of The Austen Escape
“No, but he’s a nice guy.” She watched me with a scrunched face. I couldn’t tell if she wanted to say more or if the cilantro suddenly tasted like dishwashing soap to her too.
Tall, cute, quiet, a little boring, but sweet had been her dismissive description of TCG six months ago.
“I’m surprised he’s still around.”
“He doesn’t take it any more seriously than I do. We have a few mutual friends, that’s all; I may go meet up with them later. But while I’m here...” She raised her glass and tapped the rim of mine. “To Bath. To England. And to Jane.” Her eyes lit with excitement. “This is it. The final piece of the puzzle. I can’t believe my father finally gave in.”
Isabel’s dissertation, “Refined Escapism: The Twenty-First Century Appropriation of Jane Austen,” had lain in limbo for the past couple years. She claimed she couldn’t finish it because she hadn’t experienced the “ultimate escapist experience.” No grant would finance it, and her dad had staunchly refused.
“What made him agree now?”
Her pleasure wavered, and she trailed a finger around the rim of her glass. Her dad was never an easy subject. Whenever I doubted the saying that hate wasn’t the opposite of love, I thought of Isabel’s father and remembered—indifferencewas.
“Honestly, I think he’s tired of me. He pointed out that most of my cohorts have submitted, even graduated already. He said he doubted I had it in me. Do you think I can finish it?”
“Of course you can. And if everyone has graduated, then your friends are a bunch of overachievers, because five years is fast. The average length for an English doctoral program these days is more like six or seven.”
“How do you know that?”
“I looked it up.” I took a sip of my Prosecco and waited. Isabel disliked silences and usually spoke into them quickly.
Not this time. I looked up, and she widened her eyes as if to say,And?
“It was last year when I ran into him at Christmas. He was on your case, so I found a few sites and sent him the links... I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done it. But you were really low. And he was behaving badly.”
Isabel’s bottom lip pouted out on her exhale. “I can’t believe you did that for me.”
“Well... someone had to tell him.”
She took a pull on her drink and changed the subject. “Did you know his new girlfriend is thirty? We would’ve been in high school together.”
“Is she the one I met last Christmas?”
“Different. This one’s been around three months and twenty-two days. We had a fight about her last month. Don’t you love that?We barely talk, but he’ll sure defend her. He started yelling in that horrid low way that I didn’t respect his sacrifices, the decisions he’s had to make, the life she brings to him—” She stopped and drew in a deep breath, then blew it out slowly, yoga fashion. “It doesn’t matter... Thank you, Mary. Thank you for standing up to him and for coming with me.”
I opened my mouth, but she raised a hand to stop me. “Please don’t say anything. I know you don’t really want to come, and it was kinda dirty pool to call your dad, but I had to. I needed family and that’s you. You always have been and also... I owe you. I don’t want you to be angry, but I did something. I...” Her eyes darted over my shoulder and she swallowed whatever she was about to say. “Oh. Your friend Moira is headed this way.”
“I told you that. That’s why I couldn’t go to HandleBar. All the guys are coming here tonight.”
The “guys” consisted of our little tribe from work—Benson and Rodriguez, WATT’s two other engineers; our three physicists; a couple from the finance team, including Moira; and another few from marketing. We got together almost every Friday night.
I spun and waved to Moira. Turning back, I was surprised by the look of swamped loss pulling at Isabel’s face. “You can stay if you want. You know you’re always welcome. You know everyone.”
She shrugged away the expression and my invitation. “No worries. We’ll have plenty of time to talk, and I told you I couldn’t stay. I’m already late.”
She pushed off the stool as I reached for her. “Stay. Finish your drink at least.”
“Friday night with engineers and physicists?” She glanced at the crew entering behind Moira. “Benson continues to look like a twitchy mouse, I see.”
“Did you expect him to change?”
Rodriguez and Benson had come in together, and Isabel was right. Benson looked anxious. His eyes darted around the room. But I knew Benson. He wasn’t anxious. He was taking it all in.
“He’s just reveling in a Friday night. He’s ready to relax, have fun... And don’t smirk. Your pretentious academics don’t rank any higher on the Friday-night-fun scale.” I worked to hide my smile.
“You got me.” Isabel grinned. “There was a debate the other day on whether Browning was a Merlot poet or more Pinot Noir.”
“What does that even mean?”
