Page 50 of Starrily
When Simon had talked with Stan, his advice of simply trying to communicate had seemed sound, easy, even. Simon was good at talking. He also liked to think he was pretty reasonable.
But when it came to Calliope, he was none of those things.
It had been over two weeks since the apartment incident, and the only thing he’d done thus far was keep showing up in her office at the appointed hours. Even when he got a chance—when Jessica stepped out for a break or when she left before Simon did—he still didn’t speak up. He sat there for hours, making vague remarks or answering Jessica’s questions about his company and the collaboration, and sometimes, he’d steal a look at Calliope and try to discern if there was any regret on her face.
But she’d closed up. They were back to the first days, where she found him insufferable, and he … he wanted her to smile just one more time,at him. He wanted to negotiate what music they’d listen to and grab coffee with her to see whose line would be faster this time, and most of all, he wanted to grab her by theshoulders and ask her what the hell was wrong and how he could fix it. Whatever they had—whatever friendship, or perhaps even something more, their painting excursion and the evening at her place represented, he wanted it back.
A smarter man might move on. He, apparently, wasn’t smart—only masochistic.
One day, Calliope greeted them in the morning with special news: she’d been invited to do a talk at a school the city over. Simon may not have been able to tell what she thought of him, but from her shining eyes and restless hands clutching the paper with the invitation, she was excited for the opportunity.
And Simon was happy that she was happy.
Jessica would go with her, of course; an opportunity like this had to be documented. But then she looked at Simon while tapping a pencil at her chin and said, “And you’re gonna come too, right?”
Simon looked at Calliope before he could stop himself. Their eyes met for a second, then rapidly cut the contact as if shaken by electricity.
“If you wish.” Calliope addressed him but kept looking at her computer screen.
“Oh, yay!” Jessica stood. “Road trip!”
And so, three days later, they packed into Simon’s limo. Calliope took a corner and spent the hour and a half of the trip sifting through the notes for her talk. Simon sat as far away from her as possible, and Jessica in the middle of the seat across from them, bobbing her head to the music in her headphones and tapping on her phone.
They looked like a deranged divorced family.
The limo stopped in front of a sprawling red brick building in a peaceful neighborhood. Calliope and Jessica got out first, and Simon followed, stepping into the shade of a giant oak tree.
Stan rolled down his window.
“We shouldn’t be more than two hours,” Simon said. “I’ll call you when we’re done.”
Stan hmmph-ed and nudged his head toward Calliope, walking to the entrance with Jessica.
“Now’s not the time.”
“Any time is a good time.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Your wife is a perfect angel, and you’re impossible to quarrel with since you don’t say much.”
“Hmmph,” Stan repeated, rolled the window back up, and drove off, probably to the nearest corner where he’d spend the next two hours enjoying the peace and quiet of the limo.
Simon breathed in and turned to the school’s entrance.
They said before the moment of near death, your whole life would flash before your eyes. He didn’t know about that death moment—he certainly didn’t remember his life flashing back then—but it did now, in clips and pictures, as if his eyes were connected directly to some promotional video of the school.
Valley Middle School.
Kids hanging around on the lawn in the front, chatting in small groups, until the bell rang, and their high voices filled the halls.
The parking lot over there—fourth parking spot from the left side, his.
This oak. This very oak. He used it and an apple to explain Newton’s theory of gravity to his students.
He moved in a daze, eventually catching up with Calliope and Jessica, talking to a middle-aged woman in a beige pantsuit in the entrance hall.
“And you must be Mr. Montague.” The woman turned to him. “I’m so pleased you’ve decided to come. After Dr. Guidry’s talk, I’m sure the kids would love to speak to you as well. Oh, but where are my manners.” She extended a hand. “I’m—”
“Principal Hernandez,” he said.
