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As Kat Stratford glanced down at her watch, the ancient radiator in the corner wheezed like an asthmatic teapot. McCosh Hall's creaky old seminar rooms looked impressive from the lawn beyond their ivy-crept walls, but the high, drafty windows let through more cold on a December morning than the heating system, or the inhabitants, could stand.
Across the table, Kat saw Megan Hendrickson, a freshman from Santa Monica, blowing on her hands and looking pained. Kat had recognized Megan's shivering, with the radar programmed at birth into all Southern California natives, on the first chilly day in November, and she'd immediately pointed her in the direction of the hats and gloves rack of the local CVS. Kat had lived on the East Coast for nearly 10 years now, long enough that even by generous estimates she couldn't be called a new resident, but despite her acquired knowledge of outerwear and layering, her Californian blood still froze each time the mercury dipped below 50.
"Ok," she said, clearing her throat and flashing a sympathetic smile in Megan's direction. "One more question, and then I'll let you all run off to warmer climes." Her students chuckled.
Kat picked up her worn copy of Ernest Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises, thumbing to a bookmarked page, the last before the notes and annotations. "'Isn't it pretty to think so?'" she read, giving her voice all the intonation of Jake Barnes' long-suffering sarcasm. "Jake's reply to Brett's insinuation that they could have been together. It's arguably one of the most famous last lines in Western literature. Who wants to tell me what it means?"
Megan dropped her hands from her mouth long enough to speak up. "It means he's changed. He knows they aren't going to be together, that they never even could have. That the reasons they aren't a couple have nothing to do with his injury."
Kat nodded. "Good, good. But let's go back to that first sentence. 'He's changed.' Does anyone want to argue with that?"
Damien Johnson, a bright sophomore with a love of colloquialisms and a major problem with comma splices, raised his hand. "The only thing that's changing is his awareness. Jake's a static character. After everything that went down in Pamplona, he's still following Brett around like the lost little puppy he is. He knows she's no good for him, and he's never gonna get what he wants, but that ain't gonna change a thing about their relationship. He's still gonna clean up all her messes. He's too obsessed."
"But isn't a change in awareness still a change?" Megan countered. Kat lived for these moments--the moments when she, as a teacher, could sit back and watch the students take over the conversation for themselves, solve the problems of literary analysis with nothing to guide them but their own strong-willed opinions. This was what seminars were supposed to be, not the congregations of sleepy-eyed zombies that filled her classes on certain mornings.
"Jake loves Brett; he isn't trying to change that," Megan continued. "But at least now he can stop blaming his accident for everything that's wrong with their relationship. Sure, he'll keep saving her from herself, but maybe he has a chance to be a little less miserable."
"I think Jake likes being miserable," broke in Tiffany Yu, a senior chemistry major belatedly filling her lit requirement. "He doesn't know how to be anything else."
"And on that cheerful note," Kat said, "I'll let you all go. Great responses, everybody. Remember, your papers are due on Friday at five p.m. I'm going to have extra office hours on Wednesday, two to four, if you need to talk about your essay."
The students began gathering up their novels and notebooks and stuffing them into their bags. "Have a nice evening, Ms. Stratford!" Megan called cheerfully, slinging her backpack onto her shoulder.
"You too, Megan. Stay warm."
~*~
The stairs down to the basement were worn and narrow, but Kat was thankful for the blast of warm air that greeted her descent. The basement of McCosh was a dreary, windowless place, the domain of those at the bottom of the academic totem pole, but it was newer than the rooms above, with better heating and insulation. Compared to the seminar room, it was paradise.
Kat made her way down the long hallway toward the office she shared with another grad student, a quiet young woman named Jamie who was similarly working her way toward her doctorate in English. Jamie was a nice enough person, but Kat was glad nonetheless when she saw that the lights in their office were dark. Patience was a virtue Kat had learned in increments since high school, but there was only so much Christian soft rock that a girl could take.
As she fumbled in her bag for her key, Kat made a mental list of what she had to do that afternoon--e-mail the department head and ask for clarification on the new grade submission procedures, call Bianca and see how she was holding up (the baby's due date was a week away), finish that paper on The Bell Jar, shop for groceries, set up an outing with Melinda and Lisa for a showing of Milk at the Princeton Garden Theater. She was so engrossed in the list-making that she almost didn't notice the figure dozing in the chair outside her office, his face obscured by the folds of his ski jacket.
"Excuse me, sir, but this is a private building," she said, standing a cautious distance from the stranger. Princeton wasn't known for attracting hobos, but she wasn't taking any chances.
"Somebody should tell that to the secretaries, then," a familiar Australian drawl replied. "They'll let anybody into this place." The figure lifted his head and stretched to a standing position, and Kat found herself standing face-to-face with Patrick Verona for the first time in eight years.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Kat asked.
"Marcia in the English department told me where your office was. Charming lady. They should pay her more."
"I'm sorry, you must be going deaf in your old age. I asked why you were here, not how." Kat was still holding her keys in her hand, but she moved them away from the lock and let them dangle at her side.
"To see you."
"After eight years."
"Well, after the fifth year I finally figured out you weren't going to call me back, so I had to track you down instead."
"I'm so honored you were willing to expend the energy."
"Your hair is shorter."
Kat resisted the urge to reach up to touch her hair. She'd shaved her head the summer after her junior year of undergrad in protest of feminine beauty standards, and she hadn't let it get longer than her shoulders ever since. It was easier to take care of this way, and she'd never regretted the change, but Patrick always had a way of making her question her decisions.
"Well, your hairline is receding, so I guess we both grew up."
"It looks nice," Patrick said, unfazed. His smile was as crooked as ever.
Kat sighed. "What are you doing here, Patrick?" she asked again, more quietly this time.
"I--" Patrick began, but he was cut off by Kat's phone blasting Tegan and Sara's "Proud."
"Hold that thought." Kat reached into her bag blindly and pulled out the phone, flipping it open. "Bianca."
"Kaaaaaaaaaat!" Bianca whined, loud enough to make Kat pull the phone a few inches away from her ear. "I'm having an emergency C-section tomorrow and Jimmy is freaking out about it and Dad is driving me absolutely insane. You have to come out here, pleasepleaseplease."
"Bianca, slow down," Kat said, trying to process the deluge. "Emergency C-section? Are you ok?"
"I'm fine. I feel fine. But Daddy says the baby's all turned around or something, and they have to do it." She sighed dramatically. "I'm not even worried about it, but I'm stuck in this bed with Dad hovering and asking me the same questions fifty million times and Jimmy, he's sweet but a little useless, you know?" She breathed, then added, more seriously, "I need my sister."
Kat could hear the genuine plea in Bianca's voice, and she swallowed down all protests about work and travel expenses. "I'll book a plane right now," she said. "Hang in there."
"You're the best."
Kat hung up the phone and turned back to Patrick. "Your sister's knocked up?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"By her husband of two years, yes. And now I have to go pay a ridiculous amount for airfare and try to find a train to Newark that isn't delayed by icing on the tracks." She jammed her key into the lock and turned the knob of her office door; she'd have to send an e-mail to her students about canceling the Wednesday office hours, maybe even give them an extension on the paper, since she doubted she'd be back by Friday. "So, really, thanks for dropping by, but I can't deal with you right now."
"I have a car and about a billion frequent flier miles," Patrick said.
Kat turned back to him. "What are you suggesting, exactly?"
Patrick shrugged, picking up his knapsack from the floor next to his chair. "I'll buy the tickets and go with you. Haven't been back to Padua in ages."
"Do you actually expect me to say yes to that?"
"Listen, I'm not asking you for anything else. I'm just being a Good Samaritan. You don't even have to talk to me. But if you want to get to the airport on time and be able to use your teaching stipend on presents for your new niece or nephew instead of a flight, take the gift."
Kat glared. "You're still the same patronizing asshole you always were, you know that?"
"Some things never change. So what do you say?"
Kat walked over to her desk and flipped open her laptop. She couldn't believe she was doing this. "Give me ten minutes."
~*~
Patrick's truck wasn't the same heap of junk he'd driven back in high school, but it may as well have been; the paint was just as chipped, the seats just as ripped, and the same smell of Doritos and sweat filled the air. The only noticeable difference was the lack of cigarette smoke.
"No nicotine?" Kat asked, surprised, as she climbed into the cab and unwrapped her scarf.
"Never went back to it. Didn't see the point," Patrick replied, revving the engine.
"Huh."
"Nice earmuffs, by the way," he smirked, glancing at Kat's heavily-bundled form.
"I like to think of them as idiot protection for my eardrums," Kat said, and purposely left them on for the remainder of the drive.
True to his word, Patrick didn't make Kat talk to him--not during the drive, and not during all the time they spent at the airport, buying last-minute tickets and making their way through the hassles of security. It wasn't until they were in the air, soaring over the contiguous United States, that Kat spoke up, her curiosity too much to contain.
"So where did all the frequent flier miles come from? You don't seem the type."
"I work in sales up in Westchester. They fly me out all over to work my charm on unsuspecting businesspeople."
Kat snorted. "You? A corporate salesman?"
"What? You don't think I'm a respectable young man?"
"Ha."
Patrick shrugged. "I've only been doing it a year. Before that it was mind-numbing data entry at a law office in Santa Fe, before that it was teaching preschool in Cleveland, before that it was selling sword replicas to anime fanboys in Florida, before that it was security at a disco in Germany, and before that I was painting houses in Queensland. Next year I could be performing on a dinner cruise in the Caribbean. I figure if I try everything, I'll find what I want eventually."
Kat raised an eyebrow. "Germany?"
"Jawohl."
Patrick turned in Kat's direction, sliding his hand down their shared armrest. "What about you? I looked you up on Princeton's website. Thought you hated Hemingway."
"How do you even remember that? You were never in class."
"This may come as a surprise, Kat, but you've never been one to hide your feelings about literature. We went to bookstores together a few too many times for me not to know your tastes."
Kat shrugged, conceding. "It's not the only thing I teach. I also have a class on the development of a feminist critical voice. I guess I just learned that everyone's worth a second chance. Even misogynistic drunks."
Patrick raised an eyebrow, looking too damn hopeful for his own good. "But I still draw the line at third chances," Kat added quickly.
Patrick's face fell. "So," he said, turning away. "Let's check out the choices for an in-flight movie, yeah?"
~*~
Patrick still looked good. Even with the receding hairline, which Kat hadn't been lying about, he looked good. He had the same brown curls (though shorter, and more controlled), the same rakish smile, the same twinkly little eyes. It would have been easier if he'd lost his looks in the last eight years. Or his charm. But he still had both, in spades, and Kat could barely stand to look at him.
It wasn't that she hadn't moved on. She'd had relationships since Patrick, good and bad; her single status at the moment owed more to her busy teaching and research schedule than anything else. She was working in a field she loved, she was well on her way to meeting all her academic goals, and she had a family she got along with much better when they were 3,000 miles away. Her favorite English professor at Sarah Lawrence had already hinted that she'd be a welcome candidate for the assistant professorship due to open up right around the time Kat would be hitting the job market, and while Kat had learned to love Princeton, she knew she'd be happy to give up the stodgy traditions and GPA obsession for the free-spirited ways of her alma mater. Everything in her life was going perfectly, and nothing compelled her to dwell on a boyfriend who'd up and disappeared from her life in the summer of 2002.
Nothing, that was, except the presence of that boyfriend six inches to her left for five straight hours. Her ridiculous, split-second decision to take him up on his offer was looking more regrettable by the second.
When the plane landed, Kat jumped out of her seat as quickly as possible and made her way to the baggage claim. She immediately grabbed a cab at the cab stand, and she managed to hold her silence until the cab pulled up outside of Padua Medical Center.
Patrick and Kat stepped out, and Kat was almost bowled over by the rush of warm air that greeted her. She stood there, raising her face to the sky like a sunflower, drinking in the smoggy air of her abandoned home, and something inside her snapped. She turned to Patrick, her face a mask of fury and resentment.
"Why did you do it?"
"I told you. I wanted to do you a favor."
"Not today. Eight years ago. Why did you just disappear? Was it someone else? What the hell was so big that you had to call me and end it without a word of explanation?"
Patrick sighed, paid the driver, and ran a hand through his hair. "I had to leave."
"Leave?"
"My mum. She was sick. Back home, in Australia; she moved back when I graduated. I needed to take care of her."
Kat sat down on the curb outside the hospital doors, flabbergasted. For eight years, she'd been so sure that it had been another girl. Or that he'd just gotten bored of her. Moved on to something shinier, like he'd done with his jobs in all the years since.
"And you couldn't tell me that? What happened to honesty? You can ruin your badass image by admitting that you didn't eat a duck but you can't admit you need to help your sick mom?"
"I didn't want to hurt you! I didn't know how long I'd be away. 3,000 miles was enough distance; how could I have made you cope with 10,000? And no summer breaks?" He shook his head. "I thought I was doing the right thing. Letting you live your own life, without being tied down to someone who couldn't be there."
"And where in your diminutive little head did it make logical sense that letting me believe you hated me wouldn't hurt me?" Kat stood up from the curb and threw her arms wide, trying not to think of another time and another conversation, a phone call in the spring of her junior year at Sarah Lawrence from a woman who'd left with just as little notice over six years earlier.
"I tried to call. I even called your dad to try to get to you, and you would not believe the tongue-lashing he gave me. I think he threatened castration."
"I told you. I don't give third chances."
Patrick sighed. "No. I guess you don't. Let's go see your sister."
~*~
"Jimmy! I want ice cream. Are you going to get me ice cream? How can you expect me to lay here like this and not have any ice cream?"
"Lie," Kat said, stepping into a gleaming white hospital room that looked not unlike a scene out of a sitcom. "Not lay. You're not an inanimate object."
"Kat!" Bianca exclaimed, turning away from her husband, who was standing near the far wall, looking appropriately cowed. "You made it!"
Kat approached the bed, glad that Patrick had decided to hang back for a few minutes to pick up a present for Bianca at the gift shop. She needed this moment, alone with her family, not thinking about what had just happened in the parking lot. "How are you doing, sis?"
"I'd be doing even better if the idiot I married would get me some ice cream," she said pointedly.
"Right away, sweetheart!" Jimmy said. "Chocolate-vanilla swirl with sprinkles coming right up." He turned with a quick "Hi, Kat," and scurried out of the room in the direction of the food court.
"You're going to give that poor boy a nervous breakdown one of these days," Kat said, leaning down to place a kiss on her sister's forehead, then fluffed up her hard blue pillow.
"Oh, I know, but he's so adorable when he's flustered," she replied. Jimmy was a sweet, mild-mannered guy, an accountant whose chief quality was his total and utter adoration of Bianca. No matter how many unreasonable demands his wife made, Kat knew he'd be back at Bianca's side in moments, a towel at the ready to mop her nervous forehead. They were good for each other. It was hard to tell right now, with Bianca's worst qualities exaggerated by anxiety and pregnancy hormones, but most of the time they got along splendidly. Bianca was Bianca, but Jimmy was just too good to take for granted.
"I don't care what they said, I want you to run the tests again! I'm not taking any chances with my little girl. I--Kat!" Kat's father stopped in the doorway, the cap of his scrubs askew, looking surprised. "Bianca didn't tell me you were coming."
"You think I'd miss my little sister's delivery?"
"Well, yes, to be frank," he replied. "You hate the sight of blood almost as much as you hate Bill O'Reilly."
"Then it's a good thing I didn't show up for his C-section, isn't it?"
Kat's father made a face that was part curiosity at the medical possibility and part abject horror, then settled on a smile. "Come here, kitten," he said, pulling her into a huge hug. Kat hugged back, allowing herself to admit, for the first time, how much she'd missed him.
"Listen, visiting hours are almost over for today. Why don't you come back tomorrow and--oh, hello."
Kat turned around, looking at the point her father was staring at over her shoulder. Patrick was standing there, a fuzzy brown teddy bear in hand.
Bianca's eyes narrowed. "What the hell is he doing here?"
Kat sighed. "It's a long story. He paid for the flight."
"I don't care if he paid for world peace, no one who hurts my sister is allowed in my hospital room."
"Bianca…."
"Now, honey, you know I try not to question your life choices, but I have to say I'm on your sister's side," Kat's dad said, voice grave.
"It's ok." Patrick put up his hands in surrender, thrusting the bear out in front of him. "I just came to drop off this teddy bear. I'll be out of your way in a second."
"No, no," Kat cut in, watching Patrick's resigned disappointment. "You don't have to leave. Dad, Bianca, Patrick flew all the way out here so I could come; the least you can do is put down the pitchforks."
Bianca's eyes were still narrowed. "Put the teddy bear on the side table," she said, warily.
Patrick did as he was commanded. "Congratulations."
Bianca nodded.
"Well, ah, as I said, visiting hours really are over," Kat's dad said. "The C-section is scheduled for 10 tomorrow. Come back around 9."
"Goodnight, sis," Bianca said. "Don't let him hurt you again."
"I won't, I promise." Kat squeezed her sister's hand, then left the room.
~*~
Out in the parking lot, the sun had begun to set, but the darkness hadn’t mitigated the heat, and Kat spread her arms again, turning around in a slow circle as she absorbed the warmth.
"I'm going to be an aunt," she said, not so much to Patrick as to the dusky California sky. "I think I'll make a good maiden aunt. Spoil the kid rotten, shower it with environmentally-friendly toys."
"You'd be a good anything," Patrick said, and the earnestness was almost enough to break Kat's heart.
Patrick bent down and rustled through the worn knapsack he'd brought with him. "Hey, I got you something."
"What?"
Patrick stood up, a small box in his hand. "It was the only instrument they had at the gift shop."
Kat took the package and glanced down at the illustration of a harmonica on the cardboard. She found herself smiling in spite of herself. "I never did start a band," she said, wistfully. She remembered the long hours learning to play the guitar, that summer before college, Patrick's arms around her guiding her to the frets. She still had it, tucked into a corner of her apartment, but she hadn't touched it in years. She had too many other things to do, too many things that didn't stir up painful memories.
"It's never too late," Patrick replied.
Kat turned to him. "What happened to your mom?"
Patrick looked down at the asphalt. "She died two years later. The cancer got her quick."
"I'm sorry," Kat said. The words weren't familiar to her tongue.
Patrick shrugged. "We've all got our tragedies. Still no excuse for being a bastard." He glanced up. "You defended me back there. Before the harmonica, even."
It was Kat's turn to shrug. "I'm reevaluating my stance on third chances."
Patrick's crinkly eyes widened slightly. "And are you going to share the results of that reevaluation?"
"Kiss me and you'll find out."
~*~
The C-section went off without a hitch. Kat stood at her sister's side, next to Jimmy, as her father worked his scalpel with precision and introduced his granddaughter to the world. When the sewing was done, Kat hugged her father and left the room so Bianca could go into post-op. Jimmy stayed behind, looking down at his tiny newborn daughter with the same adoration in his eyes that he always held for Bianca.
Kat stepped out into the waiting room, where Patrick was sitting, flipping through a trashy magazine. He looked up. "Did you know that this miracle cream, combined with eucalyptus oil and daily facial exercises, can make you look ten years younger?"
"God, I hope not. I don't want to be 18 again."
"I don't know. I think you looked pretty good at 18."
Kat swatted Patrick on the side of the head and sank down into a chair next to him. "It's a girl."
Patrick grinned. "Congratulations, Aunt Kat. She have a name yet?"
"Bianca hasn't woken up from the anesthesia. There's no way in hell she'd let Jimmy make that decision without her."
"From what you said, it doesn't seem like she lets him so much as take a piss without her."
Kat laughed, and reached over to slide her fingers over his hand. "Point."
"So…" Patrick said, tentatively. "Last night, was that…?"
Kat shrugged, unsure of what to say. She thought about her work, and everything she would have to make up when she got back. She thought about her students, Megan from Santa Monica and Damien with his comma splices. She thought about her breath hanging like smoke in the air and unplowed sidewalks and a long, lonely winter in the library. "I have another week of classes before the break, and about forty papers to grade," she said, finally.
Patrick nodded. "'Course. You're busy being brilliant. I understand."
"But I do have that break," Kat continued. "I'd be willing to spend part of it in Westchester."
Patrick grinned, that same big, lopsided, cocky puppy grin. "We'll have a good time."
"It's pretty to think so," Kat replied, trying for a last gasp of bitter resignation. But the winter sun was high over the palm trees, her hand was still grazing Patrick's fingers, and the sarcasm never quite reached her lips.