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Emma settles into a seat toward the middle of the auditorium-style classroom. The professor to student ratio at Toronto University isn’t as intimate as it was at Smithdale, but the tuition is more manageable and the proximity to the loft makes commuting by bicycle possible, so Emma feels confident that she made the right choice, even as over a hundred students pour into the cavernous room. It’s a basic literature class, a graduation requirement for all students, regardless of major. As practical as it might be for Emma to skip this type of class in the pursuit of her degree in conservation, she appreciates the University’s commitment to creating well-rounded citizens of the world.
She drums her fingers along her copy of The Great Gatsby, required reading before the semester had even started. It was definitely high school material, but with this being an introductory, core requirement class, she understands why the book was selected. Nevertheless, she found it enjoyable enough, reading it in the evenings, tucked under Spinner’s arm while he flipped channels on the TV in their apartment.
The professor enters three minutes after class was supposed to have begun and the students in Emma’s vicinity seem irritated that she bothered showing up at all. At one minute past time, students had already started muttering about how she only has a master’s degree, so you only have to wait five minutes before leaving class, as opposed to a PhD, for whom one must wait at least ten minutes. Emma has never heard these rules before, but is certain that they aren’t official by any standards.
“Okay, let’s talk about Gatsby,” she says as she scrawls her name on the massive green chalk board behind her. The name, written in tiny, broken white scratches, is barely legible from this distance. But Emma knows from the syllabus that the name is “Ms. Nadasky.”
The professor begins writing the names of all the characters on the chalkboard, beginning with Nick Carraway and ending with Jay Gatsby himself. There in the middle is Daisy Buchanan, framed on either side by Jordan and Myrtle, the other two women of note in the book.
“I want us to begin by analyzing the characters,” Ms. Nadasky says. “Everyone line up, take turns with the chalk, and write one unique descriptor for one of the characters on the board. The first people to step up will have an easier time, so don’t be shy.”
Emma shoots up and begins down the steps of the auditorium with the others in her row, all rolling their eyes at the forced participation. Emma is the twelfth person in line, and when she gets her hands on the chalk, strolls right over to Daisy and writes the word “nostalgic” under her name.
By the time everyone sits down, the giant sprawling chalkboard is filled with one and two-word descriptions. Jordan and Myrtle don’t have many descriptors attributed to them, but Daisy has amassed quite a long list. Amongst those words, of course, are “beautiful fool.”
Ms. Nadasky taps her chin. “So we think that Daisy is a fool?” she asks. “We know that she wishes that for her young daughter, but don’t we think she isn’t a fool? Isn’t she wise enough to be miserable?”
Someone near the front interjects. “She got married young to some old money meathead. Sounds like a fool to me.”
The professor laughs. “Yeah, okay, fair enough.”
Emma’s heart sinks. Getting married young is all it takes to be considered a fool? She looks down at her ring finger on her left hand, observing the way that the band there sparkles. Beautiful fool. Maybe those words feel closer to home than she’d like to admit.
When Emma gets back to the loft that afternoon, she feels a cloud hovering around her. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. Ever since that beach wedding, this dark, swirling fog swirls around her and settles in her stomach, at least once a week.
She clips her helmet on the handlebar of her bike, then looks up in time to see Spinner, her husband, holding the door open for her. “How was the first day of the semester?” he asks, oblivious, as always. He reminds Emma of a golden retriever, the way that he greets her when she comes home, eager. She can almost see a tail wagging behind him.
She shrugs. “It was alright, I guess.”
He places his hand on the small of her back as she walks through the door and begins up the stairs. “Do you think your classes are going to be hard?”
“Not really. I’m still mostly taking intro classes and pre-reqs,” Emma says.
“That’s good, I guess,” Spinner says, but there’s something tight about his words, like he senses that something is bothering her. He reaches around Emma and opens the door to the loft.
Emma takes out her copy of The Great Gatsby and thumbs through the pages as she collapses onto the sofa. “I have to write a paper by Friday about the Green Light,” Emma says.
“What, like at an intersection?” Spinner asks, grabbing a glass down from the kitchen cabinet.
Emma snorts softly from her nose. “No, silly. It’s, like, a metaphor or something.” She waves the novel to punctuate her point.
“Oh, God. Not English homework,” Spinner groans. Emma remembers that Spinner failed English in High School.
“It’s no biggie,” she says, sliding the book back into her backpack, content to concern herself with the essay later. It only has to be 500 words anyway.
Spinner hands her a glass of ice water. He must have noticed the small beads of sweat on her forehead from the bike ride home.
She takes the cup and gives him a smile.
“What’s wrong?” he blurts, sensing the awkwardness and tension in her demeanor.
She flops onto the couch. “Did we make a mistake?” she asks. She doesn’t have to clarify for Spinner to know what she means.
Spinner shakes his head. “No, we didn’t.”
“But we’re so young!” Emma whines, dangling her arm off the cushion, her knuckles brushing the floor.
Spinner sits on the floor, picks up her arm and holds it close to his chest. “So? What’s the point in waiting ‘til you’re old to get married?”
“I don’t know. Being mature and responsible?” Emma guesses.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be mature and responsible, even when I get old,” Spinner answers.
Emma rolls over and wraps her other arm around Spinner, crossing over her other arm in a lazy, slouchy hug. He leans his head back to rest against her shoulder. She rubs her nose against his short hair, smelling her strawberry shampoo that he must have used that morning, and she hums.
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” Spinner says. “I know what it’s like. This doesn’t feel like one to me.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“Not at all.” Spinner turns his head slightly, his dark eyes meeting Emma’s.
He’s so earnest, Emma almost feels guilty for having doubts again. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just hard to be, like, the only married student on the whole campus.”
“You’re not the only one,” Spinner says.
“Probably the only one who graduated high school in the last four years,” Emma points out.
“Yeah, maybe that’s true,” Spinner agrees. “But that doesn’t mean that we made a mistake.”
Emma nods. “Okay, you’re right.”
“Come on, let me remind you what a good decision it was,” Spinner says, kissing Emma’s cheek, then her mouth.
Emma kisses back, squeezing her arms more firmly around Spinner’s chest. She slides off the couch and onto the floor with him, and they spend the evening forgetting all the voices telling them that getting married young is for beautiful fools.