You Will (Not) Be Horny

Claire's been hemming and hawing like this for weeks now. It's never shaky hands and uncertain words with her - it's furrowed brow and loud huffs, a tumultuous battle within herself that leaves you in her wake. Dinners alone, late nights spent peering around the corner of her office, asking her if she's coming to bed. She returns your texts late, disjointed thoughts spilling into midday messages. You piece her meaning together from the shrapnel. Collateral damage.

As much as you'd love to light the spark in her eyes again, to smooth the worried creases from her forehead and ply what bothers her from pursed lips, you know it's futile. She needs the time and the space to tell you on her own, when she's ready. Push too hard and you'll get burned.

It's not work that's troubling her - you had checked. She presents at a conference next month, but in typical Claire fashion, she’ll do all her worrying about that the week before.

Chris is fine, too. That's the other big one that sets her teeth on edge. You'd checked in with him the other night. (Though you always suspected he alerted Claire of your calls. He wasn't good at keeping secrets where Claire was concerned. You're similar that way, you suppose.)

The cup stops squeaking. You lift your head up, dare to peer out of your foxhole. Claire's back is still turned to you. You duck back down, scroll on your phone to paint the illusion of casualty. Casualness, you correct yourself.

“I'm thinking about going back to school.”

You don't even pick your head up. “Oh, like for your master’s?”

Claire’s silence raises your eyes. Her shoulders are still drawn up high in her cream button-up.

“No,” she manages. Jesus, you've never heard her sound so small. “For my bachelor’s.”

You set your phone to the side and nod to the seat across from you. Your cheek squishes against your fist and you carefully curate your expression. A vulnerable Claire is a volatile Claire.

“So, like, a different major, or..?"

“I don't know.” Frustration sets her brow in a harsh crag. She huffs, swatting the question away with a hand.

Just gotta let her work this out, you remind yourself, biting your tongue. Something about this has her flayed open in her own home. She folds her arms across her chest, hands slotting against her ribs to stem the bleeding.

Claire's eyes flit to your phone. When you don't pick it back up, refuse to scroll aimlessly until the conversation is forgotten, she scowls.

“You know I never graduated, right?”

“Really?” You blink, shrug, anything to stay nonchalant. “I guess I just figured you had.”

“I finished my freshman year. Then Raccoon City happened.”

Your heart dips. It always comes back to Raccoon City eventually. You wonder if she spends more time in that burned out shell of a city than anywhere else, if her far-off looks always lead her back to the decimation and the rot.

You reach across to squeeze her hand. “You wanna go back?”

Claire nods. Her eyes filter past you, over your shoulder.

“I don't like leaving unfinished business.”

“I know.”

“God, it would be expensive. Like, a total waste of money.”

“Weren't you just bragging about TerraSave's tuition reimbursement plan like, a couple weeks ago?”

“Yeah, but…” The argument dies on her tongue, her words splattering on the table between you. You trace idle shapes against the back of her hand, waiting for her to disarm herself.

You can think of any number of reasons to tell her not to. You're sure they're the same ones that spin in her head now. Realistically, she doesn't need the degree. Not having it isn't preventing her from progressing in her career. She's been more than successful without it. But this isn't about her future. It's about her past.

Finally, she takes her finger off the trigger. Her shoulders round. Whether it's in defeat or acceptance, it doesn't make much of a difference.

“I don't know, I just – I'm almost 40.” She rolls her eyes, trying to cover up the way her voice had softened. “It's kind of weird to go back and sit in Comp 101 with a bunch of eighteen year olds.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Claire snorts, but the set of her shoulders doesn't round like you'd hoped. You reach across the table, fingers loosely encircling her wrist. “I'm serious, baby. Who cares? You'd tell me the same thing.”

“You don't think it's a waste of time?”

I don't think anything that helps you bury Raccoon City is a waste of time, you want to say. You weave around the landmine instead.

“No way. What major are you going to pick?”

“I was a psych major before everything…” She gestures nebulously in the air between you. A soft tap-tap-tap stirs from beneath the table, her heel clicking against the floor anxiously. “You know.”

You hum and squeeze her hand a little tighter, try to drag her off the streets of Raccoon City. You bounce ideas off of each other, both serious and silly.

This is nothing that will be decided over The course of one night, but she ends up leaning away from psychology. It's more practical to study business, she says. More useful for her work.

You've long devolved into talking nonsense. Claire had asked about your college experience, and you'd picked the stupidest stories possible, trying to see her smile, to see her throw her head back with laughter.

You pause mid-sentence, gasp, eyes sparking bright. “Oh my god, you're gonna be a non-trad. Let's get you one of those backpacks with wheels.”

“Stop,” she laughs, swatting your arm.

“I'm serious. You gotta have the full experience.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“You have to walk down the middle of the sidewalk no matter what.”

“I'm probably just going to do online classes.”

“And you only have two speeds - really fast, or the slowest walker on campus.”

“I'm definitely doing online classes.”

You shake your head. You're definitely ordering her that bag, even if she won't use it. As much as she travels, she might actually get some use out of it, even if she isn't physically attending classes.

You rise from the table and fill her sparkling clean mug with a layer of honey (local, the farmer's market last Saturday, her hand in your back pocket and fresh banana bread dangling from from the bag in the crook of her arm) and switch the kettle on. While you rifle through the cabinet for her favorite tea, you drum up your courage to ask something that could sour the peace.

“How come you never went back to school before now?”

For a moment, you worry you've ruined things. You peer over your shoulder at her, evaluating the thoughtful look on her face carefully.

“I had a lot going on. There was this whole thing with Chris, and–” Claire looks over at you, mischief burning in her eyes. “Hey. Did I ever tell you I'm not allowed back into France?”

“What.”

“Yeah. Not kidding. Hope you didn't want to honeymoon in Paris.”

The kettle clicks off. You nearly spill the water on yourself trying to pour her tea. Bustling back over, you carefully place it in front of her and then careen into your seat. Your chin drops into your hand.

“Tell me everything.”

Claire laughs. Her limbs loosen, both hands curled around her favorite mug. She leans in close and starts her tale. Paris, Antarctica - you wouldn't believe her if she were anyone else.