Alyssa Goodnight - Austentatious

“Maybe it’s supposed to—maybe that’s exactly what you need, a little kink.” She winked and then looked around behind her toward a table shared by three grungy college guys cramming for something. She then peeked over her other shoulder at a man alone in a suit, poring over his PDA and sipping an espresso. When she turned back, she whispered, “Pull your sweater open a little at the neck.”

Certain I’d misunderstood, I leaned forward against the table, eyebrows raised, and murmured, “What?”

“Try to show a little more skin.” She dusted some bits of coconut off her fingertips and then proceeded to reach across the table to deal with my sweater herself.

I slapped her hand away, wondering how the conversation had spiraled so completely out of control.

I leaned in farther and whispered harshly, “I am not taking cleavage advice from a journal, a nonexistent fairy godmother, or you. Speaking of which—”

I glanced up to see the PDA guy moving past our table. He was looking down at me, and I met his friendly grin with a distracted one of my own before turning my attention back to Beck.

Her eyebrow was winged up, and her smile was definitely smug. She shifted her gaze from my face to my chest, and I let mine follow. Sitting there, boosted up and pushed together by my hunch over the table and partially exposed by my recently adjusted sweater, my bogus cleavage was on display. Perfect.

Tipping my no doubt ruby red face back up to glare at a grinning Beck, I felt an urgent need to get back on familiar ground. Yanking my sweater closed, I decided to play the mentor card.

I sat back and shifted my shoulders primly. “Have you decided what you want to do over the summer—work, school ... both?”

Beck’s eyes went from fantasy to reality in a single blink.

“I was thinking I’d stay at Micro.” Her voice sounded vaguely flat, but I hardly noticed. Not only was I excited that she wanted to stay on over the summer, but I was thoroughly relieved we were no longer talking about road-testing the journal’s advice or fairy godmothers. Definitely a plus.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” I grinned at her. “I’ll need to get final approval from David, but I can’t imagine them letting you go. Do you think you might want to transition to another project—try something new?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her voice had flattened further—like roadkill—and she was glaring at me, breaking Rule #1 on purpose.

I glared right back. And then, ever so slowly, her eyebrow creeped up, as if to say, what’s it gonna be?

Hell.

I slumped down against the table, saw one of the frat boys turn in our direction, and jerked myself erect, now totally self-conscious, thanks to my pimp of a mentee.

“Can’t we discuss any mentee-related topics?”

“Like minty-fresh breath? An absolute must for those romantic indulgences!”

“You’re teasing me? I just told you the biggest, weirdest secret I’ve ever told anyone, and now you’re teasing me?”

“Maybe a little. Does that bother you? Because I can not do that.” Her mouth quirked up at the side and her eyes twinkled.

“Can you? I wonder.” I dredged up a smile and took a deep steadying breath. “Okay, well, I’m done chatting about Jane Austen and J.R.R. Tolkien, so unless you have another topic in mind ...”

She shook her head in the negative. “Nothing that could come close to this.”

I checked my watch—just past eleven. “There’s a sandwich shop down on SoCo—”

“Jo’s? Definitely, let’s meet there—perfect vibe.”

“O-kay.” I couldn’t help but wonder what constituted a perfect vibe for Lord of the Rings–style strategizing over a magical journal. I guess I’d find out. “Jo’s it is. I’ll bring the journal.” I crumpled up my wax paper sleeve, ready to pack it in.

She nodded, clearly delighted with the arrangement, and we walked toward the exit, tossing our trash in the bin by the door.

The trees in the parking lot were underlit by spotlights and seemed vaguely otherworldly. With a shiver, I turned back to Beck.

“Thanks for calling. It feels weird to have said any of that out loud, but I’m glad I talked to you, even if your idea of ‘perfect sense’ is a bit loco. At least you didn’t freak.”

She laughed. “That makes one of us. Just consider the possibility. . . And by all means carry on with the data collection. I’ll expect full deets tomorrow: What you said, what she said...” Her head was tipping back and forth, and the sparkly pink star in her nose was winking at me. She shooed me away. “Go home! And write juicy,” she called back over her shoulder.

I rolled my eyes in the dark, deciding I wasn’t a big fan of surreal. I’d had a mind-numbingly normal day until words had disappeared from my journal and my intern / mentee had announced that they’d been stolen away by a fairy godmother channeling the spirit of Jane Austen. And there was no end in sight, because as self-appointed sidekick, the mind-blowing Mulder to my strait-laced Scully, Beck was very likely going to crazy up my day tomorrow too. At this point, it was unclear—at least to me—which of us was the protégé in this fledgling relationship. I worried what that meant for the future.

Alone in my kitchen, I dropped into a chair, positioned the journal in front of me, and considered Beck’s parting words, trying hard not to think about her other, “fairy” words. Juicy. She thought I should write juicy. She should know by now that my life was about as juicy as a prune. I was, however, exasperated to the hilt and not above responding to the journal’s latest little gem of wisdom with a certain amount of snark.

Rummaging through the assortment of quirky writing implements stuffed into an oversized mug on the kitchen counter, I pulled out my black fine-line permanent pen. Wouldn’t want to make things too easy for little Fairy Jane.

Cleavage is as cleavage does, huh?

Normally I’d feel ridiculous speaking this whole thing aloud, but in this situation, I couldn’t seem to help myself.

Just for the fun of it, just for a moment, let’s pretend that I have cleavage. In that case, I might possibly make a tiny effort to decipher this mysterious bit of wonky “wisdom.” But since, in reality, it’s a nonissue, I’m not gonna worry about it.

And just for your clarification and future reference, I’m not a lesbian, not even experimental, nor do I have plans for men in my near future, which is why I’m going to the wedding alone. That way I get cake but not complications. I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot here—I’m not cleavage obsessed—I’m not. It’s just a fact of life that in dealings with my boobs, right is right, and left is left, and never the twain shall meet.

I figured I should be totally honest—this was my journal, after all, like it or not.

But if I were looking for “a little romance” ... I do have some standards, one of which is that if a guy is focused in at chest level, I’m through with him from the get-go (and he’s probably through with me too). Just sayin’ ...

P.S. Who are you?

That last part just slipped off the tip of my permanent pen, so there was no getting rid of it now. No doubt it would disappear by morning.

Then again, maybe I’d get an answer.

Don’t get me wrong, I was still sensibly opposed to chalking this craziness up to a fairy godmother, but it didn’t escape me that viable, logical explanations weren’t exactly lining up. And Jane Austen? Gimme a break!

Beck expected me to buy into the idea that Jane Austen herself was dishing out kooky romantic advice in my living room, nearly two hundred years outside her realm of expertise? That this magical Austenesque journal had somehow slipped through the fingers of collectors, historians, literary buffs, and Mr. Darcy devotees to find its way into a little antiques shop in Austin, Texas?

That last bit gave me pause. Weirder things had very probably happened in this town, I just didn’t know about them. And honestly, that made a world of difference.

I shook my head, trying, I suppose, to make sure the crazy didn’t take hold. Tipping the journal closed, I let my fingers and eyes rove over the worn cover, the scuffed and barely stained pages, and the tarnished hardware. Suddenly remembering the inscription, I flipped open the cover and reread the careful script lettering.

“... I dedicate to You the following Miscellanious Morsels, convinced that if you seriously attend to them, You will derive from them very important Instructions, with regard to your Conduct in Life.”

Okay, maybe they had a little bit of a Jane Austen vibe. But even if I caved and allowed for the possibility that just maybe some sort of Jane Austen–inspired fairy godmother had taken my journal hostage, it didn’t change anything.

Okay, maybe that was delusional. Rephrase: I didn’t plan on taking any advice or falling under anyone’s spell. No matter how many times I’d lost myself in The Collected Works, or lusted after Darcy and Knightley on page and screen, that didn’t give Fairy Jane a right to interfere in my life. The fact that I owned a copy of Dating with Jane Austen as Your Wing Woman and had tried shoehorning more than one date into an Austen character type was immaterial. I hadn’t signed up for this. I wasn’t wired for this. And it was starting to show.

And yet, even imagining the possibility that the voice in the journal belonged to Jane Austen had gone a long way toward vanquishing my B-movie fears. I felt like I could treat the situation more like a weird mystery—or a funky BBC adaptation. The ominous feeling had dissipated slightly, to be replaced by a sense of doubtful wonder.

Quite honestly, I could have used a little magical interference in my relationship with Ethan. I would have fought it tooth and nail on principle, but if I’d somehow been railroaded into submission, it could have had its advantages. By the time I’d pegged Ethan for a Willoughby—thoroughly too good to be true—he’d pegged me as obsessive-compulsive and we were done. All those plans, wasted ...

I shook myself free of thoughts of Ethan once again and drummed my fingers on the cover of the journal, certain this was not the same sort of situation at all. Ethan hadn’t been hand-picked by a journal, and our relationship hadn’t been strong-armed into submission—I’d picked him and made a mistake. It wasn’t like I was all out of chances—it was still my choice, and I wasn’t giving in to magic or a legendary reputation.

Had I really let go of logic in favor of a fairy tale? Was I just willing to accept that I’d somehow stumbled over a fairy godmother, and this was the sum total of our relationship—cryptic, mildly offensive communications regarding my profoundly unromantic life? Seriously, where were the perks that typically came with fairy godmothers? A prearranged wave of the wand here or there, and I might be able to get on board—after a requisite freak-out period. But this? This was sucker-punching me when I was already down for the count. It was bad enough that my Plan was under fire, but by magic? Fairies? That was just cruel and unusual.

I carted the journal down the hall to my room, with a vague plan of keeping an eye on it while keeping it away from my bookshelf and any questionable influences.

Five minutes later, I’d crawled into bed in a T-shirt and boxers, my toes curled up in garishly purple chenille socks and the journal clutched in my right hand.

I closed my eyes and tried to relax, tried to pretend it was any other normal Friday.

That little exercise proved an utter impossibility. My very limited imagination was already under a huge amount of strain, and I worried if I pushed it much more I might crack under the pressure.

So I gave in a little. Settled against the propped pillows, my bedside lamp glowing golden, I tried to imagine an enchanted world where fairy godmothers existed with magic wands and fairy dust up their sleeves. Brownies were the solid, chocolaty base of the food pyramid, my A-cups overfloweth, and roaches worked like Roombas. I felt my lips curling into a smile as I imagined the impossible, but that entire impossible world disappeared in an instant as my eyes flashed open, and I remembered that it wasn’t the imagining but the believing that got you into trouble.