Page 13 of Love, Academically

Foofaraw (noun) foo·fa·raw

A great fuss or disturbance about something very insignificant

Rhys

The film was terrible, but the sofa was comfortable, and he was full after the fish and chips and really didn’t want to move.

Besides, the least she could do was let him sit in her warm, cosy house, which was filled to the brim with fabric scraps, an old typewriter with half the keys missing and balls and balls and balls of wool.

Why someone would need so much wool, he did not know.

It wasn’t just that though, it was the haphazard stacks of books everywhere, the overflowing bookshelves, the open paperbacks face down on every surface.

How many books was she actually reading?

Some piles were so precarious that they were likely to collapse and crush whatever happened to be underneath them at any moment.

At least the kitchen was clean and tidy.

The living room, however, was lived in. Full of Lila Cartwright.

By the time Richard Gere courageously abandoned his attempt to break the obstacle course record, Rhys was completely done with An Officer and a Gentleman.

“Is there something else we could watch?” he asked.

“You wound me, Rhys! Wound me!” Lila threw dramatic arm across her eyes. “Here.” She tossed the remote control on his lap. “You choose. Not the news.”

He looked at the remote control in his hand, the power she so easily relinquished to him. She had wanted to watch this film and he was a guest. Jason had probably been all over their TV choices, forcing her to watch fucking douchey stuff like Man Versus Machine or How It’s Made.

“No, it’s fine. I’m actually getting into it,” he said, putting the remote control between them.

That knowing smile again from her.

“You’re lying, but I appreciate it. Thank you.”

How did she know he was lying? Was it so completely out of character that he would like this ridiculous storyline and the stilted acting? Or did he have a tell?

“It’s getting late. I should go,” he said, making no attempt to move.

“After the film, though.” She bumped him with her shoulder, teasing. “Because you’re into it and desperately need to know how it ends, yeah?”

He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the little tug on his lips. The two-seater sofa suddenly seemed a lot smaller than it did five minutes ago.

“Besides,” she continued, “I’ve told you way too much about me, you’ve seen me cry and you’re in my house. It’s your turn.”

What could she possibly want to know about him? He was particular, he was Welsh, he liked the news, and he liked everything in its place. But she knew all of that already.

Lila’s expectant blue eyes stared back at him.

“Fine. What do you want to know?”

She clapped her hands like an excited child and shuffled on the sofa to face him better, adjusting her ankle on the ottoman.

“What do I want to know? Hmm.” Her eyes lit up as she settled on a question. “Okay, raspberry ripple or caramel swirl?”

“What?” He blinked. “Uh, raspberry ripple, I guess.”

“Correct!” she beamed.

“Why are you asking me about ice cream?”

Was there some kind of ice cream social etiquette that he’d missed?

“Do you want to talk about your family and why you’ve hidden your real name from everyone at work?” Lila asked, tilting her head accusingly. He scowled and clenched his fists. “Did you always want to be a historian?”

That was all too entwined with his family, and Rhys hadn’t mentally prepared himself to explain everything just yet. It was just all so difficult, so stressful, so not what he wanted to be talking about in the comfort of Lila Cartwright’s sofa.

“Um…” he started.

“Okay, an easier one, although I thought that one was easy enough,” she said under her breath. “Kickboxing. Tell me about kickboxing.”

Rhys looked up at her apologetically.

“I will tell you about my family before we go for dinner. I just wasn’t prepared for it to be today.”

Rhys was amazed at the variety of her smiles, because this one was understanding and sympathetic. Ah, that was a revelation. That smile must be part of the reason students were always in her office. That, and the cookies.

“That’s okay, there’s plenty of time. Isn’t there? When actually is it?”

Rhys nodded. “Yeah, not for a while yet.”

“Okay, good. So, kickboxing?” Lila prompted.

“Kickboxing,” Rhys echoed, and smiled at her.

She was remarkably easy to talk to. She understood that he didn’t want to talk about certain things, couldn’t talk about certain things, and she didn’t push.

It seemed like she was interested in him for him, not for his money or name.

And that was rare. “Dan persuaded me to go a few years ago. Work out some of my, what did he call it, oh yeah, ‘massive anger issues’.”

“You?” she said lightly. “Anger issues? I would never have guessed.”

“Miss Cartwright, are you making fun of me?” He scowled at her. He guessed that she was, but sometimes it was best to check rather than make assumptions.

“Yes, Rhys Aubrey, I am.”

“Oh.” Fair enough, asked and answered. “Yes, apparently I have ‘massive anger issues’.”

“Did it help?”

Her blonde hair was escaping around her face, curling over her collarbone. It looked like silk.

“So much.”

It really had. That two hours twice a week had got rid of his pent-up energy and allowed him to release his anger in a healthy-ish way. He also enjoyed beating up Dan.

Her plump pink lips formed a shocked O.

“Wait, so you used to be more angry?”

“I know you’re taking the piss now.” He narrowed his eyes at her, but it didn’t have the full force of his usual glare. Not that he wanted to scare her. No, he was enjoying answering her questions.

“What else? Tell me more.” She flung her head back against the sofa theatrically and he suppressed a smile.

Overly dramatic was something he would have to add to the list of reasons why Lila Cartwright shouldn’t have got the job as Departmental Coordinator.

Although, it was becoming less and less pertinent.

“Um…” What else was there? “Oh, I’m applying for a Fellowship at the Royal Historical Association.”

Rhys felt his face heat. It was a big deal and if (no, when) he failed, he didn’t want people knowing and laughing at him behind his back.

“Shut up!” She sat upright and slapped him on the arm. “You are not! That’s amazing, Rhys!”

He smiled shyly at the exclamation marks in her voice. He hadn’t even told Dan.

“When is the application due in? How does it work? Tell me all.” Lila sat forward, Richard Gere completely forgotten.

“A few weeks yet. My statement is nearly ready.” He hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll get it. It’s a bit of a long shot.”

“What? Why?” Lila said, her eyebrows drawing in.

“I don’t think I have the body of work needed. I came to academia relatively late, and I’ve not had the time.”

God, that felt good. It was a boulder that had rolled off his shoulders.

Just that verbalisation that he might not get it, that he might fail, felt so good to say.

It didn’t quite get rid of the nagging, twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he thought of having to explain it to his father, but it released some of the tension in his shoulders.

“But you’ve got to be invited to apply, haven’t you?”

Rhys gave her a searching look. “How do you know that?”

“Uh, I think you’ll find I know lots of things, Rhys,” she said primly. “Is your coming to academia later than others something that we’re not going to talk about right now?” she asked astutely.

“It’s just that I haven’t really talked about it with anyone before.

I’m not sure how to,” he said, honestly.

What was it about Lila that drew everything out of him?

“I just need to process it and then I will work out how to tell you, because you should know before you meet my family. It’s not actually a major thing, it’s just hard for me to—” He paused. “I’m quite a private person.”

“Okay.” She gave him a smile that set him at ease and turned back to the TV.

Easy. That was the right word. Lila was easy, comfortable. It was easy being in her space. There was no pressure to be anyone other than himself. She accepted him just as he was. He didn’t have to pretend, he didn’t have to talk. This was nice.

He should go home, but her house was so warm and homey and, he realised, he was actually quite enjoying himself. There was no expectation here.

Richard Gere had finally carried Deborah Winger through the factory floor, and now Rhys understood what Lila had meant when she asked him about a hat.

He turned to Lila to say that exact thing, but her eyes were closed, lashes resting against her pink cheeks, breathing deeply. She was fast asleep. He should leave, go back to his grey flat with its grey walls and hard sofa. He’d just check the news first.

Lila

“Put your arms around me. Come on, Lila, help me out a little,” Rhys said, his voice a groggy whisper on her cheek.

“What’s going on? What time is it?” Lila rubbed her hand across her forehead and put her arms around Rhys’s neck automatically. He worked his arms under her legs and lifted her from the sofa.

“It’s gone two. You fell asleep.” He paused sheepishly. “I fell asleep too.”

“What are you doing now? I’ll just sleep on the sofa,” she whined. It was comfortable, the blanket was soft and she was fine right there.

“The sofa isn’t big enough for you to sleep on, and you’ll have a sore neck when you wake up,” Rhys said, navigating the stairs so he didn’t bash her ankle.

Her eyes drifted closed again, her head lolling against his crumpled collar. He was comfortable and smelled of, well, Rhys.

“On the left,” she mumbled, her forehead falling against his stubbled jaw.

Lila heard the door swing open and Rhys cursed quietly when he kicked a stray shoe. He lowered her so she was sitting on the bed and unwrapped her arms from him.

Snapping on the bedside light, he said, “I’ll get your painkillers.”