Chapter Twelve

It's finally midterm week.

It's been nearly a decade since I took a midterm as a student, yet I still find myself tucking my shaking hands into my pants pockets as I walk into the lecture hall. Maeve and I haven't talked since I sent her the picture of Eustace four days ago. We're halfway through the semester, eight more classes left, and I'm just starting to feel like Maeve and I may finally be in sync. Have I already ruined it? Are we going back to a tense truce?

Maeve's sitting in her usual spot in the first row, laptop out, typing furiously.

I consider, for an embarrassing second, letting her go on typing. But no, I want to see the midterms before lecture starts, and she's the one who has them.

So I plop down next to her, setting my bag on the empty seat next to me.

"Good rest of your weekend?" I ask.

Maeve tucks a hair behind her ear, eyes on her screen. My muscles tense, ready, impossibly, for Old Maeve to reemerge. "I wish I could say that, but I pumped out a whole chapter on the monster bisexual and fell asleep on my couch. Sorry about not saying more about Eustace; he looked beautiful after his bath."

She closes her laptop and turns to me.

I unclench my jaw. "Oh, the life of the tortured genius."

She smiles. "Hardly." There's a long pause, her gaze on me, trying to figure me out.

"How was—?" she says right as I blurt out, "Can I see the midterm?"

Recognition flickers across Maeve's face. "Right. Ty has the hard copies and should be by any minute."

So we're back in our space alone, no business to get done until everyone arrives.

"It was really nice hanging out with you," I say. "Your dissertation made me so curious about you, and I feel like a lot connected. I love your lecture pieces, but it was nice just hearing you talk."

Maeve blushes maybe half as hard as I do, my heart suddenly thundering. "That's good to hear. I thought for sure I was just boring you rambling about Kimberly Peirce."

I laugh. "You can't bore me with fringe nineties movie talk."

She gives a half-hearted chuckle. "You'd be amazed at how many academics act like it's pulling teeth anytime you try to get them to talk about anything they're passionate about. I think I've scared off dozens of colleagues that way." She forms her mouth into a thin line. "They were a little too neurotypical, y'know?"

I glance at the door, thinking of how Ty talks about Maeve. I'll tuck the neurotypical comment away in my mental notes. "I thought you and Ty were friends."

She blows air out her lips. "We're around the same age, but it doesn't go beyond friendly colleagues. I think I forgot how to make friends after undergrad." She really seeks out my eye contact. "Not like you and Charlie."

After undergrad. As in, after she got out of that terrible relationship. My heart pangs. "If it's any consolation, I've made great friends in adulthood too. My director friend Mason and I connected because she wanted someone to go Twilight Zone mini golfing with her in Vegas, then we ended up talking about childhood experiences in Vegas, and then we went to this silly male strip act that was playing in the same building. You start with mutual interests, move into asking them about their feelings on life, repeat." I glance at the door, which is still miraculously shut. "Ask Ty to go to a screening for a film he's studying. Kinda professional, kinda friendly, shows you know and care about his life." I smirk. "Maybe go to the New Bev since that's the only proper way to watch movies?"

Maeve, thank god, laughs. "I wish that was just a pretentious thing. Try explaining to anyone you get sensory overload watching a movie in a theater with people talking and looking at their phones."

And right as I'm about to reply, the doors open and Ty comes running in with a stack of packets. "Got 'em! God, sorry, the copy machine was being a bitch!"

The students start filing in right after him, swarming Maeve like the intellectual celebrity she is. Meanwhile, I take a peek at the questions on the midterm.

Define diegesis and how it informs the narrative in any of the films discussed in the first half of the semester.

When historical events are incorporated into the world of a musical, such as the Holocaust inCabaret, does the inclusion of music act as an emotional buffer for the audience? Why or why not?

Do musical numbers feel more natural within the context of animated films such as Beauty and the Beast? Why or why not?

Did the change to the more optimistic ending support or hinderLittle Shop of Horrors' anti-capitalist message?

The Rocky Horror Picture Show derives meaning from both the content of the film and the culture surrounding midnight showings. Select one to two scenes from the film and discuss an interpretation of the scene in a vacuum and then how selected audience callbacks change or inform that meaning.

Maeve adjusted the wording, but she kept my question.

And she looks at me, really looks at me, as we go over the questions with the class.

Maybe something really did shift over the weekend. But what do I do with this?

I don't know. All I gather as the students file out after our shortened class is that I want to keep talking to her. To hear about her struggle making friends and about the chapter she's going to write in her book tonight. To go to a quiet movie theater with her. Me masturbating to her and her telling me she masturbates to women be damned. I'm almost feeling bold enough to ask if she'd see something like The Handmaiden with me, despite how inappropriate that would be.

I may not be able to ask Maeve to a movie, but we could at least grab coffee after this. Maybe redeem Literatea.

"So I'd err on writing more than less," I finish explaining to Cory as the last of the students head out.

"Thanks, Professor Sullivan," Cory says.

Before the semester ends, I'm going to need to offer her a one-on-one industry-coffee-type meeting. If she wants it, I'd love to help out such a bright soul in whatever way I can.

As soon as Cory leaves, I scan the room for Maeve so I can ask about that coffee. Without all the students, Ty, and the folks operating the projector, the huge classroom feels tiny. I know she's busy, but I want to keep up the momentum. I feel grounded when I'm with her, and I don't want it to stop. I want to see how much more I can learn about us, what she'll pull out of me. She's made it clear she feels the same way.

"Hey," I say, approaching her as she packs up. "Do you want to grab coffee after this?"

She looks up. "I would, but I gotta get ahead on my chapter tonight. See you next week, though?"

And with that, she leaves me alone. The last person in the lecture hall.

I'm an actress.

If I were going to be a real dickhead about it, I could add Academy Award–winning to qualify that, just like they do in trailers for my movies.

But today my profession has one purpose: getting me through this Phantom of the Opera lecture without staring at Maeve, without interpreting every last twitch of her lips, every single time she tucks a hair behind her ears.

After the midterm coffee rejection, I let Maeve be. We exchanged a few emails in the lead-up to this week, revising the lecture; she told me to take the lead, and here we are. It's only been seven days, but the cavern I feel like I somehow dug has made each hour feel like an eternity. And now I have to get through Phantom of the Opera—the quintessential tortured preteen theater girl movie—and not look at the woman who told me she touches herself thinking about women. Plus, as much as I'm feeling better about Sundance and I'm eager to keep working with Maeve on honing my teaching skills, I'm exhausted.

But once Maeve collects the students' midterms, she leaves the floor to me with a smile.

I'm an actress, so I act. I keep my recap of Andrew Lloyd Webber's life snarky and informative, involve the ever more eager students as much as possible, and explain cinematography and directing while leaving enough time for Maeve to discuss the history of opera. Maeve and I are in sync in the only language we know how to be in sync in, but the fact that I don't know if she'll scurry off again when lecture ends leaves a hollow feeling in my chest.

So as soon as class does end, I turn off. My heartbeat slows, but I still struggle to get breath into my lungs as students file out of the room. Thank god, none of the students—not even Jamie or Cory—stick around to ask questions or chat. In fact, the next class is already entering the room. I can envision the rest of the day—pajamas, a mind-numbing video game, then Nobu tonight, where I'll ask Mason to hook me up with a rando. I'll wash Maeve and the friendship that never was out of my brain even if it hurts.

And then Maeve's standing in front of me in a navy blazer and ankle pants (Fuck you Charlie, these were on trend). She's smiling again, which is curious.

"Do you have plans tonight?" she asks.

The answer is a clear-cut yes, but I can't get the words out. "Uh—"

She grabs my wrist, nearly knocking me out of my skin. "Because you don't now."

I swear Maeve's touch is like a shot of B12. My skin's electrified, burning where her hand touched me over a generic black blazer I found in the back of my closet. And as Maeve gently tugs me out of the room, I desperately want my blazer to creep up. I want to feel that burning touch right on my skin. We leave the crowds of students in the building and head out into a punch of cold on this bizarrely chilly day, and then we're back inside, in her office.

"Should I ask what we're doing?" I say.

At this point, I've had three weeks of Nice Maeve, maybe five if I counted the weeks where she was awkwardly ignoring me as nice rather than mean. The nice shift has slowly overtaken the four weeks of Asshole Maeve, but I don't trust the change yet.

"Almost," Maeve says. She checks her phone and smiles.

She takes us up the elevator and stops dead in front of a Postmates guy.

"Maeve?" he asks, monotone.

Maeve gives him a quick smile of confirmation and plucks a takeout bag out of his hands. The Postmates guy stares at me as we walk back to her office. The sun's starting to go down, bathing the room in an orangey light. It's not quite late enough for us to turn on the lights, but it'll be that time soon enough.

Maeve sets her things down and places the bag onto her cleared desk. She unwraps whatever's inside like she's a magician. I bite my inner cheek.

"So," Maeve says, "I had to watch a ton of your interviews, but I finally figured out your favorite food." She pulls out three little circular tins. Plucks the lids off all of them. "Or at least something you like when you're not on a diet."

Skillet cookies.

A lump forms in my throat, and I struggle for breath as I cover my mouth with my hands. Why would she—?

"I knew you were upset on Saturday at your house, but I didn't think it was my place to push myself in," Maeve says. "But I've been thinking about it nonstop since then. I should've done this when you asked about coffee last week, but I…" She pauses. "I was nervous I'd cross some boundary like I did last time. But it must've looked like I hated you, which I don't. So…can I make up for it with a bit of kindness?" She pauses again, staring at me. Arms stiff at her sides. "Are you okay with hugging?"

It's not funny, but I find myself coughing out a laugh as I say, "Yes."

She hugs me tight, close. Our bodies bury into each other; I can feel her heartbeat through our suits. She fans her fingers out over my shoulder blades and for just a moment, I give up and rest my chin on her shoulder.

"My directorial debut didn't get into Sundance," I mutter. "That's all it was about."

My directorial debut, the first story that sunk into my bones, the project I put thousands of hours into, that genuinely filled me with a sense of hope because I finally saw a representation of myself reflected back on the screen.

"I'm so sorry. I can't imagine how much that stings," she says as she pulls away. She claps her hands together. "Well, then consider these Fuck Sundance cookies."

I smile. Around Maeve, smiling is starting to feel like the most natural thing in the world.

She unpacks the three cookies, speaking as she goes. "I got their trio deal: cookies and cream for you, salted caramel for me, and figured a chocolate chip would be a neutral third. But I'm not sick, and I'm happy to share."

I take a seat on the couch and accept a plastic spoon from Maeve. The first bite of the Oreo skillet cookie tastes insane. It's sweet, it's heavy as hell, and eating it feels like sitting by a fireplace in the winter with friends. It sparks visceral feelings of comfort and happiness. I catch Maeve as she takes her first bite of the salted caramel—she's careful, making sure to get ice cream on the spoon, dainty in how she eats. She goes back after swallowing to clean the spoon before scooping up another bite.

We don't really speak for a while. Then again, the cookies aren't that big. I switch over to the chocolate chip one before finishing my own. Our spoons clink as we each dig out a bit. Even that minuscule impact ricochets back at me and leaves my muscles tense.

"So, while I have your attention, there was another purpose to this," Maeve says.

She deliberately creates a moat around the middle of her salted caramel cookie. Strategy. I like it.

"We ought to grade a few midterms together to make sure we're consistent in our interpretations, and, I'll admit, I'd love you to talk me through a bit of your plan with Rocketman. I know that class isn't for a few weeks, but I'd like to adjust my lecture to match yours better. You're the expert on anything made after 2010, and I need to get a sense of what you're thinking."

I leave the core of my own cookie. "Well, it's prime traffic time anyway, so might as well stay late." The thought has my heart pounding. I'll keep an eye on the time for Nobu.

Maeve smiles. "Great." She looks back at her cookie, then flicks her gaze to me. "Do you want the last bite?"

She left me a core piece of her cookie? God, even that has my heart squeezing. I smile back. "Switch?"

But something makes me feel bold. I don't slide her cookie over to my side of the desk; I reach over into her space and dig up the last bite myself. She does the same almost at the same time, and then clinks her spoon with mine before retreating to her space. I know it's the cookie that tastes like salted caramel, but my insides shake a little imagining I'm tasting Maeve.

She tosses my empty tin into her trash and pulls out a stack of packets. She passes one to me, and I notice she's double-jointed: her pointer, middle, and ring fingers fold as she slides the packet my way. A pen lands on top.

"Let's grade maybe six or so, then decide what we'll give to Ty?" she says.

"Perfect."

I click my pen, and we get started.