MAYBE TOMORROW ... gilmore girls

chapter two

September 2000

61 South Fairway Drive, Hartford 

18:25

IT WAS always easier with Harrison.

The house never felt so big when I had him beside me. My arm linked through his, fingers curling over his bicep, squeezing so hard I'm pretty sure I left bruises. He always wore long sleeves so I never actually saw any hand marks, always too cold in a house that was warmed solely by fireplaces he couldn't stand the smell of. He always wanted to install central heating. I should have let him.

I raise my wrist to catch sight of the time on my watch. Six twenty-five. Perfect timing. Or, I'm already five minutes late. Early is on time. On-time is late. Pretty sure my father said that to me once. How old must I have been? Seven? Eight? I'd been coming in to dinner from playing with the next-door neighbours, perfectly on time, forgetting all about the mud trailing in behind me. I've been early to everything ever since.

I know when I ring that doorbell, my mother is going to swing open that door with the hinges that never squeak despite its age and I'm going to have to face her. Like, actually speak to her. And I know, somehow, that all she's going to want to talk about is Harrison. And I'm going to spend the whole of dinner missing him because at least he'd actually be on my side.

I can't keep doing this.

Pressing the doorbell is the hardest thing I've ever done.

It doesn't take long for the door to open and I step into the in-between. My mother helps me slip off my long leather coat, her nose curling up at the sight of it. It's not something she would choose, therefore, it's bad. I think, therefore, I am – that kind of thing. Soon, it is her eyes that are unstripping me, flaying my skin from my bones, figuring out exactly where in my DNA the problems started.

I wish I knew too.

"Your father is through here."

Hello to you too. No worries, I've been perfectly fine all by myself. No, I don't need any help with anything.

She'd just scoff and keep leading me through to the sitting room. She asks about work as she sits me down across from my father, but when I talk about my new classes, I can tell she's not listening. Not when she's too busy picking a stray piece of lint from the shoulder of my white turtleneck. I can almost imagine the disgust on her face. But she turns away to pour champagne before I can spot it.

When did it all start becoming so obvious?

"You're working hard?" my father asks. He doesn't look up from his newspaper. Nobody is exciting enough to make him put it down.

"Yes." I let my hands run over my pencil skirt. Who's idea was it to wear this? Every breath I suck in makes it tighter, and tighter, and tighter. Soon, I'll spill right out of it. Like ink bursting from a pen. "And my students too. All of them work so hard. Paris Geller – you know the Geller's, right? – somehow got hold of my syllabus during the summer and has been studying in preparation. She probably knows more about Riemannian geometry than some guy called Bernhard." I laugh softly at my own joke. Sitting in a room with mathematicians would have at least offered me a laugh, even if it was just out of courtesy. Sitting with my parents, however, offers me stone-cold silence.

My mother hands over my champagne. "She is a very smart girl." I focus on the swirling clear liquid. I don't even think I like champagne, but it's too late now, she's already handed it over and now I have to drink it.