She glanced at him. He was smiling. She smiled back.
“Frankly, my work with my stubborn, ungrateful, difficult student has been the least stressful part of my week. It’s probably been the best part of my week.”
As soon as that was out of her mouth, Izzy felt embarrassed that she’d said it. It felt too honest, too earnest, to tell Beau how much she’d enjoyed working with him, to even hint at how strangely peaceful and happy she’d felt during their hours in the library together, how she’d started to look forward to it every morning when she woke up.
He pulled the cork out of the wine bottle and poured her a glass.
“Mine too,” he said, quietly.
She looked up at him, and their eyes met. This time, she looked away.
“If I was the least stressful part of your week,” he said, in a different voice, “your job is even harder than I thought. What else is stressing you out?” He sat down at the other end of the couch.
Izzy took a sip of her wine. She probably shouldn’t complain to Beau about her job. He was one of Marta’s authors, after all.
“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to,” he said, after a few moments of silence. “But you don’t have to worry about me going back to your boss, or anything, about what you tell me.” He waved his hand in a circle in the air. “This room is sacrosanct. Nothing gets out of it.”
She smiled at him. “Oh, well, if that’s the case.” The smile dropped from her lips and she sighed. “Work hasn’t been the easiest, this week. I’ve had to deal with a handful of Marta’s most difficult authors—” Beau made a face when she said that, and she shook her head. “No, you’re nowhere even close to the top of that ranking, trust me. You just didn’t respond to emails, which, yes, was stressful, but all these people DO is email me. Three of them have books coming out in the fall, and it’s just about six months before their releases, which somehow set off some sort of timer in them to start panicking and email me every day before I even log on to complain about anything possible. Their covers—which were all finalized months ago—their copy editors, the number of advance copies they’ll get, why they’ve never gotten a New York Times review when their friend gets New York Times reviews for every book, even the number of pages their book is. That’s an actual email I got this week. The book apparently ends in an unlucky number for her, and she wants it changed.”
Izzy took another sip of wine. “And then”—she let out a sigh—“there’s this guy I work with—”
Beau whistled, and she laughed.
“No, it’s not like that at all. He used to have my job, and he got promoted. He’s given me lots of advice in the past, which at first I was grateful for, but lately…it’s been sort of getting on my nerves.”
Beau poured more wine in her glass. “That sounds frustrating,” he said.
She was glad he’d just listened, without interrupting her with questions, or offering her advice.
“It is frustrating,” she said. She tried to shake that off. “Anyway. I’m glad for Friday, and wine, and Michaela’s lasagna.”
He lifted his glass to her. “I’ll toast to all those things.”
Speaking of the lasagna, why was she talking so much when it was sitting here in front of her, smelling so good? She took a bite and sighed in contentment.
“Ready for this?”
Izzy jumped. Beau was looking at her, the remote in his hand. Right, the show.
“Oh. Yeah, definitely.”
They watched one episode, tucked into their opposite corners of the couch. When Izzy got toward the bottom of her wineglass, she picked up the bottle and raised an eyebrow at Beau.
“I can’t even believe you have to ask,” he said as he held out his glass.
“It was more of a rhetorical question,” she said.
When the episode was over, Beau stood up and picked up the tray. Was he tired of this already? She’d sort of assumed they’d be watching more than one episode.
“I’m getting more lasagna, want some?” he asked.
She smiled, relieved. “I hope that was a rhetorical question,” she said.
He picked up her plate. “Absolutely.”
After the next episode, they both stood up. Izzy picked up her plate and wineglass, but Beau was empty-handed.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “I think I’m heading to bed.”
He turned off the TV. “Yeah, me too.”