My Oxford Year

My eyes fill.

Maggie releases a fresh sob.

William raises his glass again. “To Ella from Iowa.”

“Ohio,” Jamie whispers.

“Oh, bugger, to Ella from Ohio, then!”

Laughing, everyone choruses, “To Ella from Ohio!” and clinks glasses.

I nod at William. He nods back.

It’s a start.

Before he regains his seat, Maggie jumps up like a jack-in-the-box, blurting, “Sorry, can I just say—” She draws a shaky breath. She turns and looks down at Tom. “You’re an idiot.”

Tom’s still looking at me.

“Tom!”

He jumps. “Here!” Now he looks up at her.

Her face falls, suddenly sad, deflated. “I don’t have it in me. I simply cannot endure it, waiting for you to go through yet another one of your infatuations. I’m done.”

“But—but it’s you!” Tom stammers.

“I know, yes, it’s me,” she hisses, “never-good-enough, never-pretty-enough, never-one-of-your-propositions—” Tom opens his mouth to interrupt, but she keeps going. “No, I’m going to finish, because I’m done, I’m done always being patient, always there! Don’t you see, we could die tomorrow and we’d never—” Poor Maggie, realizing what she has just said, spins to Jamie and me. “Sorry! I just meant—”

“Keep going!” I cry.

She spins back to Tom, but before she can speak, Tom says, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“What?”

“Why are you saying ‘what’?”

“Because I said yes and then you said ‘what.’”

“Why?!”

I catch Jamie’s eye and mutter, “Third base!” He gets the Abbott and Costello reference and we bite back a much-needed laugh.

Tom is sputtering. “Why? Because, okay, okay, here it is: Maggie?”

“What!”

Tom’s hand shoots out. “That wasn’t Maggie question mark. Well, it was, but it was meant to be Maggie full stop.”

“All right, yes?”

Tom squeezes his eyes closed like he’s doing calculus in his head. “Shh! Don’t speak! I really must concentrate.”

“Tom, this is—”

He completely melts down. “No! Stop!” He’s beginning to hyperventilate. “Just let me—gather all of my—it’s just, you see . . . All right, going back, just a bit, you know, to what you just said, the thing about never-pretty-enough, and never-whatever-enough and never—what was it? Propositioned!—don’t you see, Mags? From the beginning it was . . . it was you, wasn’t it? It was always you, but I couldn’t have, I wouldn’t have, I mean, I would have, if you’d wanted, of course I would have, but if you hadn’t wanted to, with me, I would have—well, I couldn’t have taken it, I couldn’t, I wouldn’t . . . oh, bugger and blast!” Tom stands. He takes her face in his hands, leans down, and kisses her. Just lays one on her. Arms hanging at her sides, Maggie melts, Tom holds her up by her head for a moment. Then she springs to life, grabbing his shoulders and leaping up, wrapping her legs around his waist.

We stare at them.

Antonia stands, smooths her dress, folds her napkin. “Cake in the library?”

AFTER ANOTHER HOUR of festivities, of cake and coffee and Charlie opening my present of Scotch for another toast, we stumble (some of us more than others) upstairs for the night. I kiss both Antonia’s and William’s cheeks and thank them, without reservation, for the best birthday I’ve ever had. As we walk down the hallway, we peel off into our traditional, separate rooms. I take the opportunity to shower quickly and brush my teeth. There’s a robe in the bathroom and I slip it on. I toe into the slippers Antonia provided.

I can’t do anything about the smile that seems etched on my face.

I crack the door open. The coast is clear. I slip out into the hallway, closing the door behind me as quietly as I can. When I turn around, I see the door next to Jamie’s room open. Maggie shuffles out. I smile. She turns, sees me, startles, and smiles guiltily back.

We meet in the middle of the hall, our shared look like two knowing sorority girls. Then her brow furrows, her smile turns sad, and she pulls me into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

I manage to whisper back, “Not tonight. We have nothing to be sorry about tonight. Okay?” I take her hands in mine, pull back, and look into her swimming eyes. “I couldn’t be happier. For both of us.”

I can tell she’s excited but nervous. Possibly even worried. As she probably should be. Time for some sisterly advice. “Remember,” I whisper. “It’s Tom. Be literal and explicit. And patient. Also, don’t make any sudden moves.” She chuckles and takes a breath, dropping my hands. When she walks past me, I slap her ass. Stifling a laugh, she slips into the room.

My turn. I quietly open Jamie’s door and close it behind me.

It’s dark. The light from the hallway creeps through the bottom of the door, only illuminating about three feet in front of me. I have no idea where the bed is.

“Jamie?” I whisper, taking tiny steps forward.

“Who goes there?” he growls playfully, his voice coming from the left.

I continue forward, keeping my hands in front of me as I reply, “’Tis none but I, sir.”

“Ella.” He hates it when I do my Dickensian orphan accent. Which only makes me do it more.

“Wot, sir? Does I displease you? Evuh so sorry, guv’nuh.”

He groans as my eyes begin to adjust to the moonlight slipping in through the curtains. I can see him lying in bed, turned toward me, propped up on an elbow. Waiting. The sexiest silhouette in the history of light and dark.

I stop walking when I get to the side of his bed. I look down at myself, illuminated by the ambient silver light. I untie the terry-cloth belt around my waist and drop the robe.

It’s an echo of our first morning-after, when I dropped the sheet just to be shocking. I’m not even sure he remembers this until he says throatily, “The last time you did that you were telling me how much you didn’t want a relationship.”

“Oops.”

He leans forward and snakes his hand around my wrist, tugging me onto his high, plush, inviting bed. I giggle. “Oi, guv! I likes me a bit of a rough tumble ev’ry now an’ den, but—” Jamie puts his finger to my lips and I go quiet. I feel his encroaching heat as his other hand slips up and over my shoulder, grasping the side of my neck. His thumb trawls up my throat, stroking the underside of my jaw.

I liquefy.

“Haud yer weesht, lass,” Jamie murmurs in the flat-out sexiest Scottish accent I’ve ever heard. His breath warms my throat and his lips find the hollow at the base. “Yer in Scotland now, ye ken?” His tongue flicks out, sending a spike of need shooting through me. “None of that sassenach glaiber here.”

I can’t take it anymore. I haul his face up and kiss him, pushing myself into the heat of his bare chest. He’s so warm, I want to burrow in there and hibernate.

But, later. Right now I have other plans.

Jamie’s breathing has quickened and shallowed, there’s a slight rasp. Even though his hands are kneading my hips eagerly, I tip away and ask, “Feeling up for this?” Wordlessly, he brings our mouths back together, throws a long leg over my hip, and slides me toward him, pulling our lower halves flush and answering my question.