The Trouble With Flirting Read Free

then?” I say jovially.
    She just sighs. “Time and gravity get us all in the end,” she says darkly. “Time and gravity.”
    Amelia shows me the costume and prop archives under the theater, and then she takes me to her apartment. We drive, since she picked me up at the airport, but she says she usually walks, because her apartment is so close to campus. She works there year-round, running the costume part of the theater department (she also teaches a course on costume design and one on costume history), and rents the place from a building Mansfield owns. It’s in a beautiful, expensive neighborhood—she tells me she couldn’t afford to live there if the college didn’t subsidize it. There are several entryways into herbuilding, and a fenced-off area with a postage-stamp-sized pool and a cheap aboveground hot tub that Amelia tells me she’s sure is a breeding ground for dangerous bacteria.
    The actual apartment is small but clean and neat. Her furniture is simple and generic, but every window has some kind of gorgeous curtain on it—all handmade by her, of course—and the sofa and chair pillows are wildly luxurious, covered with tassels, fringe, and buttons, like something out of a harem.
    Makes me wonder if somewhere inside Amelia there’s a romantic soul. You certainly wouldn’t know it to look at her in her white oxford shirt and cotton khakis.
    “You have your own room to sleep in, but there’s only one bathroom,” she tells me as she leads me around. “Please wipe down the sink after you use it. I can’t stand finding hairs lying around.”
    “I’ll try to remember,” I say. “It’s nice of you to let me stay here.”
    “I’m looking forward to the company.”
    She sounds as stiff as I do, and I wonder if she means it or not. My mom claimed this whole thing was Amelia’s idea, but now that I’m here, my presence seems to be making her uncomfortable.
    I unpack in the guest bedroom, which is small and clean like the rest of the apartment, while Amelia boils some penne pasta for dinner. She mixes it with some pesto from a jar, and heats up a box of frozen brussels sprouts to serve on the side.“Tomorrow the dining hall will be open, and you can eat as many meals there as you like,” she says as we sit down at her small table. “I’m sure you’d rather be with kids your own age.”
    “This is nice too,” I say, but of course she’s right. Plus . . . frozen brussels sprouts? On my first night there? Really?
    After dinner she turns on the TV and settles down with a cup of chamomile tea to watch House Hunters International .
    “I’d like to live in Europe for a while,” she says during a commercial break.
    “Why don’t you?” I ask.
    “Because life doesn’t work that way.”
    I really don’t know all that much about my aunt, other than that she’s older than my mother, and thinner and crabbier. Whenever she used to come visit us, William and I would try to keep our distance, because if we got too close, she would grab us by the arm and interrogate us about our studies and extracurriculars, an activity that would end with her shaking her head and pursing her lips in a way that suggested we weren’t performing up to her expectations.
    I know she was married once, a long time ago, before I was even born, but all Mom ever said about that was a flat “It didn’t work out.” As far as I know, Amelia hasn’t had a boyfriend since then. Of course, it’s possible she leads a much more exciting personal life than we’re aware of, but after spending today with her, I kind of doubt it.
    Which makes me feel tender toward her. Poor Aunt Amelia. Stuck in this small, plain apartment, sewing costumes for other people to wear all day long.
    So I say, “Hey, maybe someday you and I could take a trip to Europe together.”
    “And who do you think would pay for that?” she snaps in response. “Your mother? Me? We’re both barely getting by. Dreams are easy, Franny, but you can’t live on