Beneath the Night Tree by Nicole Baart Page B

face-to-face sort of a thing.” Though I couldn’t see him, I could imagine the smirk that graced Michael’s lips.
    “You’re kind of a jerk,” I told him.
    “You’re kind of quick to jump to conclusions.”
    I clutched the phone, pressed it to my forehead for a moment, and wished that I could wrap my arms around Michael instead of the small piece of plastic in my hand. “When do I get to see you?” I asked.
    “Well . . . I just started eight weeks of microbiology, and it’s pretty intense.”
    “Eight weeks? I can’t wait that long!”
    “What are you talking about? Our entire relationship has been long-distance.”
    “You don’t have to remind me. Holidays and summer break are like endless appetizers. I feel like I never get to eat a full meal.”
    “I’m a snack to you?” Michael snorted.
    “Bad analogy. But you know what I mean. We’ve never been together for more than a couple of weeks at a time.”
    “So eight weeks should feel like nothing. The syllabus eases up a little at the halfway point. I might be able to squeeze in a quick trip home then.”
    I worried my bottom lip, doing the mental gymnastics necessary to calculate if I could fit in a visit to Iowa City. It just didn’t seem plausible. I let go of a shallow breath. “Okay. Just make sure you grow some nice microorganisms for me.”
    “We’re dealing with bacterial meningitis and pathogens. You wouldn’t believe the—”
    “Too much info, Dr. House.”
    Michael laughed. “Okay, okay. I’ll see you soon.”
    I thought his definition of soon was a little loose, but I didn’t tell him so. “A month,” I declared, trying to put a time frame on it so I could start counting days.
    “A month,” he agreed. “But more likely two.” He sounded rueful, almost despondent, and my heart trembled at the realization that he hated the distance between us just as much as I did.
    “Fine,” I whispered. “Two.”
    We were silent for a moment, the only sound between us the measured exchange of our quiet breaths. As he breathed out, I breathed in. “Thank you,” I finally said. “For the flowers. They’re beautiful.”
    “I love you,” Michael told me.
    “Love you, too.”
    I clicked the phone shut, laid it on my desk, and stared at it as if it contained Michael’s secret. He had an idea. . . . What in the world could he be planning?
    But as much as I wanted to waste hours daydreaming about Michael, I simply didn’t have time to think about him. About us. Guilt at coming in to work late, and then spending my first five minutes on duty glued to the telephone, drove me into warp speed as I officially started my day. I was grateful that Mr. Durst came in at nine, and no one but Graham was around to suspect that I was doing anything other than work in my office.
    Moving the flowers to a side table, I plunged into my daily workload. I reconciled the sales receipts from the day before in record time, filled the final holes in the new September schedule, and made a disciplinary phone call to a sales clerk who continually showed up five to ten minutes after the start of her shift. She was contrite, and I was in a gracious mood, so I didn’t give her the tongue-lashing she deserved. Instead, I asked about her daughter’s first day of high school, and we commiserated as lonely mothers of independent children. It was a brief moment of connection, and when I hung up, I felt confident that she wouldn’t be late again.
    I took my lunch break with Graham and sent him to Subway with a twenty-dollar bill and instructions not to come back until he had purchased a feast worthy of his bon voyage party.
    “It’s Subway.” Graham’s sloped eyebrow assured me that there was no such feast to be found at the sandwich mecca.
    I shrugged. “Do what you can. I’ll uncork a bottle of our finest.”
    Although Graham laughed when he realized that our finest consisted of a $2.99 bottle of nonalcoholic cold duck, he seemed willing enough to go along