She Poured Out Her Heart by Jean Thompson Page A

came over he sat hunched in front of the computer, searching for one more clue, one more advantage that might help him calculate his future. She found herself looking at him critically, not even liking him very much at such times.
    That was just as well; she was clearly an interim girlfriend, a convenience. Someone to keep him company in his occasional off-hours, beforehe picked up stakes and headed off to his triumphant future. He didn’t want to stay in Chicago, he said, which Jane took to mean, he didn’t want to stay with her. And why would he? He was on the fast track. He would end up with some Highland Park princess, one of those shiny-haired, high-powered girls who had been smiling nonstop since the eighth grade. Jane would turn into another line in his personal résumé: the one who hung around blood banks.
    Jane asked him if he wanted her there when he got the residency news, and Eric said no, he wasn’t going to put her through that. He wanted to be able to break dishes and curse and sulk. Then he’d suck it up and call her. “You need to be more positive,” said Jane. She found it hard to remember her own last purely positive thought. “You’re going to be just fine.”
    â€œYeah, it’s all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.”
    He was impossible. “Bye,” she said. “Talk to you later.” She hung up. She thought it was unsurprising that Eric would not handle rejection well; he had hardly ever been rejected.
    She waited to hear from him, feeling both nervous and deadened, as if everything reached her through a layer of cotton padding. The phone rang and she picked it up. “How do you feel about Atlanta?” Eric’s voice said in her ear.
    She didn’t feel anything about Atlanta. He sounded excited. “What happened?”
    â€œEmory. They aren’t top ranked in cardio, I might have to go somewhere else for a fellowship, but they were pretty high up on my list.”
    â€œCongratulations,” Jane said. She was happy for him, in a sad way. “I told you it would work out.”
    â€œListen, I need to hang out with some of the guys for a while, then let’s go for dinner. I’m going to make a reservation someplace killer.”
    â€œSure,” Jane said, funereally. “That would be great.”
    â€œOh man. What’s that thing they say, the weight of the world . . .”
    â€œThe weight of the world has lifted from you.”
    â€œThat’s it. Seven o’clock, OK?”
    The weight of the world had been transferred over to Jane. It felt about like she expected. She reminded herself of all the things she did not care for about him. His sense of humor could be juvenile. He had a terrible singing voice and never missed a chance to sing. He clearly shared everyone’s high opinion of himself.
    Just for spite, Jane took extra care with how she looked. She had grown her hair out long enough to pull up in a pouf. She chose a black dress that, when properly engineered and arranged, gave her some cleavage. She was surprised at how good she looked, once she got past her usual rituals of making critical expressions in the mirror. She thought she benefitted from the kind of makeup that allowed you to draw an entirely different face over your own.
    â€œWow, you look amazing,” Eric said when he arrived. He kissed her, she kissed back. He’d dressed up too, in a jacket and tie, shaved and damped down his curls. Even so, a residue of exhaustion showed in his face, in the gray skin beneath his eyes. She felt sorry for him, in spite of her own sense of dreary grievance. He’d been through a hard few weeks, and plenty of hard weeks and months and years before that, so much work, finally paying off. She wouldn’t spoil things for him. She would be good company, happy for him. Go through the motions. It wasn’t as if anyone ever noticed the difference.
    They went to a restaurant in