I apologise for the recent absence of updates. I had to take some time off from my Thorin/John centered writing, as I was finishing the launch of my site Rodhina. Please, have a look! It’ll feature my independent fantasy webserial and my art. Hope to see you there! And don’t forget to sign up for the newsletter to be notified of updates!
Dr T Series will now continue without interruptions and will be updated every Saturday.
The next day you do not bump into Phil. Neither do you see Dr Caulfield in the lab when you go there after your classes. There’re some internal emails waiting for you though. The first one’s from Maya congratulating you on the success of the presentation. It’s perfectly polite and even not too generic. Alrighty.
The second one is from Dr Yamazaki, cc’ed to all employees, who praises Dr John Thorington and Miss Wren Leary for ensuring the support of the Rivendell Institute. Alrighty again, you’ll take it, you aren’t too proud.
The third one informs the lab that Dr Thorington will be absent in the upcoming eight days from the lab – as if he ever comes here at all – since he is on his way to Tokyo for some important negotiations.
You reread it. And then again. Right, eight days. Tokyo. Piece of cake. It’s not like you need to see him every day. Or learn about the trip in a slightly more personalized way. You slam the laptop lid and lumber to the Arts library. Coffee, coffee, coffee…
Benedict murmurs from your pocket that you have a text.
I’ll bring you a red nagajuban 🙂 JT.
Blimey! Firstly, what the hell is this? He uses smileys! That’s just bloody wrong. And secondly, you need to google ‘nagajuban.’ Wait…
Are you supposed to take it as an adorable intimate joke – or an insult? Is he buying you geisha underwear?! Because this is just wrong and oppressive, and he can shove it up his… Anyway. And additionally, is he hinting you have loose morals and are pretty much a trollop? Or is he referring to you as an exquisite and educated young woman who can be compared to a geisha, who, and even you know that, are not prostitutes?!
Pity, they don’t sell booze here. You grab a cup, load it with the necessary amount of sugar and cream, and sink into a sofa. You’re sipping and then freeze. Did he say ‘a red nagajuban’? You go back to the Wikipedia page. Yep, geiko with little experience wear red or pink underkimonos. Tosser.
And the most disturbing question you are asking yourself: how much does he know about geishas in general? Suddenly your sexual exuberance this weekend loses half of its charm. Somehow you managed to forget whom were dealing with but now Phil’s voice sounds in you head… “My uncle only sleeps with some expensive escort”. And is intimately familiar with underkimono of geishas. And somehow managed all these years without any relationships but can make a woman come in two minutes. Literally.
And he is in Tokyo right now. The coffee suddenly tastes disgusting. You throw it out and go back to the lab. All you can do is work and not imagine him in a kimono, sipping sake, surrounded by immensely cultivated, ethereal women that can also probably perform such sexual acts that you clumsy tumble techniques would only cause condescending snorting.
Great, you made yourself fucking miserable.
You spend extra three hours after the workday in the lab. By the time you drag your sad arse out of it, most lights in the building are off. You’re turning around a corner on the way to the entrance door and bump into a body. You start apologising and then freeze with your mouth open.
You’re staring into the bright brown eyes of Jimmy, the postgrad Irishman from the Genetics, and the arsehole who broke your best friend’s heart. You feel your fist clenching, and you seriously consider altering his jawline, though let’s face it, it’s not bad, all masculine, going well with the thick black eyebrows.
“Wren, right?” What, is he actually fucking talking to you? You give him a death stare.
“Jimmy the Wanker I presume?” He blinks, then grins, and nods.
“And much more as well!” There’s something endlessly likable about him. Maybe he can keep his jawline.
You shake your head and start walking by, but he grabs your upper arm. Seriously?! You glare, and he lets go.
“Wren, can we talk for a mo?”
“No, we most definitely cannot.” You start walking, but he follows.
“Wren, wait…” Your name sounds funny in his accent. “How is Thea?”
You spin on your heels.
“No! No, Jimmy what’s your face! You didn’t just ask me how my glorious best friend – whom you offended and whom you do not even deserve to talk about – is! She’s great because she finally got rid of you!”
You know you are only partially angry at him, but venting is good.
You snarl and leave. Wanker.
Thankfully, Thea isn’t home, and you take a quick shower and climb under your blanket. You’re just going to sleep. You make yourself close your eyes and empty your head. No John, no geishas, no lab, no Maya… You repeat it like mantra and feel your lids getting heavier. No John, no Maya, no lab…
Doctor Who theme songs jerks you out of sleep and you grab the phone.
“Yes, yes, I’m listening. Yes?” You’re panting and sound panicked.
“Wren?” The velvet voice is caressing your name, and your heart, already beating frantically, practically jumps out of your chest.
“John?” The pause stretches.
“No, Wren, it’s Phil.” Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He swears and hangs up, and you’re listening to silence in your mobile.
You carefully put the phone on your table, but after a few second of stupour you grab it and smash it into the wall. The pieces fly everywhere, but you just don’t have it in you anymore.
You cover your head with the duvet and cry until you fall asleep.
In the morning everything seems so much better. You sweep the remnants of the poor device, take a shower, dress extra nicely, and stop at the mobile shop before your classes. You upload your contacts from Google and go about your day. Everything is OK, everything is OK, you know what you are doing.
Four days pass, and you don’t hear from John. Which is totally fine. Yeah? You are totally fine. Maybe he thought since you didn’t answer to his first text that you didn’t want to chat. Maybe there were more messages in the first night that you didn’t answer and he got offended because you sort of ignored him. Maybe he is busy. Maybe he’s shagging the most expensive geishas in Tokyo. You don’t give a fuck.
You come back home, have dinner, and crawl in bed again. You tell yourself you’re still compensating for the crazy weekend, but the truth is you’re just not sure how to deal with the reality at the moment. You feel suspended in some sort of a bubble, and you’re not sure anymore what’s real and what’s not.
Was the wonderful weekend with John real? Were his tenderness and soft murmurs real? His hands sliding on your skin, his lips drawing patterns on your naked hip, his eyes smiling and tender? Was the happiness you felt real? You really don’t know. You cover with your head and close your eyes.
Doctor Who blares again, and you actually check the number display this time. John Thorington.
“Evening.” It’s all velvet and chocolate syrup, and you want to cry.
“How are you, Wren?”
Go to hell, John.
P. S. My darlings, I’m pondering whether I would post the next story in the series, once Cut Through The Heart is complete. The next installment, Heal All Wounds is only have written, and I would have to allocate time for writing new chapters for it in my – let’s face it – rather busy week. Which I will do happily if the story is read and followed. Please, let me know you are here and reading the series. An anonymous brief comment would suffice.