Chapter Twenty-Five

Despite knowing Charlie can swap in for me during the lecture Ashlee's observing, I still find myself spinning my wheels the first two weeks of April, doing the same thing I did that day in Maeve's office. It's like it's impossible to get the words out. It's to the point of utter embarrassment, something that keeps me up night after night, turning over every mistake I've ever made.

If I were still with Emily, telling her I've been putting off bailing on her, she would dump me instantly. Even thinking of how we ended things has me in cold sweat as I lie awake. But the days are passing me by, and I'm not dating Emily. I'm dating Maeve, who hasn't tried to break up with me. We haven't even so much as had a fight.

But if I wait another week, if I let it get to be less than ten days before I leave for France, that may not be the case.

I need to tell her after the "Oscar bait" lecture today. Two weeks before her evaluation.

She gives me a little smile as I step up to begin my lecture for this week. I tug at the collar of my shirt, despite the fact that it's freezing in here. I need to focus on the air-conditioning. It's not hot, I'm not feeling faint, Maeve and I have been great. She loves me. I'm going to remind her of why that is right now. I lay my hand on my diaphragm as I open my PowerPoint and force my breath to steady. My head's clear—clear enough—by the time I turn to the class.

"According to a 2014 study conducted by UCLA sociologists, the IMDb keywords most commonly associated with Oscar bait taken from films between 1985 and 2009 were"—I hold up a finger as the students, a new crop, but with about the same dynamic as last semester, lean forward—"Family tragedy…"

They laugh, just like I expected them to.

"Whistleblower, Pulitzer Prize source…"

The laughing only increases. I glance over at Maeve, who's smiling.

"Physical therapy,domestic servant, and Watergate." I pause. "Sound right to anyone?"

Several students nod. "Well, the Oscar-bait phenomenon has actually been around almost since the Oscars' inception. Its first usage in the press dates to around 1948." I find myself smiling. "But today we're going to discuss the results of this blatant practice using two examples. One is of a movie musical that happened to hit every Oscar-bait button, seemingly unintentionally, and succeeded in sweeping awards season, and one is a movie musical that tried to hit all the buttons and failed miserably. La La Land and Les Misérables…" I pause for dramatic effect. "Respectively."

I switch to the next slide, watch as students type away, transcribing everything, seemingly even my jokes. I know this lecture so well, though, that I can let my mind wander for a second. Charlie will do great. Maeve will have the perfect last piece for her grant evaluation—

I can't concentrate on that now. I dig a nail into my palm, refocusing.

"People are singing in these musicals, and it doesn't really make sense. Musicals, by definition, are bombastic. They exist in a heightened reality that involves a sort of audience participation. When you're in the audience for a play, it doesn't matter that you know the actors are wearing mics, that the sets aren't real, or that people sing instead of speak. But with movies, particularly movies made in the 2010s, realism was a constant pressure. Real emotions, real gritty sets, real events, real people. Which, coincidentally, is also what the Oscars value."

A student named Paul raises his hand. "Wait, is that why they had the actors actually sing live in Les Mis? For the Oscars?"

The class and I and—I glance at her—Maeve all laugh at that. Maeve more than me, even. She hates Tom Hooper so hilariously much.

I give him a finger gun. "Bingo! Hooper wanted more room for natural acting and singing. Which is nice in theory, but the result is, well, I'll just say we're not watching all of Les Mis in this class, so…"

I put on Russell Crowe and Hugh Jackman's "The Confrontation" sequence, and then, while the students are watching, take the opportunity to sit next to Maeve and drink some water. Maeve smiles at me, and ever so subtly moves her hand to mine. Links our pinkies like we're in a movie. It makes me melt. But the clip is over both far earlier and far later (this fucking musical) than I want it to be.

I accidentally make eye contact with Maeve, and she's covering her mouth trying not to laugh. I know exactly what she's thinking about—we were watching Les Mis to create this lecture and Maeve said that the clinking of the swords while Jackman and Crowe were singing was the equivalent of singing ‘Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again' while doing dishes, and she proceeded to actually deliver the most beautiful rendition of the song while loudly cleaning only to drop and shatter one of my clay bowls. I was too busy crying on the floor laughing to even notice.

God, I love this woman.

I'm going to make sure she gets this grant. Despite my idiocy over the last several months, I'm going to do it.

And okay, I do barely hold back a laugh. The class starts laughing too. "I'm sorry," I manage to bark out. "The fucking clinking of the swords being louder than the singing gets me every time." I exhale, fan myself a little to get my face back to normal. "But La La Land takes a different approach…"

I get through the rest of the lecture. It goes as smoothly as I could hope for. Students are laughing and asking questions and engaging with what I have to say. I get through all the material I want. No one grills me on my biased position within the Oscar system. Maeve doesn't stop smiling at me the entire time.

By the time I'm returning to my seat so Maeve can close the lecture, my heartbeat's steady and my step is light. I can hardly believe I was so upset a few hours ago. Charlie's question was wrong; I'm not doing this because I feel like I need to escape anything. I just love it here. I love how every class validates an existence Emily was so set on tearing down.

Paul raises his hand. "Not a question."

"Go ahead," I say, now nearly thirty classes in and feeling at ease with the students. Finally.

"I just got the alert from Deadline and—holy shit—congrats, Professor Sullivan, on your film getting into Cannes!" Paul says.

Congrats, Professor Sullivan, on your film getting into Cannes.

I haven't told her yet.

I haven't told her yet and it's on Deadline. I haven't told her yet, and I could've told her two days ago, a month ago, four months ago.

All that time I could've done it, and now it's just been snatched from me.

The class is clapping. Students are asking questions. But it's like they're not speaking English, or like the volume is too low and I'm straining to hear them. Nothing makes sense, and even their faces are starting to blur so they're splotches of color rather than humans I just spent the last hour interacting with. I can't feel my feet on the ground, this room isn't familiar, yet I know where I am. I know what was just said. I know, I know, yet I—

I touch my face, drag it down to my throat. My heartbeat is slamming against my fingertips, racing like a hummingbird. I must look shell-shocked. I can't look this shell-shocked in front of the students. I swallow, but there's no bile taste in my mouth this time. The anxiety is so fucking intense that it's ascended to a new level that doesn't affect my body at all.

"Congrats, Val," Maeve says.

I hear her.

I hear the way she sounds confused, the way her voice cracks a little like I've hurt her. It feels like I cracked one of her bones. A wall of guilt descends on me.

I have to speak. I've been silent for too long.

"Thanks, guys," I say, looking at the students rather than Maeve. "I can't answer any questions about it, but I'll keep you updated."

I need my bag. I need my bag, and I need to get out of this room, and if I can just do that, everything will be okay. Maeve will be okay. I'll be okay.

I laser focus on the bag. Grab it even as Maeve enters my peripheral vision. The lights go down as the La La Land screening starts. I dart toward the door, bumping into an empty seat in the audience, all but stumbling my way out. I know I'm awake, but I feel like I'm dreaming.

The doors are heavy, but I force them open. My eyes sting as the light of day burrows into my vision. The clack of heels follows behind me.

Then her hand's on my shoulder. It burns. It's the hand of the woman I love, the woman I've hurt. "Val, what's going on?"

I force myself to turn to face her. Her lips are turned downward, and there's a deep furrow between her brows. She drops her hand.

"I thought you only had your movie submitted for Sundance." A twisted, confused smile plays on her lips. Like she wants to make light of this but can't do it. "Why didn't you tell me about Cannes?"

I have to say it. I have to say it I have to say I have to fucking say it. "I'll have to be in the South of France the same day Ashlee is going to be watching your class for the grant. I'll be there during study days and final grading too."

She blanches, stopping dead in the empty courtyard. "I— Why didn't you speak up when Ashlee said that week if you knew—you—there's no way Deadline knew before you did."

"I don't know." That's not the right thing to say.

"Val, I'm"—she pinches her nose—"I'm so confused. How long have you known you had a potential conflict with class? Why didn't you tell me?"

I never thought she'd be hurt by my lie. Angry, yes, but this—in the strangest sense, this isn't what I expected to feel from her response either. It's not worth hurting her. Not by a long shot. How could I have done this to her? "I don't know."

Her mouth hardens. Her frown shifts to a scowl. "How long have you known?"

I force a breath. "I knew about the possibility since December."

"Since…?" Her hands rise as if to touch her ear, but she yanks them back tightly to her sides. "You've been lying to me since before we had this class planned? Why?"

"I don't know…" I need to say something else.

"Were you—were you even planning on telling me?"

As much as it pains me to admit it, if Paul hadn't said anything, I might not have told her. It sounds so fucking absurd, and I can't justify it and never will be able to. "I was going to have someone come in to sub for me—an alternate. I'd help with the lecture still. I wanted that squared away so you wouldn't have to panic."

She throws up her hands, leans into me. I thought I knew the cold, angry look in Maeve's eyes from back when we met, but no, this is true anger. Icy gaze, lips practically curled into a snarl. She's getting right into my personal bubble when I want that bubble to be five fucking feet wide. My girlfriend, whom I want in every aspect of my life, is too close. I can't breathe. "But why wouldn't you tell me you were submitting to more festivals? I could've supported you through that. And the good news—I just don't get it. We're a team. Why wouldn't you—?"

"I'm sorry." I need a second to breathe. I'm not ready for the way her hurt oscillates into an anger on the verge of tears. Any good, rational response slips out of my grasp. My mind is blank, I'm scrambling for something, anything to say—

And I make a mistake.

I make a big fucking mistake.

"I didn't think you'd be this upset."

Which isn't true. It isn't true, and I need to take it back, but it's in the air now.

Maeve turns a whole new shade of red. "Are you kidding me? I'm your girlfriend! I should be there to celebrate your little victories, let alone something as huge as getting into one of the biggest film festivals in the world!"

She starts blinking rapidly. My chest twists. She can't start crying now.

"Although I can't say what kind of girlfriend I am if you want to parade me around at the Oscars but won't let me know about important milestones in your career."

I want to reach my hand out to her, but it feels like I'd be touching an open flame. "It was— I never meant for you to be slighted. I was just so nervous—"

"Nervous about what? That I'd be upset you got into Cannes?"

"It's not like you were thrilled with the Oscars. I can never tell if any aspect of my life is going to be too much for you, and—"

"I told you that I was going to figure out the celebrity-girlfriend thing. You didn't even give me the chance to prove myself."

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I wasn't thinking about that, though." My voice cracks. "I didn't want you to think I was abandoning you," I say, and every word in that last sentence feels small.

She takes a few long seconds to stare at me, her eyes wide and her mouth twisted. "Abandoning me?"

"I'm not trying to fuck up your grant. I know how—"

"And your bright idea about how not to abandon me was to lie to me and give me two weeks—at most, because god knows when you would've actually told me if a student didn't beat you to it—instead of two months to prepare. And prepare for what—a week? Two weeks without you?"

"Two."

"I just—" She takes a deep breath. "How can you be so smart yet so oblivious?"

"I told you I was a mess, but I'm trying out different antianxiety pills. It's just hard finding the right one and—"

She takes a step back, as if my words have knocked the wind out of her. She cocks her head at me, still wearing that angry expression. I crunch in on myself. "That isn't enough. It isn't enough, and you know that. You think— You know, Valeria, I thought I wouldn't ever have to tell you this, but news flash about what it's like to be one of the regular people you want to be so badly." She's stopped calling me Val. "I can't just forget my priorities and not communicate vital information to my coworkers. I can't just drastically change plans and say I'm a mess and it'll all be okay. This isn't something that someone on your team can just snap their fingers and fix. I needed you for this one little thing, and you didn't even have the courtesy to tell me you had a conflict—which didn't have to be that big a deal, by the way—until someone else did it for you. And now I have to deal with all this while you galivant off to sell your movie for millions of dollars and expect me to what"—she laughs—"come as your arm candy after doing both our jobs?"

It's like a punch to the gut, over and over again. Tears burn in my eyes. "Maeve, it's not like that at all. I'm sorry about not telling you—" I reach my hand out. "I love you," I say. "I didn't mean to hurt you. You're everything to me. That's why I didn't tell you—I just knew you'd hate me for putting it off for so long, and I was scared."

"Val, for god's sake, I don't hate you, but it really didn't have to fucking be like this." Maeve turns away from me. "If you loved me, you would've told me the truth. If you really thought I'd bring you down for something as huge as this, maybe we're missing something."

The tears fall but she doesn't even see them. "Maeve…"

"Just go. I'll talk to your manager's assistant. I need a break."

That's it. That's how I ruin the best part of my life. "So we're breaking up?"

She just stares at me, wary like I've dropped ten years of stress on her. "I just said I needed a break." She takes my wrist. "Look at me, Val. You aren't listening! Will you please just listen to what I just said?"

For a moment, the first one since Paul spilled the news, the world slows to a stop. My brain frees up just enough to process the last thing Maeve said to me, word by word and dissect it like we've done with films all year.

Less than five minutes ago, Maeve said she wanted space. She didn't ask to break up. Emily would've asked to break up, though. Emily would've been pissed, but Maeve is disappointed. Emily would've broken up with me, but Maeve wants a break.

But what's a break but a delay in the inevitable? If I agree to this, I'm just subjecting myself to weeks more of uncertainty. I can't do this right now. I need to just know, but—

"I'm gonna go check on the screening," Maeve says. "I'll talk to you later."

What do I do with this space?

"Okay," I say, pushing through the sting of panic that the worst will still be true.