Chapter 12

CHAPTER

12

PRESENT

It’s a quick drive across town. I slow on the narrow and shadowy roads that branch off from campus, the glow of the old streetlamps dimmed by overgrown trees. Greek Row comprises mostly converted residentials—technically not part of campus, and therefore not an area I’m super familiar with. I was picturing kegs and people passed out on the front lawn like something straight out of a teen movie, but the lacy old Victorians and structured bungalows are innocuous in the dark. No sign of the yellow Jeep parked along the cut-stone curb.

Reagan had mentioned the name of the fraternity—Sigma Nu? Omega Something? I ring my sister’s phone, hoping Natalia will pick up, but there’s no answer. I should have asked where they were earlier. Unsure of what else I should do, I drive a block over to the familiar faculty parking lot outside the Hall of Letters, where I throw my car into park and open my messages. I shoot a quick text to Reagan’s number— What party did you say you were at again? —before I switch over to my browser and pull up the University of Irving website. There’s got to be a listing of all the fraternities somewhere on here, and then once I have a name, I might be able to figure out where their house is located.

Except these names are all Greek to me—literally. Kappas and Gammas and Omegas, but none of it is ringing a bell. I scroll through pictures and descriptions of each fraternity like that’s somehow going to help me, but it doesn’t. Maybe she said it was a sorority party. Weird how you don’t hear that phrase half as often as you hear frat party. Giving up, I try ringing Reagan’s cell again, but this time it goes straight to voice mail. That can’t be a good sign.

Something knocks against the passenger side window, hard.

I yelp, clutching my hand to my chest, where my heart thuds violently beneath my sweatshirt. A silhouette waves at me from beyond the dark tint of my windows. My finger hovers over the controls. I probably shouldn’t roll down the window—there’s rarely any trouble on campus, and we have private security on patrol around the clock, but better safe than sorry.

“Clara,” a muffled voice calls through the glass. “It’s Teddy.”

I exhale, the unease lifting off me, and roll down the window. “You scared me. I thought I was about to get robbed.”

In the dim light, I can just make out the way his eyes flick over my battered Volvo, over the dings and sunbaked paint. He raises his eyebrows, an expression that screams not sure you’d be their first target.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I prefer grading homework in the office,” he says. “Why are you sitting in your car?”

“I’m trying to find my sister. She’s at some frat party or something, and one of her friends called me, but I can’t find the house and now they’re not answering.” For good measure, I check my phone again, but there are no texts or returned calls.

“Kappa Sigma,” he provides without missing a beat.

I look up from my phone to gawk at him. “How’d you know that?”

“A couple of my students in 121 were talking about it in the middle of class.”

I imagine him pulling the ultimate teacher cliché: Would you like to share with the class? Most professors can’t even be bothered because we’re dealing with legal adults, not children, and if they want to waste their time, then that’s on them. But Teddy’s always been by-the-book in a way that makes me suspect he might actually use that line.

I make a mental note to look him up on Rate My Professors later. Because I’m curious.

“Here.” He reaches inside my car, patting around blindly for the lock. I swallow, all too aware of the inappropriate thoughts I was having about those hands not thirty minutes ago. I’m thankful it’s dark, because heat has crept back into my face. I press the button to unlock the door and he settles into the seat beside me, his long legs folded in the cramped space. He’s dressed more casually than I’ve seen him in years—jeans and a plain black T-shirt that’s snug over his broad chest, his well-toned arms on full display. It is the weekend, after all. He pulls up the map on his phone. “Looks like it’s over on Dartmouth,” he says. “I’ll give you directions.”

I glance over my shoulder as I back out of the space. Driving is a convenient excuse to look anywhere other than his arms. Or hands.

I clear my throat, trying to redirect my thoughts. “You didn’t have to come with me, you know,” I say. “You could have just given me directions.”

“It’s no problem.” He pauses just long enough for it to sound half-hearted—and maybe a touch bitter—when he adds, “What are friends for, right?”

With a pang of longing, I glance at him sideways. He’s staring out the windshield, shadows shifting over his features as we pass beneath a streetlight. I don’t know what he expects me to say to that—or if he expects me to say anything, for that matter. I lick my lips, trying to conjure up a response, but there’s none forthcoming.

“Right, turn right,” he urges, jarring me from my thoughts, but I react a second too late. I’ve missed the turn. It’s a good thing I have this job at the university, because I’d make a terrible Uber driver.

“Okay, right at the next stop sign,” he amends. “We can loop back around.”

We ride in silence until we pull up outside a drab-looking bungalow, a dark flag fluttering from the porch. The windows glow a warm yellow, but there’s no one outside. It’s not until I step out of my car and into the crisp autumn night that I hear faint, thudding bass. Teddy joins me on the lawn, folding his arms and hunching his shoulders against the chill.

Without exchanging a word, we head for the door. As we draw near, I realize it’s not the Maryland state flag or even a school flag flapping from the gable, but instead one that proclaims that SATURDAYS ARE FOR THE BOYS . Under normal circumstances, I might have knocked, but considering my sister is drunk and not answering her phone, I barge right in. This is university property, after all.

The would-be doorman—aka some drunk kid in a Kappa Sigma sweatshirt—leaps from the sofa, one hand spread wide as we cut through the living room, the other clutching a can of lite beer. “Whoa, whoa, dicks are five dollars,” he says to Teddy. Then he teeters, eyes narrowing as he sizes both of us up. “Wait. You’re not cops, are you? I mean, no offense, but you’re kinda old.”

“We’re faculty,” Teddy says in a sharp, authoritative voice that I’m not at all familiar with. “Now, excuse us.” He brushes past the doorman and the kid’s face goes slack. Taking advantage of the lapse in vigilance, I follow Teddy farther into the house.

It’s sparsely decorated, the walls adorned with black-and-white photos of Kappa Sigmas past. The rare bit of furniture looks like it was ordered from Amazon and assembled by a drunken toddler. We pass a folding table adorned with a half-racked game of beer pong, one of the red Solo cups knocked over and beer trickling onto the tile. There are speakers set up on the half wall, still pulsing with what I assume is supposed to be music, but there’s no one left to listen to it. This party is well and truly over. So where the heck is my pain-in-the-ass sister?

The dining room leads into a warm, earth-toned kitchen, the sink piled high with dirty dishes and an impressive collection of liquor bottles lining the granite counter. There, leaning against the island, is Reagan. I loose a breath, the full weight of my relief settling over me. She’s got a glass of tap water clutched in her hand and mascara tracks beneath her eyes, but she lights up the moment she recognizes me.

“Clare Bear, you’re here!” She throws her arms open to pull me into a loose-limbed hug. Drunken affection. This is new. When she pulls away, she blinks back and forth between me and Teddy, trying to clear the haze. “And you’ve brought—wait.” She looks back at me. “What’s he doing here?”

“I ran into Professor Harrison on campus,” I explain, hoping that a subtle reminder that he’s her professor, in charge of her grade, will keep her from saying anything too untoward. “Where’s your phone? I’ve been trying to call you.”

She waves a dismissive hand, eyes fluttering shut. “Natalia has it.”

I try to be gentle but firm, gripping her shoulders to steady her. “And where’s Natalia?”

“Here, Professor Fernsby.” From one of the adjoined rooms, Natalia materializes. I recognize her now that I have a face to go with the name: sleek black hair, soccer sweatshirt. She’s from out of state, here on an athletic scholarship, if my memory serves. “Her phone died. I’m sorry.”

She hands me the phone and I release one of Reagan’s shoulders to accept it. Reagan rocks but steadies herself. “Thank you for this,” I say. “Do you have the keys to the Jeep?”

Natalia produces the Irving-maroon lanyard. I suspect she had to wrestle it from Reagan’s neck. “It’s parked over by the administration building. I think she walked.”

“My Jeep,” Reagan says feebly, fumbling for the keys, but I pocket them and steer her by the shoulders toward the front door.

“I’ll take you to pick it up tomorrow,” I say. “Come on. Let’s get you in the car.”

Stragglers watch, bemused, as two of their professors march a student out of the party and into the back seat of my car. Okay, so maybe we do look like plainclothes cops, if cops drove dinged-up Volvos. Teddy jumps back in the passenger seat. By the time I make it around to the driver side, Reagan has already poked her head between the seats, eyeballing Teddy with the sort of brazen curiosity that’s only fueled by alcohol.

“Professor Hottison, I don’t know if you remember me—”

I balk at the ridiculous nickname, but my protest falls on drunk ears.

“—but I’m in one of your classes this semester. The American history one.”

A smile tugs at Teddy’s mouth, but he doesn’t comment on the nickname. “Of course I remember you. You’re Clara’s little sister.”

I shoot another uncertain glance at him before pulling away from the curb, but he’s not paying attention.

“I am, ” Reagan says proudly, reaching into the front to grip my shoulder in what I can only assume is supposed to be a loving gesture. Yep, she’s completely hammered. “And you guys have known each other”—she hiccups on the word, and for a split second, I fear she’s going to blow chunks all over the center console, but then she gulps and continues—“known each other forever. Like, a really long time.”

“Seventeen years,” Teddy confirms with a sideways glance at me.

Reagan exhales and I catch a whiff of beer breath. “That’s, like, almost as long as I’ve been alive.”

Teddy swivels to look at her. “Are you twenty-one?” His concerned eyes dart to me. “Is she twenty-one?”

“Yes, she’s twenty-one. Barely,” I add with an admonishing look in the rearview as we roll down the dark street toward campus. I’m not sure Reagan notices—she’s too busy staring at Teddy, a funny look in her eye. And that’s when it hits me, seconds too late. It’s not actual vomit I should be worrying about.

It’s word vomit.

“Maybe this is weird to say,” Reagan slurs, folding her arms and leaning forward on the center console so that her head and shoulders are fully in the front seat, “but my friends think you’re, like, the hottest professor on campus. Has anyone ever told you that?”

I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, but then she might throw up for real. “That’s inappropriate,” I cut in. “And put on your seat belt.”

“I’m wearing it.” To emphasize the point, she hooks a thumb under the overextended shoulder belt and lets it snap back into place.

The look on Teddy’s face is somewhere between amusement and embarrassment. His gaze snags on mine and my stomach does a backflip. “Ah, no,” he says. “They haven’t told me that.”

Reagan’s eyes are wide as saucers, though the haze remains. “Well, they should tell you. Clara, tell him.”

“I’m not going to—” I stop short, huffing in indignation. There’s no point even arguing with her. She’s drunk.

She pouts at me. “I don’t understand why you’re being so weird about it.”

Teddy’s curious gaze flits from Reagan to me. “Weird about what, exactly?”

Well, that’s a loaded question, one that I have no intention of answering, but I’m also not sure how to brush it off without seeming suspicious. In the interim, Reagan tries to lean forward, but I come to a stop sign and her seat belt locks. She flops back into her seat. “You need to sit down,” I order. I’m not saying I stepped on the brakes harder than normal, but I’m also not not saying that.

“Fine,” she says, belligerent. “Then I’ll say it from back here.” She takes a deep breath. “Professor Harrison, you should know—”

“That’s enough, Reagan—”

“—that my sister is most definitely in love with you.”

I sputter a laugh, as though that could ever diffuse the tension that settles over the car in the wake of that simple statement, all the memories I’d shoved to the very back of the archives, left to collect dust. I am not in love with a man I haven’t spoken to in over a decade. I hardly know him. But I did love him once, in my own way. And maybe that doesn’t ever go away completely.

I pull into the parking lot and park in a faculty space. Reagan can’t possibly know everything she’s dredged up, but she tries to resolve it with a lot of drunk babbling that I only half hear— oh my god, I was just kidding, you should see the look on your face, that sort of thing. The person I wish would say something is Teddy, but then again, what could I possibly expect him to say? No, you’re wrong, Clara’s not in love with me and she never has been ? I throw the car into park and glance over at him, tentative. He’s watching me, his brow lightly furrowed, like he’s trying to work something out.

“Thank you for the help tonight,” I say, my voice tight. I clear my throat. “And I’m sorry.” I jerk my head at the back seat. “For my sister.”

“Hey!”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to apologize.”

Now that we’re no longer moving, Reagan pops up between the seats again. She swipes a lock of tousled blond hair out of her face. “This isn’t going to affect my grade, is it?”

Teddy tears his eyes from me to give her an appraising look, like he’s actually considering docking a few points. After letting her sweat for a few seconds, he concludes, “What my students do on their own time is none of my business.” He unbuckles his seat belt, but pauses with his hand on the door handle. “Just—don’t bring it to class,” he amends, quite seriously. I’m not sure if he’s referring to the drinking or the whole Professor Hottison thing. Maybe all of the above.

Reagan nods once, gives him a sloppy little salute. “Yes, sir.”

We exchange a quick good night and he leaves without any of the usual hesitation—we’ve finally established, it seems, that we’re not on hugging terms. I watch his retreating back and wonder whether we ever could be again.

The hardest part about loving someone is, in my experience, stopping. Maybe because I’ve never had to grapple much with the opposite, with choosing to keep on loving them despite everything. There was never much choice involved, for me. Falling in love was like falling asleep on a road trip: you let yourself get comfortable and then suddenly you wake up and you’re already there. Falling out of love, in contrast, was like a car crash: you slam on the brakes, but you don’t just stop, because the momentum is still there. And years later, you might’ve recovered, but you still have the little aches and pains, and maybe you’re a little scared every time you hop back behind the wheel, because look what happened before.

I back out of the parking space and turn down one of the dark campus drives, lost in thought.

“I’m not wrong, ” Reagan says, breaking the heavy silence. I toss a glance at her in the rearview. Her face is shadowy in the back seat, but I don’t need to see her to know what she’s referring to. I heave a sigh. I’m not sure I have the energy to keep denying it.