Chapter 14

CHAPTER

14

PRESENT

Reagan’s blond hair is fanned across her pillow. I resist the urge to chuck the bag of McDonald’s at her head, instead opting for setting it on her nightstand. Am I not merciful? Actually, I’m not, because I proceed to throw open the curtains, admitting the blinding gray of an overcast morning into her bedroom. She groans in protest, tugging the quilt up over her head.

“I don’t think so.” I yank it back down, and she doesn’t have the strength to fight me. She scrunches up her face, throwing an arm over her eyes instead. I jostle the fast-food bag to get her attention. “I brought you McDonald’s.”

She lifts a lifeless arm just enough for one bloodshot eye to squint at the nightstand. “I’m on a diet.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” I take the bag and shove it at her. “You probably drank, what, a thousand calories’ worth of alcohol last night? And McDonald’s is the perfect hangover cure.”

“Why can’t you let me sleep?”

I drag her desk chair and position it beside the bed like I’m about to give her Last Rites. She probably thinks the McDonald’s is a peace offering, but I like to think of it as buttering her up before the impending interrogation. “Be glad we’re having this conversation now and not earlier.”

Grumbling, she props herself up against the headboard and begins rifling through the bag with half-lidded eyes. After shoving a few fries into her mouth, she gropes in her sheets—probably searching for her phone, which is currently on the kitchen counter, where she left it last night after I forced her to down a couple glasses of water. Giving up the search, she blinks at me, bleary-eyed. “What time is it?”

“Eleven thirty.”

“What time did I get home? How did I—” She stops in the middle of unwrapping her Big Mac to stare at me in horror. Last night’s eyeliner is smeared across one of her cheeks. “You picked me up last night.”

“Her memory returns,” I announce to the barren room. Aside from the odd teapot or moth-eaten armchair from the local antique mall, I haven’t bothered decorating much of the house, but Reagan’s room is the most neglected. Just a twin-sized bed, a thrifted rolltop desk, and a nightstand, the lot of which she’s accented with fairy lights and haphazardly strewn laundry. She’s lucky there are curtains—they came with the rental.

“Where’s my Jeep?”

“Safe and sound where you left it. I’ll take you to pick it up later today.” I eye her, wary. “If you’re not still drunk.”

“I’m not still drunk,” she protests through a mouthful of hamburger.

I’m not convinced, but we’ll see how things are looking after the McDonald’s. In the meantime, I have bigger Filet-O-Fish to fry. “So, you don’t remember anything else, I take it?”

Reagan must note the edge in my voice, because she lowers her Big Mac, chewing slowly. Biding her time. When she swallows, she asks tentatively, “Was Professor Harrison with you?”

Okay, so she does remember. I’m not sure if that makes it better. “ Now you call him by his actual name.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh my god. I didn’t. Did I?” When I neither confirm nor deny, the panic sets in. Her Big Mac lies forgotten on her lap, and she scoots closer to the edge of the bed. Closer to me. “What else did I say?”

I take a deep breath. I can do this. Relay the events. Just the cold, hard facts. No emotions involved. It’s all in the past, right? Reagan might have unintentionally dragged a few memories out of storage and shaken the dust loose, but it’s not like any of those things matter now, well over a decade later. So I’m not going to take my frustration out on her. I’m going to handle this like an adult.

“Get off me,” Reagan wheezes from where her cheek is smooshed against the bed.

The quilt and sheets are tangled, collateral damage from the struggle that ensued after she told me that I should thank her for giving me an easy opening with Teddy last night. What with her hangover, it took less than a minute for me to gain the upper hand, and I promptly secured my victory by sitting on her back, flattening her against the bed. “Apologize first.”

“You’re going to make me throw up!”

“You won’t throw up if you just say sorry.”

She sighs, her body deflating beneath me. “Fine. I’m sorry I told Professor Hottison about your stupid crush.”

“ Former stupid crush,” I correct her. “And I’ve told you to stop calling him that. ”

She groans. “Whatever. Now let me up.”

I relent, and she gasps like I’ve been dunking her head underwater. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, sounds like a great punishment for the next time I have to babysit her like this.

“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” I say, “and then we’ll see about going to grab your Jeep.”

Rubbing her chest, she manages a glare. “Where are you going?”

I don’t feel like getting into details, so I just say, “I’m meeting up with someone.”

If anything, my elusiveness only stokes her curiosity. “What, like a date?”

“Sure.” Actually, I’m meeting with potential caterers for the gala, but she doesn’t need to know that. If she thinks I’m going on a date, maybe she—and Izzy, for that matter—will get off my case for a little while.

“It’s with Teddy, isn’t it?”

“Do you want to get squashed again?”

“You only won because this hangover is a bitch.”

I bow my way out of the room. “I’ll leave you to your recovery, then.”

“Say hi to Professor Hottison for me,” she calls, just as I shut the door behind me.

We’ll see who wins round two, once she’s good and sober.

I don’t have much to offer local caterers in exchange for donating their food, time, and hospitality to the gala, save my gratitude—which, let’s be real, doesn’t amount to much in the world of business. My first stop is Lucretia’s, a family-owned Italian restaurant in one of the old brickwork buildings. I’m greeted by a teenaged hostess, who—after I explain why I’m here—goes to fetch the owner, poking her head into the kitchen and shouting for Nonna. A white-haired woman with a beauty mark on her chin emerges from the back, wiping her hands on an apron and already shaking her head.

After a polite but firm rejection, I cross Lucretia’s off the list in my notepad. And then I scratch the local seafood place out, too, when I walk a couple doors down and discover the C sanitary inspection grade taped in the window. The Falconer’s food menu is limited and I doubt they’re staffed for catering, so I skip the bars in favor of popping into Subway. The assistant manager is pleasant—a college-aged kid with his blond man bun wrapped in a hairnet. He nods along with everything I’m saying and expresses enthusiasm in the idea before reluctantly explaining that I would have to reach out to the franchise owner… who’s on vacation in Cabo San Lucas for the next three weeks and won’t be taking any business calls until he gets back to the States. I jot down a name and phone number on the back of receipt paper, but I leave feeling less than hopeful.

The last stop on my list is Bucky’s Burgers and Dogs. The owner comes out from around the counter and introduces himself as Mack, shaking my hand like he’s trying to strangle a python and ushering me outside. He insists that he likes to do business “in the great outdoors”—better known as the Bucky’s parking lot, overlooking an overfilled dumpster, the O’Reilly Auto Parts across the road, and a Dodge Ram parked in the handicapped space with a vanity plate that reads TAILG8R . Mack is a little older than me, his sparse hairline half-hidden beneath a red Phillies cap, and he chain-smokes Camel Crushes while I pitch the gala to him at one of the steel mesh tables.

“All right, I’ll do it,” he says, snuffing out a cigarette in the ashtray and cracking the filter on a fresh one before pinching it between his lips. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to roll out the new food truck. Got a couple conditions, though.” The cigarette bobs as he talks and he pauses to light it, taking a few puffs and emitting a cloud of pungent, minty smoke before continuing. “I want a banner put up at the event. A big one.”

I waft the smoke away with a hand. “Done.” That’s almost too easy, considering we already had plans to print banners listing all the major donors and participants. “Anything else?”

“A scholarship,” he says. “Named after Bucky.”

I ignore the more interesting question—if this guy is Mack, then who, precisely, is Bucky?—in favor of a practical approach to his demand. “A scholarship is dependent on funding,” I explain. “An endowment, usually, or maybe a yearly cash donation.”

He arches a wiry brow. “You’re putting on this whole thing to raise money, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

We’re interrupted by a teenaged employee poking his head out the door, disheveled red hair sprouting up from his visor. “There’s a customer on the phone about a to-go order,” he says, looking on the verge of tears. “She found an onion ring in her fries and says she’s allergic to onions and now she’s threatening to sue.”

Mack sighs, stabs his half-finished cigarette in the ashtray, and rises to his feet. “Wait here. This’ll just be a minute.”

I do as I’m told, waiting with my hands folded on the table until Mack’s hoarse shouting carries through the front door. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I grab my phone out of my messenger bag and flick through my unread texts. I have a habit of neglecting them for days on end—mostly because I don’t really get texts from anyone I actually care about. Izzy prefers her phone calls, Mom has never quite learned to text, and while Reagan sometimes messages me to meet up for lunch, we have plenty of opportunity to talk in person. But I do get plenty of texts asking me who I’m voting for, or letting me know that it’s 40 percent off on custom framing this week at Michaels.

Except today, there’s another contact gracing my inbox. At the sight of his name, my stomach swoops like I’ve hit a dip in the road while driving—an uncomfortable, lurching sensation.

Teddy: Home safe?

When I got home last night, I collapsed face-first into my pillow, so I must’ve been asleep when the text came in: it’s timestamped 1:36 A.M.

Clara: Yes

Clara: Thank you again for the help last night.

Clara: Sorry about Reagan.

Teddy: No problem

Teddy: I actually thought she was sort of funny

Not the word I’d use, but better that he thinks the situation is funny than being awkward about it, I guess.

Clara: She’s a handful when she’s drunk.

Clara: I really am sorry

I waggle my thumbs as I debate whether I want to add anything else. I feel compelled to let us both off the hook. To make sure he knows that regardless of whatever was said last night, he doesn’t have to worry about rehashing the past. But before I figure out what exactly I’m going to say, my previous message switches to read. Ellipses pop up, then disappear. I stare at the screen.

“Sorry about that,” Mack says, pushing out the door and sitting back down at the table. “So, back to this scholarship business.”

“I’ll have to discuss it with my colleagues,” I say, setting my phone face down. “I can’t make any promises, but we might be able to divert a small amount of funds into an award, as a thank-you for your generosity. It would have to be on a limited basis, of course. Maybe one scholarship given out in your—Bucky’s—name, for the next five years, or something like that. Without an endowment earning interest, it won’t be possible to set it up indefinitely.”

“Hey, that’s good enough for me.” With a grin so broad that a gold-capped molar glints in the sun, he thrusts a hand across the table. We shake on it, his grip so strong I wonder whether the circulation is being cut from my fingers. “Consider yourselves catered.”

I spend the remainder of my lazy Sunday driving Reagan to pick up her Jeep and composing an email for Julien Zabini’s former colleague—Dr. Lorna P. Foster, an Honorary Fellow at the School of History, Classics & Archaeology at University of Edinburgh, and author of several books, including Meeting in the Middle Ages: The Intersection of Archeology and Manuscripts in Understanding Early Medieval Britain. Going off her headshot on the university website—unsmiling, her white hair slicked into a military-grade bun and an enamel pin of a white rose fastened to her tweed lapel—I have a strong suspicion that she’s one of those no-nonsense types, which frankly makes sending an unsolicited email a little scary.

I can only hope Julien reached out to her first, but considering he didn’t mention it, I’m probably on my own here.

From: Clara Fernsby ( [email protected] )

To: Lorna P. Foster ( [email protected] )

Date: September 15, 7:42 P.M.

Subject: Invitation to guest lecture

Hello, Dr. Foster,

My name is Clara Fernsby. I’m a colleague of Julien Zabini’s at University of Irving in Maryland. He passed your email along to me to see whether you might be interested in coming to campus to give a guest lecture while you’re visiting D.C. in November. I realize it’s a bit of a drive, but I’d be more than happy to arrange transportation if you’re at all interested.

Thank you for your time.

Warm regards,

Clara Fernsby

I send off the email before letting myself fret over it any further and set about making some dinner. Reagan’s suffering enough that there’s no chance of her disappearing on me again, so I stick my head in her bedroom. “Mac and cheese, or fettuccine Alfredo?”

She’s buried beneath a fuzzy Halloween blanket covered in pumpkins and witches’ hats, but she peeks out from behind her phone. She’s been flicking through TikTok videos for long enough that it’s probably starting to melt her brain—whichever part’s still left after last night. “They’re the same thing. They’re both pasta with cheese.”

“No, they’re not. One is macaroni and cheese and the other is fettuccine Alfredo.” To be fair, I’m not sure I could explain what the actual difference is. “So, no preference, then?”

“Mac and cheese,” she grumbles before tugging the blanket up over her head.

I’m in the kitchen waiting for the water to boil when my phone buzzes against the counter. I flip it over, half-expecting it to be Teddy finally answering my last message, but instead it’s an email.

From: Lorna P. Foster ( [email protected] )

To: Clara Fernsby ( [email protected] )

Date: September 15, 7:48 P.M.

Subject: Re: Invitation to guest lecture

Julien mentioned you’d be reaching out. Let’s get something on the books—I have a conference I’ll be attending on the 7th, 8th, and 9th, but I should be free on the 6th or the 11th. I imagine the 10th won’t work very well, seeing as it’s a Sunday.

Cheers,

Lorna

It’s almost 8 P.M. here, which means it’s well after midnight in Scotland. But a surprising number of academic types seem to operate on odd hours, working until two in the morning and answering texts in the middle of Red Bull–fueled research sessions. Growing up homeschooled, I was never really aware that the world thought there was such a thing as a good or bad sleep schedule, because sleep was just sleep when you didn’t have anyone to answer to. It made for a bit of rude awakening my first year of college, when my classes didn’t wait for me to wake up.

I send Lorna a quick and enthusiastic reply— The 11th would be great! —as well as a few questions to iron out details before I open the box of dried elbow pasta and dump it into the boiling water. I should be in a good mood—today’s been a pretty productive day—but it feels like my head’s everywhere except today. In the past, in the future, in a strange sort of in-between, thinking about what the past might have been and what the future will never be. And for some reason, I’m thinking about Federal Hill Park.

Maybe it’s the long-distance emails. Maybe it’s last night and the unanswered texts and that nagging compulsion to let us both off the hook, because if I’m being honest with myself, I probably need that more than Teddy needs it. He seems to have no trouble ignoring things—I mean, he still hasn’t answered my text—yet here I am, thinking about everything.

I pick up a wooden spoon and stir the pasta, even though it probably doesn’t need stirring. I’m not going to think about it.

I’m not.