Chapter 30

CHAPTER

30

PRESENT

I meet Izzy inside the airport. She’s tan despite it being winter, her thick black hair gleaming beneath the harsh overhead lighting. I didn’t know it was possible for hair to look that perfect after a seven-hour flight. She nearly runs over some lady’s foot with her rolling suitcase as she dashes across the airport and yanks me into a hug.

“It’s been too damn long,” she says, her chin balanced on the top of my head. She’s always been statuesque, but it’s easy to forget just how tall she is. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You really have no idea,” I mutter. My cheek is sort of pressed into her cleavage. I think she forgets how tall she is, when it comes down to it. “This week has been—” I blow out a breath. “Let’s just say it’s been a lot.”

She pulls back, alarmed, holding me at arm’s length like she needs to inspect me for bumps or scratches. “Are you okay?”

“No?” I say, not entirely sure myself.

“Is it the holidays?” she asks. “I’m sorry to ask you to pick me up in the middle of everything, I know this is a stressful time of—”

“It’s not the holidays,” I say.

After that, there’s no avoiding it. Everything that’s happened comes pouring out, word vomit right in the middle of the airport. People are giving us weird looks. Izzy ushers me out to the parking garage, where we sit in my Volvo while I explain the confrontation with the advisory committee, the rejection letter, the argument with Reagan, and Teddy. A lot about Teddy.

When I finish, I flip down the sun visor and swipe at my damp cheeks, trying to preserve the concealer I applied this morning to create the illusion that I’d actually gotten sleep. Izzy watches me, sympathetic.

“Do I sound like a total mess?” I wonder aloud. I’m not used to being the messy friend. I’m the neat, methodical one. The only person who’s ever had me beat in that regard is Teddy.

“Honestly,” she says flatly, “you sound like you could use a drink.”

After dropping Izzy at the house so that she can shower and settle in, I swing by campus to talk to Julien. It’s the Saturday after end of term, but when I emailed him asking whether he had a minute to talk, he suggested we meet on campus. Snow blankets the quad, pristine but for a few sets of footprints like baste stitching on an unfinished quilt.

I climb the stairs in the Hall of Letters to the third floor. The rooms are mostly dark, abandoned for the holidays, but I slow when I notice that one of the doors is propped open, warm light spilling out into the hall. It’s not Julien’s office, but I nudge it wider, announcing myself with a verbal, “Knock, knock.”

“Holy balls!” Bel springs off the floor, clutching her chest. “You scared the crap out of me. What are you even doing here?”

Her desk is barren, battered cardboard boxes on the floor are stuffed with books and boxes of staples and sticky notes, and a roll of clear packing tape rests on the chair. “I could ask you the same question,” I say, looking around at the mess. “What’s all this?”

She settles back on the floor. “I’m packing. I’ve been offered a position on the tenure track at Georgia State.”

“Congratulations,” I say. Bel’s been talking about wanting a job back in Atlanta since I first met her three years ago. “Seriously, that’s amazing. I’m really happy for you.”

“Thank you.” She tapes up one of the boxes, but she glances over with mischief glinting in her eye. “Not sure my committee participation helped.”

I seat myself on the edge of her desk. “Think they would’ve preferred the Krav Maga?”

“I’m not talking about my application.” She smirks. “I wasn’t a very good buffer.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I feign a sigh. “You might’ve buffered a thing or two.”

She laughs. “Not gonna lie, there’s not a lot I’ll miss around here, but I will miss working with you.”

“I’m going to miss you, too.” I hesitate. I’ve lost count of the number of would-be friendships I let go, classmates and campmates that fell by the wayside in the hustle and bustle of my complicated life. “When do you leave?”

“Planning for Monday, though I technically have my apartment through New Year’s. Want to spend the holidays with family, you know.”

“You should come out for drinks tonight,” I suggest. “I’ve got a friend visiting from Portugal. We’re planning to stop by The Falconer later. I feel like you guys would really hit it off.”

Bel raises her eyebrows at me, like she’s not sure whether I mean hit it off or hit it off, but before either of us has a chance to say anything more, we’re interrupted by a sharp knock on the open door.

“Thought I heard voices.” Julien hovers in the doorway, arching a brow at the pair of us—Bel kneeling among the scattered boxes, me perched on the desk—before his gaze settles on me. “Sorry to interrupt, but did you still want to discuss—?”

He doesn’t quite finish the question because I didn’t tell him what I wanted to talk about. Mostly because I’m still not sure. Heart hammering in my throat, I hop down from the desk. He retreats into the hall and Bel mouths something at me behind his back, miming a texting motion with her thumbs. I give her a thumbs-up before following Julien down the hall, a silent march to Hall of Letters 301 that feels a lot like marching to my own execution. Once inside, he shuts the door with a snap and pours two fingers of scotch, setting the etched crystal glass on the mahogany desk in front of me.

“Let me be the first to offer congratulations,” he says as he pours a second glass, and then holds it out in a toast.

I stare at him, nonplussed.

“I’m looking at our newest associate professor.”

“The advisory board invited me to apply,” I point out. “They didn’t offer me a job.”

“Yes, well”—he settles in his chair, leather creaking, his glass still held aloft—“formality. But it’s already been discussed. You’re a shoo-in at this point. The obvious woman for the job.” He frowns. “The only woman for the job, when you really get down to it.”

I stare into the glass of scotch. I’m not sure how to feel about that. I’m still angry, I suppose, at the way the advisory board handled things. But it’s not a white-hot anger. It’s more… tepid. Like I’ve left it sitting for too long. And I can’t really be bothered to bring it to a boil. “Teddy—Theodore Harrison, I mean,” I say. “He applied to extend his stay as a visiting professor.” Julien doesn’t say anything. He just waits for me to continue, so I do. “I know you don’t get the final say, but you choose whether or not to push that application through. Or it can stop with you.”

He dips his head, acknowledging this fact.

“I guess what I’m asking,” I continue, “is whether you’re going to push it through?”

He regards me curiously. “Are you asking me to push it through?”

I don’t answer. No. Maybe.

“Clara.” He sighs, sitting up in his chair, and sets his untouched glass on the desk in front of him. “You can’t choose whether or not you want this job based on who’s still going to work here in six months. I like you very much. You’re professional. Goal-oriented. And a charismatic lecturer. Students like you because you’re passionate about what you do, and that translates. Irving would be lucky to keep you around a little longer. You,” he emphasizes, “not a package deal.”

I nod. I understand all of that. But I’m also not quite satisfied by his explanation. All those things he’s complimenting me on, it’s nice to hear them—but they’re not really me, specifically. They’re a part of me in the same sense that they’re a part of so many other professional, goal-oriented, passionate historians. I’ve strived to be all those things, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re my most replaceable qualities. There are thousands of hungry grad students who’d be happy to be those things for Irving.

I guess it just would’ve been nice to hear how they value me as a Tudor historian in a department that has none. How my publications have contributed to the overall prestige of our institution. How I’m… I don’t know. All the other things I am. But I suppose they haven’t really been privy to all that. Whatever “that” is. I’ve buried it all beneath layers of professionalism.

I look up from my glass. “Did you know it’s been like eight years since I’ve said the word ‘fuck’?”

A smile tugs at the corner of Julien’s mouth. “I did not.”

“I thought it was unprofessional,” I explain. “Never mind the fact that Gary Reid drops seventeen F-bombs in a single lecture.”

“It’s not against any university policy,” Julien says diplomatically.

“I was also worried that it would be unprofessional if I told you that I didn’t want to share an office with Teddy.” I’m rambling now. “Which was fine, by the way, in the long run—I mean, he wasn’t even in there half the time, and we obviously worked things out, so it didn’t really matter—” I take a deep breath. “That’s not the point. The point is,” I say, “I’m going to take some time off.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just raises his eyebrows, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“But assistant professors don’t get sabbatical,” I press on. “And associate professors—I’m guessing they don’t either, not if they don’t have tenure. Sabbatical is for tenured professors. Someone that the school has invested in, whom they trust to come back.”

He dips his chin. “You’d be correct.”

“So in that case, by ‘time off’”—I hold my breath for a split second, wondering if I’m really about to do this, and oh my god, I’m about to do this—“I guess what I’m really saying is that I quit.”

I’m met with silence. Julien sucks his teeth and picks up his glass, but he doesn’t take a drink. I stare at him. He stares back.

“And I guess what I’m saying is”—he nods at his whisky—“I’ll drink to that.”

I blink at him. “You’re not mad?”

“On the contrary,” he says. “I’m happy to write you a glowing letter of recommendation, should you ever need one. Irving would’ve been lucky to have you, but off the record, I’m not sure I’d accept a consolation prize after the way you were treated, either.”

I realize Julien’s still waiting for me to join him in a toast, so I clink my glass against his and then toss it back. The scotch is peaty and strong.

“The advisory board,” I ask, leaning forward to set my glass on the desk, “they spoke to you?”

“They did.”

“Did they—” I try to find the right way to phrase it. “Did they threaten to take any sort of action against you? Because I tried to make it clear that there was no bias involved, but—”

“You forget that I’m already tenured,” he interrupts with an apologetic smile. “There’s not much they can do to threaten where I’m at. Though I will say—again, off the record—that Andrew Greene has had it out for me ever since I was elected chair.”

“Why?”

“He thought it should go to a more… distinguished member of the faculty.”

In other words, Andrew Greene thought the chair position should’ve gone to him. I can’t help smirking at that. At the risk of sounding completely corny, I say, “I’m not sure it gets much more distinguished than you.”

As soon as I leave Julien’s office, I dig my phone out of my messenger bag and scroll through my contacts while I’m making my way down to the parking lot. We’d exchanged numbers after the guest lecture, but I haven’t spoken to her since. I’m so amped up, I don’t even pause to consider the cost of making an international call. The least I could’ve done was open WhatsApp, maybe shot her a message first. Actually, it’s like nine thirty at night in Scotland, and on a Saturday. Maybe I shouldn’t—

“I was hoping I’d hear from you,” she answers.

“Lorna,” I say, “I am so sorry for calling after hours, I wasn’t thinking about the—”

“Ah, no bother,” she says. “I’m something of a night owl, anyway. Any particular reason for your call, or are you just looking to have a blether?”

“You mentioned something in passing before giving the guest lecture,” I say as I unlock my car, “about a program there in Edinburgh?”

“Yes, I was hoping you might be calling about—” A dog yaps in the background, and she holds the phone away to have a brief but heated argument with it—most of which I don’t quite catch. “You know,” she says, returning the phone to her ear, “let me send out a few emails tomorrow. Or, wait, what day is it?”

“Saturday,” I say.

“Monday. I’ll send them out Monday.”

By the time we hang up a few minutes later, I’m feeling quite good about things. Well, most things. I still haven’t spoken to Teddy. I guess maybe I’ve been putting it off, because a part of me is scared it’ll be like last time all over again—calls sent to voice mail, text messages that go unanswered. But the longer I wait, the less chance I can mend whatever damage has already been done. So I suck it up. I press call.

It’s ringing.

Izzy is probably going to wonder what’s taking me so long… except who am I kidding? I already know it takes her two-point-five hours just to blow-dry her amazing hair. Not to mention, she’s going to have to duke it out with Reagan over that flat iron.

It’s still ringing.

For all I know, he’s back in Pittsburgh right now. Maybe he packed his bags Wednesday and never looked back. I didn’t even stop by our shared office to see whether he’d boxed up his things. He must’ve, if his application for next semester wasn’t approved. Though maybe he doesn’t know that yet.

There’s a click, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s sent me to voice mail. But then a familiar, deep voice says, “I was starting to worry.”

I breathe a sigh of relief at the warmth in his tone—no hurt, no exasperation. “Hi.”

“I thought maybe you weren’t going to call,” he says. “In which case I would’ve had to show up on your doorstep to beg you to reconsider.”

“Of course I was going to call,” I say in a small voice. But I don’t really want to have another serious conversation over a phone call. “Can you meet me at The Falconer in maybe”—I hold the phone away from my ear to double-check the time—“twenty minutes?”