chapter twenty
THE MORNING OF GRADUATION dawned overcast and humid. Usually, the ceremony was held outside in a grassy amphitheater, a picturesque venue with concentric stone steps and towering trees that made commencement look like an ancient Druid ritual. The threat of rain, however, threw the plans in doubt, and up until the last minute, we weren’t sure if the ceremony would be relocated indoors. In the end, the college decided to go ahead with the outdoor ceremony but issued everyone a plastic poncho in case. I was wearing my rental regalia, feeling damp and uncomfortably hot, my shoes squishing in the moist grass and my poncho tucked under my arm. Since I was receiving an award, I would be seated on the dais with the board of trustees, student speakers, and other award recipients. Larry waved at me as I processed in, holding up his own teaching medal and giving me a thumbs-up.
Graduation was considerably less entertaining without Larry seated beside me cracking jokes and offering assorted beverages and snacks. I paged through my program as the rest of the faculty processed in and then the undergraduates, beaming and waving at their parents in the audience. Around me, I could hear my more jaded colleagues grumble about wasting their morning at the ceremony. The pomp and circumstance weren’t for us or even for the students, they complained—it was for the parents, who ogled us in our robes like we were a circus menagerie and then misted up seeing their own children in Fairfax’s red-and-black regalia. I couldn’t help it, though—I had a soft spot for graduation. Every time I heard the familiar Elgar melody, I felt myself getting sentimental. From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Emily Young dressed in her regalia, her mortarboard covered in rhinestones and photographs, and I felt a bittersweet mix of emotion. I’d heard from Pam that she’d accepted her Columbia offer but deferred it for a year, under the pretext that she wanted to work for a year and travel. In truth, I suspected she was planning to follow Rick wherever he was. Part of me didn’t blame her. She was in love.
From where I sat in the third row, I could make out the back of Adam’s head. His hair looked as if it had been freshly cut, and he was seated next to the white-haired chairman of the board of trustees. Every once in a while, I could see him lean over to whisper something into the trustee’s ear. With a pang, I thought of our Princeton graduation more than ten years earlier. I’d slumped in my seat, hungover on peach schnapps, fighting off waves of nausea and self-pity. I never did see Adam on graduation day.
Adam made his opening remarks, and a series of student speeches followed. The salutatorian, a classics major, gave a Latin address that no one but Steve understood. The valedictorian, a former student of mine, gave a dull but unimpeachable speech about hard work and big dreams. A local judge who was receiving an honorary doctorate pontificated on civic responsibilities. I shifted nervously in my seat. The awards were coming up next.
Three of us were getting the Distinguished Teaching Award—a guy from political science, a woman from chemistry, and me. I watched as the two other recipients were called up and introduced by their deans, congratulated, and applauded. When my turn came, I stood up and walked to the front of the dais as the dean of humanities introduced me.
“Professor Anne Corey is a scholar of nineteenth-century British literature, specializing in the work of women writers. Although she has only been at Fairfax for a few years, she has already made her mark on the college. One faculty member notes, ‘She is a brilliant scholar, a devoted teacher, and a generous colleague—a true humanist, in all senses of the word.’ Another colleague writes, ‘Professor Corey makes the text come alive for her students. Suddenly, these supposedly boring nineteenth-century novels become interesting and relevant to their twenty-first-century lives.’
“Her students concur, praising her ability to present difficult material in a clear and engaging way. ‘She uses real-world examples, and she has a great sense of humor,’ one student said. Several said, ‘She made me fall in love with literature.’ One student, who has taken every class Professor Corey has offered, wrote, ‘Professor Corey is my hero. She taught me that books are powerful and that language can make and remake entire worlds. I want to be her when I grow up.’
“For her record of excellence in teaching, I am pleased to award the President’s Distinguished Teaching Award to Professor Anne Corey.”
I was blushing as I moved to shake the dean’s hand. I turned to face Adam, who placed the teaching medal around my neck and handed me a certificate, sealed in a large envelope. “Congratulations,” he said, formally shaking my hand. In the audience, I could hear Larry whooping, “Go Annie!”
It was the quickest graduation ceremony I’d ever attended, cut short after Adam conferred the degrees and it began to rain. Instead of processing out, everyone disbanded in a helter-skelter kind of way, pulling on their ponchos and running for cover. I found Larry huddled under a tree waiting for me, his fluorescent-orange poncho wrapped around his almost-hot-pink regalia.
“I want to be just like Professor Corey when I grow up,” he said, pretending to pray to the sky. “She’s my hero.”
“Shut up, Larry,” I said. “I was dying of embarrassment up there.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest,” he said. “Isn’t it wonderful to be worshipped?” He reached over to inspect my medal, pulling his own medal out from under his poncho to compare. “Wait a second,” he cried. “I think your medal’s bigger than mine. No fair!”
I’d invited Larry to be my guest for the luncheon, so we dropped off our damp regalia in our offices and headed to the President’s House, Larry keeping me dry under his enormous black umbrella. Because of the rain, the luncheon had been moved from the garden into the main house, with several round tables covered in white tablecloths and scattered with red and black confetti. Larry and I were seated at Adam’s table, along with the other teaching award recipients. Adam hadn’t yet arrived, leaving two empty seats diagonally across from us. I peeked at the name cards. “President Adam Martinez,” read one. “Guest,” read the other. I felt my heart constrict with jealousy, wondering who Adam had invited to be his plus-one.
“I’m done with him,” Larry said, complaining about Jack. After weeks of no contact, Jack had finally resurfaced with a new phone number and new plans for the future. Larry allowed himself to start hoping again. “He kept telling me, ‘Just hold on a little bit longer. We’ll be together soon.’ But then the next thing I know, I’m reading in People that he and Bex are in Paris renewing their vows. Paris! And just to twist the knife further, they’re apparently trying to have another kid.”
“I saw that,” I said. “I’m sorry. I thought maybe he’d changed.”
“No kidding! He’s back to playing the Happy Family Man, just because of this stupid vampire sequel. He cares more about his image than about me.”
Our salads were served, and Larry picked listlessly at the leaves. “I can’t eat,” he said. “I can’t sleep, I think I’m losing the rest of my hair.” He sighed heavily. “They shouldn’t call it a breakup. They should call it a breakdown.”
Adam seated himself at the table, apologizing for being late. He greeted Larry and me from across the table, but our conversation was almost immediately interrupted by an elderly alum who came over to introduce herself. The seat beside Adam stayed empty. As soon as the alum left, one of Adam’s aides appeared with something for him to sign, and he scanned the page quickly.
“Did you not like your salad?” a server asked, leaning over Larry to take his untouched plate.
“Oh, no, the salad was delightful,” he said. “I’m just not hungry. I got dumped the other day.”
The server, a young woman, looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said before hurrying away.
“See?” Larry said. “It’s like I have the cooties. No one wants to hear about a breakup. No one wants to hear about my tawdry personal life.”
“The woman just asked about your salad, Larry. She didn’t expect you to spill your guts.”
“You’re right,” Larry said. “I’ll just be mute now.” He pretended to zip his lips.
I glanced at Adam. His salad lay untouched, and he was jotting something down on a small pad of paper. I wondered where his guest was and then hated myself for caring.
I turned back to Larry. “You’ll feel better in a few weeks,” I said, lowering my voice.
“A few weeks? I’ll be lucky if I ever get over this. My heart doesn’t heal so easily.”
“Give it time. I read someplace that it takes half the length of the relationship in order to get over a breakup. You dated Jack for six months, right? So it should take you about three months to get over him. You’ll be fine by September.” I tried to sound as clinical as possible.
“Are you really telling me that my feelings can be reduced to a math equation?” Larry asked.
“Everyone’s different, of course,” I said. “I mean, it definitely takes women longer to get over breakups than men.”
Larry sighed. “I do think Jack’s already over me. He’s surrounded by so many beautiful people. I’m sure he’s already found someone else.”
“ ‘Men are only as faithful as their options,’ ” I quoted.
“Oscar Wilde?”
“No, Chris Rock.”
I heard a slight noise and turned, but it was only Adam retrieving a pen that he’d dropped under the table. He was closer to us than I’d realized, and for a second, I wondered if he could actually overhear what we were saying, though it seemed unlikely given the various other conversations going on around him.
I turned back to Larry. “I think you should just learn to hate Jack. That’ll make it easier for you to get over him. Trust me.”
“But how do you hate someone you once loved?” Larry asked. “I hate myself, not Jack. I’m not like you, Anne. I can’t just stop loving someone and cut them off!”
“It’s self-preservation. I don’t just suddenly stop loving the person. I just convince myself that what I thought was love was really just temporary insanity. A brief lapse of judgment. It makes things easier. I have to protect myself.”
“But how do you do it? You’re merciless. When someone crosses you, it’s like they might as well be dead to you. I can’t do that . . . I always come crawling back.”
“Oh, Larry!” I cried, my voice welling up with emotion, desperately trying to avoid looking in Adam’s direction. “I might seem heartless, but I’m not. If you knew how agonizing it can be . . . You’re not the only one that’s ever kept loving someone, even when you know there’s no hope.”
I tried to compose myself, blinking back tears of exhaustion and self-pity. Larry reached over and squeezed my arm.
“I know, Annie,” he said. “I’ve always known you had a huge heart.”
We got up to leave, Larry complaining of a headache and me longing to crawl into my bed. The rest of our lunch companions were still eating dessert and ordering coffee, so we made a quick circuit around the table, apologizing for our early exit and wishing everyone a good summer.
“Congratulations again,” Adam said, rising to shake my hand. “Our students are lucky to have you.” He held my hand for a beat longer than I expected and then reached over to grab something from the table. “Don’t forget your certificate,” he said, handing me the envelope and looking at me meaningfully. I looked at the envelope and then at Adam, puzzled, but he’d already turned away and hastily left the table.
I tucked the envelope carefully under my jacket and ducked with Larry into the rain, the two of us jogging the few blocks to my apartment. He promised to call me the next day, and I watched him head out into the storm, the bottom of his trousers wet with rain and his black umbrella bobbing in the wind.
My apartment was dark and humid, and I could hear raindrops beating forlornly against my kitchen window. Jellyby hopped onto the couch behind me, purring and butting her head against my hand.
“Oh, Jelly,” I sighed, kicking my shoes off and putting my feet up on the couch. “What a year.” I opened up the envelope holding my certificate and check. The certificate was on thick parchment, with my name written in calligraphy and a large gilt college seal at the top.
The President and Trustees of Fairfax College
hereby award
ANNE COREY
the President’s Distinguished Teaching Award
in recognition of demonstrated leadership and commitment to teaching
conferred on this second day of June.
It was signed by the chair of the board of trustees and by Adam.
But there was something else in the envelope. I pulled out a small slip of paper that had been folded in half, my name written hastily on top, the writing barely legible.
What’s this? I thought, unfolding the paper. It was a handwritten note, dashed off in black pen. Before I could even read the words, I recognized the handwriting. Many years ago, I’d spent hours studying those narrow, slanted letters, seeing them as a kind of code, trying to figure out what the words meant. Adam had finally written to me again.
Dear Anne,
I’ve been struggling to figure out what to say to you. It feels silly even to write this note, but then I remember how writing all those letters to you so many years ago helped me express myself. I’ve always felt like I could say things to you that I couldn’t say to anyone else.
I know it’s been thirteen years since we broke up: thirteen years since I made the biggest mistake of my life. There hasn’t been a day that’s passed that I haven’t beaten myself up for letting you go. I know you’ve probably moved on and that I’m thirteen years too late, but I need you to know that my feelings for you have never changed. As I’m writing this, I can hear you telling Larry that it just takes time to get over a relationship and that women take breakups harder than men. You’re wrong. I’ve never gotten over you.
For a long time, I tried to forget you and date other people. I avoided reading anything about you. I even half convinced myself I hated you. But I was lying to myself. I wouldn’t admit it then, but the reason I came to Fairfax was for you.
You probably suspected all of this. After all, you’ve always been good at figuring me out. I’m sure you noticed how I looked for any excuse to bump into you this past year. I never said anything, though, because I couldn’t tell what your feelings were, and when I did open my mouth, I just seemed to put my foot in it.
At the risk of making a fool of myself once again, let me tell you this: I’ve loved none but you.
Besos,
Adam
I stared at Adam’s note, shaking. I read it again and then again. Adam still had feelings for me, even after all this time. I thought of how he’d driven me to the hospital after my father had his stroke, how he’d held me at the funeral, how he’d told me in the library that Rick didn’t deserve me. He’d been trying to tell me all along that he still loved me, but I was too stupid to realize. I jumped up from the couch, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. Impulsively, I ran out the door.
It was still raining heavily outside, and I’d dashed out without grabbing an umbrella or even a jacket. All I knew was that I had to see Adam as quickly as possible. I ran down the empty streets to his house, ignoring the driving rain, hoping he was still there. The front door to the mansion was open, the guests were gone, and the caterers were rolling the last of the round folding tables from the reception area.
“Do you know where President Martinez is?” I asked. “I need to speak to him.”
“Check the library,” one of the caterers said. “I saw him go in there a little while ago.”
The library door was open a crack, and I could see the warm glow of a lamp inside. I pushed the door open.
Adam was sitting on the leather couch, reading. He looked up, surprised, and jumped to his feet.
“Anne!” he said. “Come in. Please—sit down.”
I sat across from Adam, not quite sure how to begin. “I got your note,” I said, feeling agonized and inarticulate. “I—”
Adam was looking at me intently, his face drained of color. When I paused, his gaze flickered and he dropped his eyes. I realized he thought I was going to reject him.
“I love you,” I said, my voice choking with emotion. “I’ve always loved you. I’ve never gotten over you, either.”
I was crying now, openly and shamelessly. The look of pain on Adam’s face quickly melted into one of relief and joy. He pulled me to him, and I found myself sobbing.
“I’m sorry,” I cried. “I— It was my fault. I couldn’t swallow my pride. I pushed you away and then I was too stubborn to apologize.”
“Anne,” Adam said. He leaned over to kiss me, and I felt a surge of recognition and joy and relief. “I love you, I’ve been in love with you from the moment I saw you,” he said, burying his fingers in my damp hair and wiping the tears from my face.
I touched Adam’s face, remembering it, memorizing it. To be so close to him again after being so far away was indescribable. Could this really be him? Was I really holding him? Was this real? Adam was usually so hard to read in public, always with his professional face on, revealing nothing. Now, though, I was so close that I could see every line of his face, every movement. I pressed my lips against his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth. He held onto me tightly, as if he never wanted to let go of me again.
The words came tumbling out of each of us, bursts of confession mixed with explanation and self-recrimination.
“I wasn’t sure how I’d react when I saw you again,” he told me. “And honestly, I wasn’t even sure if you wanted to see me. But then you came to the reception, and I was so glad you were there.”
“Really?” I said. “You didn’t seem glad. I actually thought you were still mad at me after all these years.”
Adam shook his head. “I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t believe I still had such strong feelings for you.”
“But Larry told me you didn’t even recognize me!”
“Oh, I recognized you. I just—I couldn’t believe how beautiful you looked. And how out of reach. You looked so confident and pulled together. I was sure you were married or something and that I had no chance.”
“But I wasn’t!”
“I didn’t know that,” Adam said. “I tried to talk to you after convocation, but then Rick showed up, and it was pretty clear there was something going on between the two of you.”
“Don’t remind me,” I groaned. “God, I wish I’d never met Rick. Why didn’t I listen to you when you warned me?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Adam said. “I was jealous, and I guess I was hoping you two would break up.”
I leaned my head against Adam’s chest for a moment, thinking. “But what about Tiffany?” I finally asked. “Weren’t the two of you seriously dating? I heard you two were getting engaged.”
Adam gave a short laugh. “Tiffany was very welcoming when I first arrived at Fairfax. She showed me around town and introduced me to a lot of different people. I thought I’d made it clear we were just colleagues, but I guess she had other ideas. I feel bad about that. I didn’t mean to lead her on.”
“And Bex—what about her? It seemed like the two of you were getting close, too.”
“Bex?” Adam said, sounding surprised. “No—there was nothing there. We worked closely together on the library renovation project, that’s all. Why do you ask?”
I blushed. “I was jealous,” I admitted. “Couldn’t you tell? It must have crossed your mind at some point that I might still have feelings for you.”
“I didn’t want to get my hopes up,” he said. “After New Year’s, I thought maybe there was a chance we could rekindle things, but then you came into my office and asked for my help with Rick’s job and I realized you two were really serious. I knew I had to step back.”
“I can’t believe how stupid I was,” I said. “And Rick was totally MIA when my father had his stroke. Did you know he barely even came to the hospital to visit me? And he didn’t come to the funeral either.”
“I was wondering about that.”
“I mean, I gave him permission not to come, but still, you would think he would have made more of an effort. You saw what a wreck I was . . .” I cringed at the memory. “I never got a chance to thank you for comforting me after the funeral—”
Adam gave a rueful laugh. “I worried about that . . . about whether I’d overstepped again. I knew you were in a bad place, and I wanted to be there for you. But when I got that very formal letter thanking me for my donation—I assumed you were asking me to back off.”
“I’m sorry,” I cried. “That wasn’t it at all—I was planning to send you a more personal note, but then this whole Rick debacle happened and . . .” I gave an exasperated sigh. “I really had no idea Rick was such an ass.”
“I thought I’d completely misread you,” Adam said. “That I’d butted into your life yet again. So when we saw each other in the library, I’d convinced myself that we were going to remain professional colleagues—that that’s what you wanted. But when you opened up about Rick, I found myself getting hopeful again. It was hearing you talk to Larry at the luncheon that finally pushed me to say something. I couldn’t let you go on thinking that I didn’t care and that I was over you. Men have hearts, too, you know.” He smiled and kissed me again.
“This library,” I said, looking around the room. “It’s beautiful. When I first saw it, I wanted to kill you. This was supposed to be my dream library.”
“It is your dream library,” Adam said. “Remember how we used to go on those walks in college and point out the houses we liked? And you saw that home with a beautiful library, and I promised I’d give it to you one day?”
“Of course I remember.”
Adam laughed. “We weren’t together, but I still designed this library with you in mind. I kept thinking to myself, What would Anne want? and How would she want her ideal library to look?”
“It’s perfect,” I said.
Adam hesitated. “Do you see those books over there?” he asked, pointing to a set of books with faded leather spines and marbleized boards. I reached over to look at them more closely. All of the spines read Persuasion.
“My favorite!” I exclaimed, pulling one out to look at it more closely. “I still have the copy you gave me in college, you know.”
“Open it,” Adam said.
I opened to the frontispiece, mottled with age. “Is this a first edition?” I gasped.
An envelope slipped out of the pages of the book and fell to the floor.
“What’s this?” I asked, reaching down to pick it up. The envelope had been torn open roughly. I flipped it over and stared at the writing on the front. It was my own handwriting. I stared at it for a moment, confused. The postmark read “Princeton, NJ. PM. 3 JUN 2003.”
Shaking, I reached into the envelope and pulled out a cameo ring. The ring I’d mailed back to Adam in a fit of rage thirteen years earlier. The ring I might as well have thrown into the trash, I was so certain I would never see it again.
“You kept it,” I said, running my fingers over the familiar pink-and-gold face.
“I’ve been holding onto it all these years,” he said. “Just in case you came back. Just in case you’d give me a second chance.”
He reached over and took the ring from me.
“Annie,” he said, dropping to one knee. “I’ve known you were the one from the moment I met you. Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I said, my heart in my throat. Adam slipped the ring on my finger. It still fit. He stood up and brought my hand to his mouth. “I thought I’d never be happier than the first time you agreed to marry me, but this—this is even better.” He wrapped me in his arms, and I felt myself dissolve in his embrace. Suddenly, he pulled away and shut the library door.
“Remember what happened last time I proposed?” he asked, smiling.
“Yes, I remember,” I said, blushing. “How could I forget?”
“It would be scandalous for the college president to be discovered making love to his fiancée in the campus library. But you know, this is my own personal library in my own private home.”
“What if someone comes in?”
“No one will—I told the caterers to lock up when they left.”
Adam pulled me to the window seat, where the rain was still beating against the windowpanes.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time,” Adam whispered. “It’s like something out of a dream.”
“No,” I said, smiling into his eyes. “It’s like something out of a book.”