chapter nineteen
I TOSSED RICK’S LETTER INTO the paper shredder and listened to its satisfying munching. I’d already tossed Rick’s novels into the garbage, along with his yoga mat and an old concert T-shirt he’d left at my place. I’d purged my inbox of all his e-mails, blocked his number on my phone, deleted the messages he left on my office voicemail. The bouquet of flowers I told Pam to keep, much to her ill-concealed delight.
“Are you sure?” she asked, sniffing one of the blooms. “They’re gorgeous. He clearly spent a pretty penny on them.”
“Take them,” I said, making a face. The arrangement was identical to the one he’d sent me after my father’s death, down to the “Thinking of You” card stuck to a plastic prong. I felt nauseated even looking at it.
“If you insist,” Pam said, taking the bouquet and placing it more prominently on the reception desk. “You know, maybe you should give him a second chance—you two were a cute couple.”
I shot her a death stare, and she laughed nervously. “Or maybe you need more time?” she ventured.
As I walked away, I could see her picking up her phone.
I tried to be on campus as little as possible, going in only to teach my classes and hold office hours. I strictly avoided department meetings or any school-related events, finding them intolerable. In the beginning there were the pitying looks and the well-meaning greetings—“How are you?”—that I didn’t know how to answer. Were they talking about my father? About Rick? Both? After the initial show of concern, people didn’t know how to act around me. My colleagues began skirting by me in the hallways, avoiding my eyes, smiling at me wanly. I felt like a campus ghost, a harbinger of bad luck. I began to keep my office door closed, both to detract visitors and to contain my bad mojo.
The only person I really saw was Larry, who came by regularly to keep me company in the evenings. He would mop up my tears and urge me to eat something besides Nutella out of the jar, and then the two of us would lie on the couch and get drunk, having competitions to see who was more pathetic.
“I’m a middle-aged follicularly challenged loser,” he’d begin.
“I’m a frigid bitch.”
“I’m a flaming douche nugget.”
“I’m an orphan.”
“My boyfriend dumped me for his career.”
“Mine cheated on me with a student.”
“Hey, Anne?”
“Yes, Larry.”
“What does ‘flaming douche nugget’ mean anyway?”
One night, Larry pulled up a picture of himself on his computer and, using Paintbrush, started drawing in hair.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“It’s called poor man’s art therapy,” he said. “I’m trying to work through my issues.”
“I think you’re going to be in therapy for a long time,” I said, getting up to head to the kitchen. “Hey, do you want more wine?” I asked, checking the empty bottles that now covered my kitchen counter.
“I think we just finished the last bottle,” Larry called out from the living room.
“No—I think there’s a little left in one of these,” I said, inspecting some red wine I’d left out, uncorked. “Oh, wait,” I said, raising it to my eye and squinting inside. “It looks like some fruit flies drowned in it overnight.”
“Retch,” Larry said, gagging.
“Maybe I could just sieve the flies out.”
“OK, stop,” Larry said. “We’re pathetic, but let’s not stoop to new lows.”
*
I WAS IN MY office one afternoon, getting ready to leave for the day, when I heard a knock on the door. The only person who ever knocked now was Larry. Even Pam had started to avoid me after she suggested I join her church singles group and I told her I’d rather date Satan.
“Come in!” I called out.
The door opened and a man in sunglasses and fedora slipped inside, shutting the door behind him quickly. He pulled off his hat, revealing a full beard and a man bun.
“What the—” I said.
It was Rick, incognito in his new facial hair and disguise.
“Are you kidding me?” I said, snorting. “You look like an idiot.”
Rick looked stunned, then hurt.
“I’m a broken man,” he said. “I’m nothing without you.”
“God, you really are a one-trick pony,” I said. “Did you steal that line from a book? You’re pathetic.”
Rick put his hand to his heart, like I’d wounded him physically.
“I know you’re mad,” he said. “I know I betrayed your trust. I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Ugh,” I said, getting up from my desk. “You’re shameless. Get the hell out.”
“I’m still in love with you.”
“You’re in love with yourself! Look at you with that . . . that lame man bun and beard! Who do you think you are? Jared Leto?”
“Let’s run away to Rome and start over. We’ll find a romantic little pensione and hide from the world.”
“Are you high?” I asked. “Is this what you told your other girlfriends? That you’d whisk them away to Rome? No, thank you. I’m perfectly happy where I am.”
“I can take care of you, Anne—help you with your writing, be your editor and first reader, build your confidence. You look tired, Anne. I’m so sorry—I’m sorry I’ve made you suffer.”
“I can take care of myself! God, you really are a raging narcissist, aren’t you? Get out of here or I’m calling campus police.”
“You wouldn’t do that, would you?” Rick said, coming closer to me, his voice suddenly threatening.
I stepped back and reached for my phone. Most people had left for the day, but I knew Larry was still in his office.
“” I typed.
“What are you doing?” Rick asked. “Who are you calling?”
I ignored him, mashing my fingers against the screen.
“”
“Give that to me,” Rick said, reaching over to grab my phone. I pulled it out of his reach.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” I said. “I’ll scream, I swear I will.”
Rick moved toward me, and I dodged from his grasp, my heart pounding in my chest. Where the hell was Larry?
“Don’t you dare say anything,” Rick hissed. “That would be a huge mistake.”
“Get the hell away from me!” I said, my voice rising.
The door suddenly burst open and there was Larry, phone in hand, panting from his mad dash down the hall.
“Hey, Anne, so sorry to interrupt! Uh, FERPA, I mean, uh, there’s a student I need to talk abou—”
He suddenly recognized Rick. “OMG,” he gasped.
“Larry,” Rick said, moving toward him, his voice oozing charm. “It’s good to see you.”
“Slow your roll,” Larry said, entering a kung fu crouch. I looked at him in shock. Larry had never taken martial arts in his entire life. I suddenly realized he was imitating Keanu from The Matrix.
Rick laughed outright in Larry’s face.
“Are you serious?” he said. “What is this? Kung Fu Panda?”
“At least I’m not a fraud and a coward like you are,” Larry said.
“You really want to do this?” Rick said, advancing toward Larry. “I saw hand-to-hand combat in Fallujah, you know.”
“I’m not scared of you,” Larry said, rocking back and forth on his legs. He crooked his finger at Rick.
“Get out,” I told Rick, my voice sounding eerily quiet and composed. While Rick had been laughing at Larry, I’d grabbed my office scissors from my desk drawer. They were the only thing I had in my office that remotely looked like a weapon.
“Oh shit,” Larry said. “Watch out. She’s gonna Bobbitt you.”
I pointed the scissors at Rick. “Don’t test me,” I said. “I will cut you.”
Rick looked flabbergasted. Between me and my scissors and Larry in his kung fu crouch, he couldn’t tell which of us was crazier.
“Get out,” I spat at him, menacingly opening and closing the shears.
Rick moved toward me, and I sliced the air between us, coming uncomfortably close to his belt buckle. He jumped back, his eyes wide. Without waiting for me to say anything else, he spun around and scurried out, clapping his fedora on his head like some cartoon criminal.
Larry slammed the door after him and locked it, then turned to me, breathing heavily. “That was awesome, Anne,” he said. “That was so Edward Scissorhands!”
In the days following the incident, I filed a restraining order against Rick, and the Department of Campus Security posted a couple of officers outside the building as a precautionary measure. Larry insisted on walking me to my classes and standing sentry while I taught, and for a week, he slept over at my apartment, armed with a badminton racket in case Rick was lurking in the bushes or hiding in my closet. I threw myself into my teaching, distracting myself from my father’s death and Rick’s betrayal by filling my days with student conferences and writing workshops. I told myself that while I’d failed Emily, maybe I could redeem myself with my other students, and I spent many late nights fine-tuning my lectures and grading essays.
As the days passed with no further sign of Rick, I began to relax. I knew, deep down, that he would never bother me again. He was a coward, through and through.
*
THE SEMESTER WAS FINALLY coming to an end. I’d been left alone for the most part, allowed to hide out in my office, so I was surprised when Steve poked his head in and cleared his throat.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Come in.”
“I haven’t seen you around much,” Steve said, settling into my chair. “What are you working on?”
“Just finishing up some copyedits,” I said wearily. “The press wants them by Friday.”
“Still on track with your publication date?”
“Yes—so far so good.”
“Well, congratulations,” Steve said. “That’s excellent news. And now I have even more good tidings to deliver.”
I looked at Steve, puzzled. I’d already signed my employment contract for the following year, and everyone already knew my book was coming out.
“I’m pleased to let you know that you’ve won this year’s Distinguished Teaching Award,” Steve said.
“I have?” I said, incredulous. People like Larry won the college Distinguished Teaching Award. They were considered legends. I couldn’t imagine myself in the same category as them.
“Your students nominated you last fall, and we found out the results today. I heard you were the unanimous choice.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’m speechless.”
“It’s a tremendous honor. You’ll be receiving a special medal and certificate at graduation, plus a tidy little sum of money to purchase books. We’re all very proud of you, Anne. It’s rather nice to have a bit of good cheer to spread around after the, ahem, events of the last month. The college will make an announcement in the next few days, and you’ll receive an invitation to an honorary luncheon afterwards.”
Steve was beaming at me, his face pink with pride. “Felicitations!” he cried, shaking my hand exuberantly. I let myself smile for the first time in what felt like months.
*
MY COPY EDITOR HAD asked me to double-check a citation, so I dutifully headed to the library to track down the book I needed. Construction on the new addition to the building was slated to start in the summer, and library staffers were already moving items into storage and rearranging bookshelves in anticipation. Luckily, the book I needed was still in the library stacks on the second floor, and though the area had been cordoned off to students, the research librarian gave me permission to access the area.
Before heading upstairs, I took a minute to look at the architectural mock-up that was on display in the lobby. There, under a glass-enclosed dome, was a miniature replica of the renovated library, dotted with miniature trees and people. Bex’s gift would update the infrastructure and also add a modern annex with a student café and a state-of-the-art space for Manuscripts and Special Collections. A small placard noted that the complete structure would be renamed the Chandler-Beckington Library when it reopened.
I walked up the stairs to the second floor, my hand on the worn wooden banister, feeling a little sad that this would be my last time in the stacks for a while. No more leisurely browsing through the dark aisles. No more sampling interesting books, buffet-style, from the shelves. No more quiet afternoons tucked into a window seat, reading through my selections.
I stepped over a velvet rope barring access to the bookshelves and headed straight for the PR-PS section. The air was cool and dry, and I breathed in the familiar, comforting smell of paper and ink. Natural light came in through the glass windows but was soon swallowed up as I walked farther into the stacks. Squinting, I tried to make out call numbers—I was looking for PR865 and found myself in the PR600s, then 700s, then the 800s. The row ended, and I quickly slipped to the other side to continue my hunt.
Someone was standing at the other end of the row, quietly looking out the window at the courtyard below, his back silhouetted by the light.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Sorry—I didn’t realize there was anyone else up here.”
The person turned around, and for a second I couldn’t make out who it was.
But then the person said “Anne,” and my chest tightened at the familiar sound. Adam.
I blinked, my eyes adjusting, and saw him standing there, a folder tucked under his arm. My hands suddenly felt damp.
“Hi,” I said, walking tentatively toward him. “I was just here looking for a book. The librarian gave me permission to come up.” My voice sounded shrill in the empty stacks.
Adam nodded, turning back to the window. “There’s a great view from up here,” he said, pointing to the quad littered with students sunbathing on the grass, or playing Frisbee, or studying. A banner was stretched across two trees with the message “GOOD LUCK ON FINALS!!!!!” painted in large black letters with a bunch of red and white balloons bouncing gaily in the breeze.
“I like to come up here every once in a while to get away from the craziness,” he said. “It’s always nice and quiet up here.”
I stood next to him, watching the activity below. Through the windows, I could hear muffled laughter and the sound of hip-hop playing on a distant boom box. For several seconds we stood in uncomfortable silence, staring out the window and avoiding each other’s eyes.
“How are you doing?” Adam asked. “It’s been a hard semester for you.”
Ugh, I thought. Even Adam felt sorry for me. Poor, pathetic Anne, whose dad had passed away and whose boyfriend then disappeared in a cloud of scandal.
“I’ve had better semesters,” I said. “I’ll be glad for summer to get here.”
“I’m sure,” Adam said, nodding. “Listen—I’m sorry about everything with Rick. I had no idea he’d stolen from so many people’s work.”
“You didn’t?” I asked, surprised. “I thought maybe you suspected it. When you warned me he wasn’t trustworthy, isn’t that what you were talking about?”
Adam shook his head. “No, not at all. I was actually thinking of something else entirely.”
“Was it about his political activism? Rick told me that you two clashed over his union work.”
“Is that what he told you?” Adam laughed. “Wow, he really is a true fabulist.”
“It isn’t true? You didn’t fire him from his job at Houston?”
“Me? Fire him? Absolutely not. He agreed to leave after he was discovered having an affair with one of his students. The parents found out and wanted to press charges, but in the end the girl wouldn’t cooperate. And technically, Rick hadn’t done anything wrong, at least according to the school’s fraternization policy. The girl was over the age of eighteen and she was no longer his student.”
“That’s awful.”
“After he left, we found out he’d actually been involved with several undergraduate women at the same time. It was a real mess. You can imagine my surprise when I saw they’d hired him at Fairfax.”
“Ugh, I’m such an idiot,” I said, flinching. “I can’t believe I went to bat for him. He should be barred from ever teaching again.” I looked at him curiously. “So why did you still help him out, knowing all of this?”
“I didn’t do it for Rick,” Adam said, his voice husky. “I did it for you.”
I felt my face get warm. Adam was standing so close to me that I could practically touch him. If I took just a half step forward, I would be in his arms.
“I should’ve listened when you warned me about him,” I said.
Adam shook his head. “No, I should never have said anything. You were right. It was none of my business.” He cleared his throat slightly. “I care for you, Anne. I didn’t want you to get hurt. I— He didn’t deserve you.”
Adam was looking at me now, his brown eyes holding mine. My heart caught in my throat. This is it, I thought. He wanted a sign from me, a hint of encouragement—I was sure of it. I could feel the dam of pent-up emotion about to break.
I started to say something, but there was a sudden slap of flip-flops from the stairwell.
“Dr. Corey!” I heard someone say. “Yo, are you up here?”
I saw Chad Vickers’s curly head peek out from behind a bookcase.
“Chad?” I said.
“There you are, Dr. C!” he exclaimed. He loped over, one earbud dangling from his ear, his skateboard under his arm. “The librarian told me I could find you here.”
“Is this one of your students?” Adam asked me, looking amused.
“Yo—you’re the president, aren’t you?” Chad said, his eyes widening. “What’re you doing up here?”
“Just checking out a book,” Adam said, pulling a random book off the shelf. I tried not to laugh.
“Cool, cool,” Chad said, his head bobbing up and down. “That’s tight. Our president reads. I’m down with that.”
“What do you need, Chad?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. Right. I need your signature, Dr. Corey. So I can graduate.” He began rummaging through his backpack.
“You’re a senior?” Adam asked. “Congratulations!”
“I know, finally,” Chad said. “It only took me six years. I’ve been on academic probation forever, but Dr. C—she helped me out. Let me take her class three times so I could finally pass.” He found a crumpled sheet of paper and tried to smooth it out on his knee.
“You must have learned a lot in her class,” Adam said.
“Oh, yeah, for sure. Like Tennyson’s legit GOAT. His poetry’s dope.”
“I agree,” Adam said, nodding and laughing.
“Here’s the form from my academic adviser,” Chad said, handing me the crumpled piece of paper. “Sorry it’s so mangled.”
“Anne—I’ll catch up with you later,” Adam said, making a move for the stairwell.
“Wait—” I said, scrambling to find a pen in my bag. “This will only take a minute.”
“Oh, man,” Chad said, realization belatedly dawning on him. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No!” Adam and I said in unison.
“Sorry—I do have to run,” Adam said. “But Chad—good luck, and I’ll see you at graduation.” I felt my heart sink as he disappeared down the stairwell.
“He seems like a cool cat,” Chad said to me after Adam had left. “You guys know each other well?”
“Sort of,” I said. I finished signing the sheet of paper, and Chad tucked it back into his backpack.
“If it’s OK with you, I’m gonna run this back to my adviser before he leaves for the day,” he said. He popped in his earbuds, dropped his skateboard, and coasted the twenty feet to the stairwell. I half expected him to ride his skateboard down the stairs, but soon I heard the descending beat of his flip-flops.
Turning back to the shelves, I closed my eyes and rested my head against the book spines, feeling a swelling of disappointment and despair. Had I misread the situation? Why had Adam left so abruptly? I shoved my hands in my pockets and felt the slip of paper with the call number for the book I needed. Pulling it out, I saw that the number had been so badly smudged by my perspiration that it was almost impossible to read. Was it PR865 I wanted? Or was it PR866? I steadied myself against the walls of books, suddenly feeling claustrophobic.
When I finally got to the correct spot, I scanned the call numbers for a match. I double-checked and then triple-checked, but the book I needed wasn’t there. I left the library empty-handed.