“What is it?”
“My favorite place.”
Once I knew that he was following me, I let go. It was a friendly touch, nothing more, nothing like Kiley had suggested. We went to the literary criticism section, the place where most of Florence Berkley’s books were supposed to be. I gestured to the shelf. Most of it was empty.
“That’s all me,” I said.
“Berkley,” he said.
“Yep.”
“You don’t have your own copies?”
“I always check out from the library or rent the book from the university. Do you know how expensive these books are?” Then I remembered that he was a billionaire and didn’t have to think about the costs of textbooks.
“I’m aware,” he said. I found that hard to believe. “All of Berkley’s books?”
“Andall of the ones from the philosophy section.” I nodded proudly, then turned to him. “I think I’ve decided on a thesis.”
He faced me too. “Have you?”
“I want to argue that sacrifice is inherently linked with submissive power.”
He grinned. “That’s what you’ve decided on?”
“I’ll mainly useThe Death of Powerand a few different works of art, maybe a novel too, to demonstrate it.”
I expected him to tease me relentlessly for the thesis, as it was our argument of grandeur only weeks before, but he was silent. He turned back to the shelves and studied the empty space. As if in deep thought. That almost made me more nervous. “What do you think of Oasis?” he asked.
LVU’s new academic journal? “It’s fine,” I said. “I mean, it’s an honor to be published, right?”
“But?”
“But… I kind of think that I would rather be published elsewhere.” It sounded stuck up, but it was the truth. “Oasis is new. It doesn’t have any influence. And it seems kind of like cheating to get published in your university’s own journal.”
“It used to be for a different journal every year until the lead editor from Oasis pressured the directors of the contest.” He gestured at the shelves as if we were looking at the university’s subscriptions. “Ideally, what journal would you rather be published in?”
“Breaking Edge,” I said without hesitation. “Dad always wanted to be in that journal, both times he went to college. But he never had an essay that he felt was good enough. Breaking Edge was so groundbreaking and always published controversial topics, yet academics still flocked to their articles.” I laughed. “All of his essays were either not controversial enough, or too late to be new.”
“Where is your father now?”
I held Dad’s bag to my side. It was like a damn security blanket. But I couldn’t let it go.
“He died a few years ago.”
The two of us were silent. I expected him to say the usual platitudes about how sorry he was for me, or how awful it must be to not have your dad around anymore, that it sucked that he died at such a young age, but he didn’t say anything. I couldn’t decide if the lack of response made it worse. I looked at him, trying to put a smile on my face, but after admitting that Dad was gone, I felt weak. “He always wanted his doctorate. Thought it would be fun to have people call him Dr. Slate. But he dropped out to take care of me and my mom. But when I was in middle school, we took classes together.” I forced the smile harder, willing myself to believe it. “His diagnosis was shortly after we finished our first class.”
Nate nodded deeply, as if it finally made sense why I was so young and in the doctorate program. “The bag?”
I ran my fingers over it. The bag had so much history. It was Dad’s bag, brand new when he and Mom were in the dorms together, and it was still his, years later, when it was me and him taking classes at the community college.
“It’s mine now,” I said.
“You carry a piece of him with you, then,” Nate said.
I liked that. It made me feel like less of a child to be so attached to an object. Maybe it wasn’t a security blanket. Maybe it was bringing him with me. So he could go to graduate school and finally get that damn doctorate.
“I was published in Breaking Edge,” Nate said, breaking the silence. “A few times, actually.”
